welcome! here, you'll find all of my fics! you're always welcome to send me ideas that I could write about as well as ask questions or just talk to me abt my fics!
Summary: Being Mr. Barnesâ personal assistant has been tough, balancing a full time job while taking care of your younger brothers has you running yourself thin. Then, things take a sharp turn after a dinner with your boss when you disclose your financial situation
General Warnings: fluff, angst, smut (each part will have specific warnings), a lil bit of jealousy, sugarbaby arrangement
word count: 32.9k
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run little bunny - softdark!ceo!bucky x naive!reader (ongoing) ⿠⧠⊠đ¤
Summary: Being John Walkerâs assistant is hard; heâs mean, disrespectful, misogynistic, the whole nine yards. On top of that, he hardly pays you fairly. So, when youâre fired for a mistake youâre sure wasnât your fault, youâre at risk of being kicked out by your rude roommates. Luckily for you, James Barnes, a wildly successful CEO, has found his way into your life. And heâs going to take such good care of you.
General Warnings: 18+, mild coercion, some of it could be interpreted as stalking, smut, pet names (bunny, darling), dirty talk, dom!bucky and sub!reader, a little hurt-comfort, readerâs roommates are awful and mean, not john walker friendly but when am i ever
summary: Being the target of affection by one of the world's most famous superheroes should be an honor, and maybe it would be for you if not for one little detail: the superhero in question might not be fully sane, but he's more than determined to make you his, by any means necessary.
general warnings: 18+, stalking, stockholm syndrome, angst, fluff, steve is Not At All Nice, bucky is nice but he's delusional, each fic has its own detailed warnings
word count: ongoing
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daddy and his princess - soft!dom!bucky x sub!reader (ongoing) âż â§ đٞ
summary: a series of headcanons about bucky being a soft!dom.
general warnings: 18+. MDNI, dom!bucky, sub!reader, fluff, daddy kink
word count: ongoing
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Just One More âż
Summary: Despite things needing to get done, it's hard to force yourself out of bed right when you wake up. Especially with a certain super-soldier demanding kisses in return for letting you leave his embrace.
General Warnings: fluff, kissing
Word Count: 828
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domestic!bucky âż
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alpha!bucky x omega!reader á°áŠ
General Warnings: fluff
Word Count: 312
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something so out of the ordinary ⿠𣲠â§
summary: Throughout all of the relationships youâve had, thereâs only one youâve thought was genuinely worth fighting for: the one youâre in right now with Bucky Barnes. He makes it so easy to love him; the twenty-some odd years difference in age doesnât seem to register when you both just click so well. What makes it difficult is the fact that his daughter has been your best friend for a few years now, well before you started dating her dad, and she has yet to find out the secret that her best friend and father are hiding.
warnings: 18+ Only, smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, lots of fluff, some very minor angst, buckyâs daughter/râs best friend named savannah, best friendâs dad au, getting caught, beefy!bucky, pet names (âbuttercupâ for reader, âbearâ for bucky), age gap (non-specified but r is around/at least mid 20âs and bucky is in his 40âs), happy ending
word count: 4k
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donât worry, darling âż
summary: even though bucky is mostly healed, that doesnât mean his nightmares go away. and a particular grueling mission brings back memories heâd rather forget
warnings: angsttttt, hella fluff at the end though, hurt/comfort, talk of buckyâs trauma and abuse, brief mentions of murder of a hydra agent (he deserves it), nightmares, reader is here to love and comfort bucky, also civil war and everything after didnât happen and they all live at the tower and everything is fine bc i said so
word count: 3.3k
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The Blossom Tree Above âż âď¸ â§
Summary: Then, almost in slow motion, Bucky lifts his head, and heâs suddenly closer than heâs ever been. His face is mere inches from yours, he licks his lips and releases your hand from his face to place his on your thigh. Buckyâs face grows closer to yours, both of you breathing heavily as you prepare for what youâve wanted ever since Bucky came to the tower. And just as youâre gaining the courage to kiss him first, a loud -Â Bang! Bang! Bang!
Warnings: sm-ut, 18+ only, tad bit of self-deprecation on Bucky's part, mild angst, mention of de-ath, or-al (f and m receiving), no actual penetration tho, so much fluff, sam and sarah are good bros, Bucky deserves happiness and he gets it finally, mild jealousy, pet names (plum, baby, sunshine (sam says this platonically))
Word Count: 8.3k
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Only An Illusion â§
Summary: from the moment bucky laid eyes on you he knew you were the one for him. your sparkling eyes and shy smile coupled with your visible innocence awakens something primal in him, he needs to claim, take, ruin. the only thing standing in the way of that happening is the fact that youâre very much not single. and the lucky man to be with you? buckyâs son - a little shit with no idea how to treat a lady, much less care for a pure thing like yourself. but thatâs okay because bucky is going to do anything it takes to make you his. Anything.
General Warnings: 18+ ONLY, mild manipulation, minor angst, fluff (if you could even call it that), bucky is a bit of a creep but itâs fine, fingering, oral (f receiving), allusions to penetrative sex, daddy kink, bucky babying reader, reader is hella naive, hints of little!reader
Word Count: 5.7k
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All You Want, the Stars and the Sun á°áŠ âď¸ âż âŠ
summary: âLie to me.â The request is simple, softly spoken into your hair while his lips press themselves to the top of your head. Thereâs a long pause as you gather yourself enough to push through the inevitable, heart turning heavier with each silent second that passes. âPlease.â And, fuck. The quiver in his voice does nothing to hide the clear pain in his soul, and a small teardrop slides down his cheek as you whisper softly. âI love you, Bucky.â
general warnings: 18+, angst, angst, and a little more angst, fluffy bits here and there, cheating (reader cheating on omc), unrequited love (not really), some crying and self-loathing, kinda toxic!reader???, allusions to smut, bucky needs a hug, modern!au, fluffy ending bc angsty endings hurt my heart
Word Count: 5.3k
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Do Not Fall in Love âż âŠ
Summary: after becoming roommates with a virtual stranger - that stranger being the notorious bucky barnes - navigating living with him and an onset of feelings you refuse to acknowledge is working pretty well. that is, until, he gets injured far worse than you ever imagined.
warnings: fluff, a lil bit of angst, strangers to roommates to lovers
word count: 7.8k
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Awake My Soul âżâ§
Summary: âIâll never be able to tell or show you how much I am in love with you. There are not enough words in any language I know to describe how grateful I am for you for helping me, and for showing me love and care when I refused to show it to myself. But I need you to know that Iâll spend forever trying to make you feel as happy and loved as you make me.â
Warnings: almost a tiny bit of angst but it's more like bucky being a lil self-deprecating, mostly happiness and love, smut so 18+, crying during sex (it's one of my kinks, sue me), that's all I think?
word count: 5.1k
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Give Me a Minute âż âď¸
Summary: Meeting your boyfriends friends is always hard, especially when you're a young woman dating a 100 year old super soldier.
Warnings: everyone is alive and lives in the tower because i said so!au fluff, tension and angst interspersed, insecure bucky, insecure reader, the team (mainly tony, sam, and steve) talking negatively about reader behind her back/to bucky, bucky defending reader, fluffy ending, bucky likes new girl (the show), natasha is a good bro
word count: 3.9k
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Fall Leaves âż á°áŠ
Summary: After years of pining after Bucky, you're finally going on your first date with him. But will the scars from your past prevent you from moving forward?
warnings: none but absolute fluff and love, the reader being insecure, bucky having bde, lil bit of kissing and suggestive ending
word count: 2k
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The Spark âż âď¸
Summary: James Barnes, the bane of your existence, the man you swore to stay away from. Though his naturally good looks and charming smile may fool many of the women around you, you refuse to fall into his trap. It gets harder to do with every interaction you have with him, and when Bucky gets taken by Hydra, you're forced to face your feelings or risk losing him forever.
Warnings: lil bit o' angst, fluff, 1940's!au, the reader is a nurse during the war, mentions of captivity, mentions of dead people/war talk, happy ending
Word Count: 6.5k
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Until We Meet Again âż âď¸ âŠ á°áŠ
Summary: The Blip changed everything and everyone. With Bucky now gone, and a toddler to raise, you find yourself leaning on Steve for support, as he does with you. What happens when, five years later, Bucky returns to find his best friend and best girl raising a kid? His kid.
Warnings: 18+ ONLY, passing mentions of death, grieving, a whole lot of angst to start off with, but then a whole lot of fluff, and then a sprinkle of more angst and then some more fluff, angst with a happy ending, mentions of smutty times
Word Count: 7k
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Good For You ⿠⊠á°áŠ
Summary: Bucky Barnes, feared assassin and badass on the field, meets you, Natashaâs friend and tattoo artist. Suddenly heâs become shy, unable to merely function from the moment he sees you. But as long as you keep talking to him like that, heâd make a fool of himself over and over just to have your undivided attention.
Warnings: fluffffff out the ass, nervous/shy!bucky, bucky is bisexual because I say so, lil bit of subby!bucky, allusions to smutty times at the end, maybe a bit rushed?? idk please lmk, reader is cocky because Bucky is clearly in love and itâs precious, maybe a part 2 with an actual date and smutty times??
Word Count: 4k
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Delicate â§
Summary:Â Bucky Barnes, known as the âking of New Yorkâ, is ruthless and powerful, running everything with an iron fist. He has no weaknesses, other than you. Youâre his world, his soulmate, his angel, and heâd do anything and everything to keep you safe. What John Walker, an up-and-coming mobster with irrational tendencies, doesnât understand, is that youâll do the same for Bucky.
Warnings: sexy times so 18+ i stg, smut smut smut, kinda femdom!reader and sub!bucky, use of pet names (good boy, angel), dry-humping, unprotected p in v sex (I STG donât have sex with someone without being in a committed relationship and have been tested), reader is a total badass, minor/off screen character deaths, misogyny towards reader, john walker makes an appearance but not for long, mild plot but mostly porn
Word Count: 2.6k
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Milk and Honey - poly alpha!stucky x omega!reader au âż â§
Summary: Though Steve and Bucky are both alpha's, their bond and love for each other transcends designation. However, that doesn't mean they haven't thought of courting an omega, bringing in another person to their relationship. After several failed attempts with other omegas, they seem to meet the perfect one in the form of a shy artist.
or - alphas bucky and steve decide to bring in an omega into their relationship.
General Warnings: fluff out the asssss, reader is a little awkward, there are bits where it's just steve and bucky, 18+, will add more warnings as I upload
Word Count: ongoing
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You Taste Like Suburbia - poly mafia!stucky x reader đ¤ â§
Summary: Your lousy boyfriend John Walker owes quite a bit of money to some pretty shady people. And since he doesnât have the means to pay, heâs brought you along to a negotiation to meet them - and hopefully entice them into accepting a different form of payment.
word count: 6.4k
warnings: 18+, smut, dub-con kind of, a tiny bit of stalking/dark behavior (itâs only hinted at), voyeurism i guess?, vaginal fingering, oral (f & m receiving), threesome, poly relationship, petnames (princess, kitten, beautiful), daddy kink, sir kink, unprotected p in v, a little bit of misogyny (not from stucky), not john walker friendly, mentioned verbal abuse, mention of murder (you have to squint and turn your head 90 degrees)
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Neighborly Behavior - poly alpha!stucky x reader neighbor au âż
Summary: Needing a change, you take a risk by moving out of California to a cottage in upstate New York that your great-grandfather built for your great-grandmother when they first got married. What you didnât know was that the house was going to need more work than you originally thought, more than what you could handle. Luckily, your very attractive and handy neighbors offer their help â free of charge, of course. The only problem is that theyâre mated to each other. So, why does it feel like theyâre flirting with you?
word count: 8.6k
warnings: modern!au, omegaverse, this is just full of absolute fluff, miscommunication/obliviousness, teasing and flirting, also Steve is a little bit of a slut (itâs already canon), reader is a little clumsy, stucky are extremely smitten, public displays of affection, poly relationship, stucky are tall and beefy, pet names (bambi), true mates, love at first sight, stigma around two Alphaâs dating, alternating povâsÂ
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dom!reader x sub!stucky â§
General Warnings: smut, dom/sub dynamics
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steve/reader helping bucky through his trauma đٞ
General Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, a mention of ptsd flashbacks/nightmares, drugging (under hydra's control), and withdrawals (also a whole lot of fluff)
Word Count: 390
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Come Morning Light âż âď¸
Summary: Bucky is still healing, and Steve, ever the good husband, will be there to support him every step of the way.
Warnings: a bit of angst, but happy/hopeful ending, a self-indulgent hurt/comfort fic, bucky is sad but steve is here to make it better, mentions of depression, anxiety, and ptsd, fluffy bits towards the end
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summary: Bucky does not trust you. And don't ask him whether it's just a shoddy attempt to grapple with a crush - because it's most certainly not.
cw: smut (handjob, oral - m receiving, spit, enthusiastic consent, brief masturbation, kinda sub!bucky), cursing, he is a meanie for a while bc poor baby can't process emotions, reader referenced as having hair that can be tied up, gonna be so real i didn't proofread this at all
a/n: this is for @artficlly's moodboard writing event. this was so so fun and i loved my moodboard - bonus points bc it took my least favourite part out of the writing process! thank you art :)Â also please nobody point out the fact that i have a problem when it comes to sexually repressed bucky. i been knowin
dividers by: @chateaubarnes (jewel toned dividers)
word count: 13k
Bucky doesnât trust you. He doesnât necessarily have a reason for it - not yet - but all his years of spy-work have to count for something. Itâs just an instinct. You put a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something that rattles him without knowing why.
He sees you and suddenly heâs antsy. He has the strange urge to fidget and avoid eye-contact, which heâs not sure he has felt even with the most violent of HYDRA doctors.
What really sets his teeth on edge, though, is how well you seem to get along with the rest of the team. If he has to watch Bob trail after you like some lost puppy one more time, picking up random contraptions and asking you what they do like some sort of toddler, heâs going to lose his shit. You put up with Alexeiâs stories about his glory days with perfect patience and occasional interest and even manage to avoid the asshole treatment from Walker. Itâs like you were born for the team, the way you slot right in.
But still. Something isnât right.
It had felt like travelling between seasons rather than states, flying from frosty New York to some military base in the asshole of Arizona. Bucky wasnât thrilled that you were going to be joining him for the mission, but it was nice to get a break from the cold. And from Walker.
âRemind me why sheâs here,â Bucky grumbles to Yelena, gaze fixed on you where you stand scribbling nonsense on a whiteboard across lab. Youâre wearing a lab coat which is pretty pretentious considering there are currently no chemicals in the room.
Yelena rolls her eyes like she always does when Bucky dares to say anything remotely negative about you. She and everyone else would much rather he blindly kiss your ass on the daily, just like they do.
âWah wah, always bitching,â she drawls, accent thickening in her annoyance. âYou want to go on mission without quartermaster? Fine. Do that alone. I do not want to get blown up in big fireball with no protection.â
Bucky grunts something about how sheâs being dramatic, before he can realise that itâs a mistake.
âDramatic? You are throwing tantrum like child over quartermaster coming with us on mission, but Bob coming with us for holiday is no problem.â
Bob seems to catch only his name. He looks up from the contraption he had been examining as if coming out of a daze. He waves hesitantly and grins when Yelena waves back, returning to whatever it was he was looking at.
Bucky canât think of any way to dispute Yelenaâs claims, so he just huffs and sits back in his chair. Heâs doing nothing to help his case, he realises a little dumbly.Â
You are still scribbling on the board, scrawling little graphs and symbols that he doesnât recognise or understand. Bob pauses for a beat before bringing his contraption over to you, which Bucky can now see is a penknife with various latches and buttons on it. You stop what youâre doing with an infuriatingly pleasant look on your face, so damn pleased to show him what it is and how to use it. Bucky clenches his teeth.
He feels heâs made his feelings pretty clear to you; the way all traces of good humour are wiped from his face the second you walk in the room, the way he mutters under his breath whenever you speak. You shoot him a smile every time you see him, even despite this - as if none of it bothers you in the slightest, as if youâre happy to indulge him. He wonders if thatâs your way of trying to make him feel guilty. It makes him distrust you all the more.
âI know what your problem is,â Yelena says eventually. He only now notices how eagerly her eyes are trained on him and he rips his gaze away from you with urgency.Â
âAnd whatâs that?â
âYou are sexually frustrated. And taking it out on poor quartermaster because she is pretty girl.â
Bucky almost chokes on his spit while he attempts a scoff and he is forced to gasp air back into his lungs; loud and humiliatingly obvious. Yelena smiles coolly to herself, as if his reaction has proven some point.
âI am not⌠frustrated, not that itâs any of your damn business,â Bucky snaps. âAnd Iâm definitely not- Taking anything out on her, or whatever you said.â
âYou need to get laid. Then there will be much relief and you will be happy again and lessâŚâ She makes a vague gesture at his frowning face. âLike this.â
He lets out a sarcastic scoff of laughter, but it sounds strangled and uncomfortable even to his own ears. âYouâve lost your damn mind,â he says.Â
Yelena just hums absently. It is abundantly clear that the conversation is over.
Youâre scrawling again. Bucky wonders if you even notice heâs there with how focused you are on the clear board in front of you. Your neat, boxy handwriting litters the board in black marker; chemical symbols, graphs and clustered charts appearing at every corner, seemingly at random.Â
Bucky identifies two figures with blank faces drawn to the right of the board with various lines and notes sprawling from them. One is a large, burly frame with a metal arm as its only defining feature and the other is a shorter, robust female figure. You are designing suits for himself and Yelena. There is another, smaller stick figure scribbled beside them that Bucky can only assume is supposed to be Bob. It puts him in a bad mood to think of him here with you, joking around.
âWhatâre these for?â Bucky grunts and you jump, your hand jerking up to ruin your little âTiâ symbol. He almost rolls his eyes at your terrible sense of awareness. You should be more careful.
âHi Bucky,â you chirp, ever-polite. He just blinks back. âIâm coming up with something fireproof for you guys.â
âWhy?â Bucky doesnât mean to be blunt. He just wishes you could get to the point a bit faster.
âIâm not really supposed to say. But you should find out in the next few days, I think- when is that meeting again?â Your expression is apologetic and sheepish. Bucky might actually have thought you were being genuine if that weird, nagging feeling in his gut wasnât pestering him again as he takes in your smile.
âIâm going to be leading the mission,â he grumbles.
âI know.â
âItâs my mission.â
âSorry, Bucky.â
He knows that this is just how it works. You need to know the details of the mission earlier than he does so you can prepare the materials, come up with the designs. Letting the agents know the details of the mission too soon can cause confusion if there are any changes. Itâs a good process; it works. But heâs rearing for a fight today.
âThat doesnât make any sense,â he says, watching your lips purse slightly. Youâre finally getting irritated. Good.
âMaybe you should take it up with Mel.â You smile at him briefly, more strained than before, and go back to your scribbles, effectively dismissing him. He just about hits the roof. He stands for a moment longer, trying to find some way to win back control of the conversation, but nothing is coming to him.
âActually, while youâre here-â you say, hand reaching out to grab his metal arm. You yank it up until itâs outstretched. âI left my diagram of your arm back in New York. You donât mind if I take some notes while I have you, do you?â
Itâs phrased like a question, but youâre already running your finger up his forearm, brows furrowed as you prod at the sheets of metal there. You are seemingly looking for something specific but he doesnât care to find out what it is.Â
Itâs just sensory feedback from the arm - he knows youâre not really touching him, skin-on-skin, but it makes him uncomfortable regardless. His stomach tightens at the heat in your touch, breath stuttering a bit.
âKnock yourself out,â he says, sarcasm bleeding through his tone.Â
Bucky watches you twist his arm around, feels your fingertips pad along his arms and fingers, clearly logging things in your head. You quietly hum every now and again, as if confirming something to yourself. He doesnât like to admit that you look⌠cute, up close like this. You really are pretty - thatâs one thing Yelena did get right. He likes towering over you like this, likes seeing your eyes flicker upwards at him like a little doe.
It doesnât change how he feels about you, nor does it make the rest of Yelenaâs hypothesis correct. In fact, Yelena couldnât know just how wrong she was. Bucky hadnât felt interest in anyone in that way since heâd escaped HYDRAâs clutches.Â
There were many ways in which Buckyâs life had changed after falling from that train in Austria. His whole life and personality had changed so distinctly that he saw his life only in terms of before the fall and after. Before the fall, he had a fierce sense of optimism - after it, he was left a bored, old cynic. Before the fall, he had exhibited a naive carelessness for his own wellbeing - allowed himself to be flocked like a sheep into any situation that was exciting. Now, he is more careful. He doesnât regret any of the decisions and sacrifices he made back then, being aware that they were ultimately necessary for the greater good. But the speed at which he made those decisions - the knowledge of all the things he hadnât even considered - sometimes eats away at him.
Sex is just another one of those before and afters. He had it - a lot of it - before falling from that train. He has not had any since.
It isnât that heâs a prude or that he canât get it up, or any other reasons that one might imagine. He just isnât interested anymore.
Maybe his wires were all crossed wrong in the cryostasis chamber, or maybe new priorities had taken precedence. Bucky isnât sure. All he knows is that he has not felt the impulse to be with anyone in that way for years. He takes care of himself when he wakes up with a hard on he can no longer ignore, but itâs clinical. Functional, even. He experiences the relief without any of the rush. So no, heâs not sexually frustrated. Whatever the opposite of sexual frustration is - thatâs what Bucky is experiencing.
Youâre pulling away when he sees your eyes stop on his other bicep, the muscle bulging through a t-shirt he has outgrown. You look back and forth between his metal arm and his flesh one. Bucky likes how it feels when your eyes catch there; heâs not sure why, but he does.
âHave you gotten bigger?â
âMaybe,â he shrugs, though he knows he has. You frown and suddenly he doesnât like the feeling of your eyes on him very much anymore.
âI donât have your new measurements. Did you get it taken by Sheila before we left?â
âNo.â
Bucky can tell youâre suppressing a sigh when you purse your lips again, skin of your mouth stretching tight. âYouâre going to have to get your measurements taken. This suit is mostly metal. If it doesnât fit right, itâs going to hurt.â
Bucky scowls at you, hot irritation spiking through him at your bossiness. And this usually works to intimidate people, but you just watch him right back, not even flinching.
Your gaze eventually flickers over to where his figure is mapped out on the clear board in front of him. There are about a dozen materials labelled onto the suit; he only recognises the vibranium symbol tagged onto the shoulder pads. With an absent expression, you pick up your marker once again and draw a large speech bubble over his blank face. Inside, you scrawl âOuch. Too small.â
It is so incredibly stupid that Bucky can only continue to glare at you in astounded irritation. You glance back at him once and add a basic frowny face to the figureâs previously blank face.
Bucky speaks, only to stop you from adding any further features. âHowâm I supposed to get measured? Thought Sheila would be shipping the stuff in from New York.â
âIâll do it,â you say casually, popping the cap back on your marker. Something inside of Bucky balks at that idea, chest seizing up.
âYouâre not a tailor. Or an armourer,â he says, with a tad too much uncertainty for his liking.
âYes, I know that,â you retort, and this time you donât even attempt to suppress your sigh. âBut I have a PhD in Engineering Physics. How different can it be? Youâre just like a big, fleshy machine.â
You donât wait for him to respond, just walk over to a cabinet and begin rooting through it. Bucky is left standing in the middle of the room, cold dread spilling over his head while a strange heat pools in his gut.
You find what youâre looking for eventually; a tape measure and a notepad. You examine him closely, looking him up and down.
âI think I just need to do your biceps, chest and thighs. The rest should have enough give to be ok.âÂ
Bucky nods curtly and watches you fumble around clumsily with the measuring tape. For the first time in this interaction, he sees hesitation creep over your features - like youâre finally feeling as unsure as Bucky always feels around you. But you pack it away and pull his flesh arm outwards, wrapping the tape measure around the large swell of skin there. Bucky tenses instinctively, muscles bulging against your fingertips, but one look from you makes him relax his arm.
You start scribbling - why are you always scribbling? - his measurements onto the sheet in front of you while Bucky tries not to feel your warmth. His stomach is tense and tight.
âRelax,â you breathe and Bucky tries. He really does. But then your hands are spreading across his chest, brushing past his nipples over his t-shirt in a way that makes his skin jump. And that nagging feeling is coming back but stronger, the one that makes him regard you with a little bit more caution. Something is off.
The feeling only grows when you drop down to your knees in front of him, damned doe eyes flicking up at him, regarding him carefully. Youâre looking back and forth from his slacks to his face and Bucky wonders for one dreadful second whether youâre about to ask him to remove his pants. You seem to decide against it, rolling the fabric at the bottom of his leg between your fingers to test the thickness.
You slowly roll the tape around his right thigh and Bucky wonders if itâs really necessary for your hands to be splayed that close to his crotch. He can feel every inch of your skin on his, even through the slacks, and the heat in his stomach expands uncomfortably. He has to look away, think about some pointless story Bob told him to try to distract himself - to somehow make it better. But your touch keeps dragging him back to the feeling. He can do nothing other than watch. Itâs no better when you move to the other leg, hands running up and down his thigh to find the largest part to measure - his breath feels like itâs stuck somewhere in his lungs.
Heâs vaguely aware of how bad this would look if anyone were to walk by the glass wall between the lab and the hall. You must be aware of it too, though itâs hard to read you - thatâs part of the reason he distrusts you so much. However, he can tell that you appear to be equally as ill at ease as Bucky is. You have no dumb jokes or little quips when youâre sitting pretty on your knees for him-
Shit.
Heâs turned on.
Heâs completely, utterly, stupidly turned on.
Bucky jerks his leg out of your grasp with an urgency before you can notice his rapidly rising cock, if you hadnât already. He almost knocks you over in the process, but he doesnât bother apologising, just turns his back to you.Â
âI donât have a metal leg. Theyâre both the same fuckinâ size, doll,â he grumbles, doing his best to think of anything at all to help his situation. He tries to picture the least sexy thing he can - that one time Alexei tried on his old suit for the team - but you keep flashing back, imprinting yourself behind his eyes.
âActually, there is aâŚâ You stand up and scribble a final figure to your notes. â0.85 centimetre difference in girth.â
Bucky wonders whether it was really necessary for you to use the term âgirthâ. His mind goes to foul places as you back away towards your whiteboard.
Heâs almost convinced that you did this on purpose. He hasnât popped a boner in a public setting like this in decades and he feels like a goddamn hormonal tween again. But itâs a fucking reflex. Heâs got a girl touching him up like that for the first time in god only knows how long and his body hasnât completely forgotten how itâs supposed to respond to that. Youâre not exactly ugly, either.
He needs to go somewhere to deal with this. In a clinical, functional way. Same as always.
The orgasm Bucky gives himself is anything but clinical and functional.Â
When he begins jerking himself, he expects to be solely focused on the sensation the way he usually is. He instead finds himself thinking of you - the feeling of your fingertips brushing across his chest, your gaze catching on his biceps, the image of you on your knees in front of him.
He shoots his cum against the shower wall in less than a minute. Watches it swirl down the drain with a dull sense of shame.
Heâs just grateful Yelena didnât happen to be present when you took his measurements in the lab. She would have used it as ammunition until the end of time.
For the first time, he admits to himself that her theory might have some credit to it. He must be sexually frustrated - itâs the only way you could have gotten to him the way you did. But it doesnât change anything, because it wonât be happening again.
Bucky still doesnât trust you. Trusts you even less now, if possible.Â
And his instincts are pretty fucking exceptional so he knows there has to be some reason for it, even if he canât immediately identify it. You might have the rest of the team deceived, but not him.Â
He knew it the first time he looked at you. He took one look into your eyes and knew right off the bat; somethingâs not right. Now that desire has entered the equation, potent and unbidden, heâs even more convinced.
Rather than feeling any semblance of relief after coming with his hand on his dick and his mind on you, it puts Bucky in a bad mood. He carries that bad mood around with him for the rest of the week, until Bob is giving him skeptical sideways glances and Yelena is complaining about the fact that he is âgrumpy like dog with chopped ballsâ.
When he sees you, it gets worse. Much worse.
There is a sort of dreadful anxiety now, along with the usual pit in his stomach. He feels like youâre somehow aware of the thoughts he has been having about you and heâs now starting to interpret those stupid casual smiles you shoot him as mocking. The only way he can think to react to this is by biting.Â
He can admit that maybe heâs taken it a bit too far. He makes a show of glaring at you now, just to prove heâs not affected by you. Where previously he would grumble under his breath at your points in meetings, he has now started to scoff aloud so the rest of the room can hear. He almost feels bad when you look over at him, surprised but non-confrontational. As if heâs some ill-behaved child who doesnât know any better.
Yelena, on the other hand, is most definitely confrontational about the whole thing. She scoffs right back whenever Bucky speaks just to prove that heâs being a dick and targets him after the meeting, demanding explanations and apologies that he will never give. Even Bob has become more distant, giving him wary eyes and wandering over to you immediately whenever youâre present. The way you smile at him, soft and sweet, makes Bucky want to throttle him.
So, yes - he can admit that maybe the whole thing has gotten away from him just a little bit. Heâs aware heâs being childish, but thereâs something about that nagging feeling in his stomach that tells him heâs not wrong. That there most certainly is just something strange about you.Â
Itâs all he can think of in the meeting he had waited a whole week for. Mel is briefing a room of about thirty people on the details of the mission and it seems dangerous. It seems complicated. It seems like something Bucky should be damn well paying attention to.
But youâre sitting beside him, twirling a pen around through your fingers. Every so often, you scribble something in your notebook - a mangy, dog-eared thing, bulging with pages and sheets and post-it notes. You keep it close to your chest so Bucky canât see, even though he cranes his neck to try. Youâre not even really trying to be subtle about it either, the way you twist it out of his eye-line.Â
Heâs trying to focus more on what youâre writing than how you look writing it. Because your brows are slightly scrunched together in concentration and youâre biting your lip and it looks soft - looks soft enough for Bucky to want to bite it himself-
Heâs running off course.
He just needs to see what youâre writing.
âWerenât you pestering me for these details last week?â you whisper, and Bucky doesnât immediately register that youâre speaking to him because your eyes are still trained on Mel. But then your eyes flicker over to him - he had almost forgotten that he isnât behind a one-sided mirror, that you can see him too - and all he can do is nod dumbly.
âSo maybe you might want to listen? Rather than looking over this way?â
Itâs not a bad point. He had bitched at you for not telling him these exact details just before you took his measurements. And now that heâs receiving them, heâs not paying attention. He knows how this must look - but he doesnât particularly care in this moment.
âWhat are you writing?â he asks, instead of answering you.
You shoot him an unimpressed frown, lips pressing into a thin line. âIâm taking notes. Obviously.â
It looks like youâre getting fed up with his bad attitude towards you. You would have had much more patience for this sort of behaviour before last week. Itâs almost a relief to Bucky - he is so sick of you brushing off all his suspicions and purposefully bad conduct towards you as if itâs insignificant. This is what he wanted from you.
âCan I see them?â he asks, knowing what your reaction will be.
âWhat are you, twelve? Are we in school right now? Come on, Barnes, you can take your own notes. Mine wonât be any help to you.â
He had known you would reject his request, but actually having it happen stokes a fire in him. The guys in the top two or three floors of the building of his brain - the ones that would usually concern themselves with things like the mission details and whether or not a third coffee would give him the jitters - have suddenly gone off to Marthaâs Vineyard on vacation. They wonât be back for a while. The guys in the basement are unfortunately still reeling about how warm your body feels next to his, how pretty your eyes look in this light, how your body would look under his own. Bucky doesnât want anything to do with those guys - nasty perverts.
Every other part of his brain, however, has focused its attention on how to get into the stupid little notebook. Heâs aware itâs probably not likely that the key to understanding why he doesnât trust you is held within it. Itâs not like you would carry that around a military base with you in writing, easily accessible to spies and scientists. But it might give him a glimpse into how you think. He might just end up understanding you just a little better and that could help him work out what it is about you that is off.
You look back at Bucky which makes him realise he had been staring for quite a long time. He coughs and moves his gaze, but when he looks back (because he canât quite help it), youâre smiling. The guys in the basement groan in ecstasy. Bucky tells them to quit jacking off and get back to work. He needs that notebook.
You head where you always do at the end of the day. To the lab.
Bob follows you just to talk and ask questions. It makes Bucky roll his eyes, but at least youâre distracted. You donât seem to notice that heâs following quietly. He uses the other bodies as shields until they eventually patter off in different directions. He still follows, until you reach the lab and Bob says he will see you in the canteen for dinner.
What, you two are eating dinner together now? Like⌠like some sort of married couple?Â
The thought makes Bucky want to retch, but he shoves it away quickly. Maybe once heâs done figuring you out, he can warn Bob away from you. He just needs to get to that notebook.
Bucky watches you through the glass wall of the lab. Sees you roll your shoulders and take a deep breath, entire body decompressing the same way Buckyâs does when heâs alone. Your hand reaches up to pull your hair out of its style and Buckyâs stomach lurches painfully as your hair falls loose. You put all the hair paraphernalia on your desk as Bucky grapples with an uncomfortable twinge in his stomach and his dick.
You tear through the room like a tornado. At first you go to your whiteboard again and pick up your marker. You twirl it around for a bit while you assess. Then you start scrawling again, wiping out symbols, replacing them with others. You make more adjustments to Yelenaâs suit than Buckyâs, but you seem to be working on something else too. Their weapons, maybe.
Bucky is sure he is almost caught when you spin around. You donât twist around very quickly, but he is distracted and it makes him move a bit slower. Luckily, your eyes are still buried in that ugly brown book, but he canât shake off the sinking feeling. He is being sloppy.
Eventually, this time with a lot more stealth, he sees you unlock a cabinet in your desk and put the notebook in. You do it carefully, as if itâs something delicate even though it looks to Bucky as if it had been through more wars than him. You lock it again and Bucky is out of eyesight behind a corner by the time he hears your shoes clacking away in the direction of the communal areas.
Heâs quick to punch in the code to the lab. You can easily go through the log and see that he entered soon after you left, but he doesn't think you will unless you have a reason to. He will come up with some story anyway. Just in case.Â
It occurs to him that he doesnât think heâs ever seen the lab empty; neither this one nor the one in New York. Youâre like a permanent fixture here. It genuinely unnerves him to not see you up at the board scribbling, or fiddling around with sheets of metal and blowtorches.
Heâs strangely jumpy, considering he has every right to be in here. He paces the room for just a second with a panicked urgency, forgetting for the briefest of moments why he is in the lab in the first place. Heâs even sweating just a little bit, picturing the look on your face if you were to come back and catch him in the act.
Heâs walking straight over to your desk then, roughly tugging at the cabinet he saw you put the notebook into. Itâs locked. Of course itâs locked - he saw you lock it, for godâs sake. Sloppy.
He could so easily yank it open, but what wouldnât be so easy is to put it back together the way it was. Heâs sure he could fix it, but it seems likely that you would be back down again to do more work before you go on your romantic date to the canteen with Bob.
Bucky hadnât even brought anything with him, but heâs sure there must be something to pick a lock here. He roots around in your cabinets, digging through pencil cases and drawers stuffed with disorganised stationery. He stops, eyes shooting over to the spot where your hair tie and bobby pins are lying in a neat pile at the corner of your desk. Walking over and scarcely allowing himself to feel any sort of hope, he picks up two of the bobby pins carefully, balances them in his hands. He can still smell your shampoo on them.Â
They will do.
Removing the rubber piece from the bobby pins, he shoves one low in the keyhole as his lever. He bends the other and roots around to try and find the seized pin, but whatever this desk is made of is not cheap. He finds it twice, but both times the bobby pin slips off before he can do much with it. He grunts with frustration, fighting to keep his cool, even though he can feel the bobby pin bending, waiting to break. He must have picked a thousand locks in his life - why is his flesh hand shaking?
Once he finds the first seized lever, he doesnât have much trouble with the others. The bobby pin almost cracks on the final pin, but it doesnât matter because heâs in.
He had thought that the book was bound in leather, but itâs not. Now that itâs in his hands, he can feel that the leather is fake. Youâre probably too much of a bleeding heart to use real leather anything. His fingers pause over the spine of it for just a second, a seedy feeling of guilt nagging at him for just a second, before he opens it to a random page.
Itâs⌠incomprehensible.
Sure, Bucky had known you would have some sciencey stuff in there, but the whole page is littered with random chemical symbols, graphs, charts. He flicks to another and finds only the same.
He turns over to the front of the book and takes it page by page from there. The more he flicks through the pages, the more frustrated he gets. He really stressed himself out about this? About some dumb blueprints? He eventually reaches the meeting notes which dive deep into detail about heat levels on the mission - you were right as it turns out, your notes really are useless to him.
Heâs furious with you for making him think that this was such a big secret, but heâs also self-aware enough to know that heâs just using that to mask the dim shame and embarrassment heâs feeling at making such a big deal of this in his head. He thought he had you.
One of the many sheets stuffed in between the pages slips to the ground. Buckyâs not sure what heâs expecting when he leans down to pick it up - some grand moment of serendipity where the key to your secret finds him, maybe - but itâs just a diagram of his arm with all the measurements to boot. He sighs, folding it back up. He canât remember where it might have slipped from, so he puts it in the back and hopes you wonât notice that itâs displaced.
But thereâs Yelenaâs name. Upside down, in a bullet point, alongside the names of the rest of the team. With furrowed eyebrows, Bucky turns the book around to look at the notes you had stuffed in the back. They are mostly unimportant notes on the Yelena and her missions. You have a couple notes about minor injuries she has sustained over the past few months, with little asides like âLeft shoulder needs more protection - injured!â and messy notes about her preference in weapons. But you also have little notes about Yelena herself, too. âLikes pastrami on rye for lunchâ, âAlways down after coming back from missions involving programmed / indoctrinated - especially kidsâ, âWould probably like Ray Bradbury - to loan her one when back in New Yorkâ.
Bucky is perplexed - he certainly is not experiencing a gotcha moment the way he thought he might with any of this information, but what the hell are you doing? Taking notes about Yelena like youâre her therapist? He flicks the page over and sees Walkerâs name; the usual notes about injuries, strengths and weapon preferences, weaved in amongst things like âWifeâs birthday 17th Jan - gets upset around this date,â and âSees his kid Thursdays and Fridaysâ. How do you even know this? Bucky doesnât and heâs the goddamn leader of the team.
Bobâs page is short, barren of any injuries or battle gear information but with a lot of information about his favourite street food in the city and how he prefers the bus over the subway because going underground makes him nervous. You have noted everything there is to know about Sentry (which is not much, admittedly). He is hit with something unfamiliar when he reads, âNeeds a friendâ.
Suddenly desperate to get to his own page and fuelled by a sort of morbid curiosity that heâs sure wonât end well for anyone, he skips past Ava and Alexei.Â
Buckyâs notes are lengthy - they need two pages. Itâs stacked with countless injury reports, some relevant information about his background as the Winter Soldier, little details about his arm. But itâs completely void of of the personal touch in the other pages. His is straight-to-the-point, strictly factual. Clinical and functional, even. Bucky doesnât like that at all.
He understands it. He has never really given you anything to work with, and heâs sure you might think that he would consider it an invasion of privacy in any case. But his chest still seizes inexplicably. He turns back to Bobâs page, looks at the note that says; âLikes cats - wants to go to a cat cafĂŠ. Trip for birthday?â. Then he flicks back to his own and reads; âTends to favour left side in fight - dominant armâ.Â
Heâs hit with a tidal wave of childish loneliness all at once and has to blink a few times to try to dampen the feeling clawing up his chest. Of course youâre not taking personal notes on him - he doesnât even trust you, doesnât even like you.Â
But some part of him - a part thatâs growing larger by the second - knows that it wouldnât feel like this if he truly didnât like you.
His mind is working a million miles a minute and he is just about ready to put the notebook back in the drawer and forget any of this ever happened when his eyes catch the last note on the page. The one and only personal bullet you had left on Buckyâs lengthy report.
âOverly aggressive - has a crush?â
Bucky goes very still on reading the words in your notebook for just a second, and then he is clumsily shoving your notebook back into the desk, removing the bobby-pins from the cabinet in your desk with as much caution as he can afford and bucketing it out the door. His heart is racing and heâs climbing stairs three at a time to get to his room.
Heâs not sure what he planned to do in his room - regroup, maybe - but all he can do now is pace. The words kee p flashing into his mind. A crush? Who do you think he is? Some sort of teenage girl? Heâs a middle-aged man. Heâs a war vet who also happens to be a reformed HYDRA assassin - and you think he has a crush? On you?
Heâs not even preoccupied with the egoism of the whole affair. Itâs a little conceited for you to assume he has a crush on you based on nothing, but what is taking up the most space in his brain is why you could think Bucky, of all people, is the person to have one. Why not Bob, who practically follows you around with his tongue out?
Because heâs âoverly aggressiveâ, apparently.Â
He stops mid-pace, shoulders sagging.
Okay - Bucky can admit he hasnât always been the nicest to you. He doesnât think itâs fair to say heâs been aggressive, but he can see why itâs something you picked up on. But surely, if anything, you should naturally come to the conclusion that he does not have a crush on you, based on his behaviour towards you. You should assume that he has anything but a crush on you.
He doesnât even know why heâs panicking this much. His breath is gone and there are pangs of⌠something, prickling at his sides.
It has to be that day in the lab when you took his measurements. Thatâs what has you mixed up, heâs sure. You must have noticed him getting turned on before he even noticed himself. And heâs admitted to himself by now that you turn him on. It would be pointless to try to pretend otherwise with those creeps in the basement screaming it up at him ceaselessly. But being attracted to you and having a crush on you are two very different things.
What does a crush mean, anyway? You think he wants to go play fucking house with you? Hold your hand like some middle-schooler?
No - you donât know him well, but you must know him better than that.
He must have missed something. Maybe you meant something else entirely. Maybe he read it wrong. He doesnât see how he could have, since the image of those words are imprinted in his brain with permanent ink, but itâs possible.Â
Heâs starting to regret throwing the book back into the desk so hastily, before he had the chance to thoroughly survey it. Maybe he has the chance to go back down now, while everyone is in the canteen.
But no. He feels no urge to chance his luck any further today - that would be stupid. Sloppy. People will be milling about today. He needs to choose some other time.
He collapses down on his bed. The thud of his body hitting the mattress seems very loud to his ears.
Itâs a while before Bucky gets the chance to enter the lab alone again, and he avoids you like a contagion every moment in between.
The timing is pretty inconvenient. The few days before a mission is when the team has most contact with you while they test out weapons and try on their suits. Bucky is considerably less confrontational with you during these assemblies which earns him strange looks from Yelena and Bob, but if you notice, you donât make it obvious. The simple fact of the matter is that he has lost all interest in antagonising you or exposing whatever secret he had thought you might have - he would much rather avoid you altogether.
Youâre not making it easy on him, either. Youâre as pleasant as ever, as if his recent bout of bad behaviour is water under the bridge - wiped from your memory. You sound like youâre coaxing a kitten out of a corner when you speak to him. Your pretty eyes and pretty lips are making things hard for him too. He canât get them out of his head. Canât stop thinking about how you looked on your knees, head tilted upwards towards him.
âOverly aggressive - has a crush?â
âHas a crush? Has a crush?â
âHas a crush?â
The words are still bleating in his brain days later. He hears you saying them, pictures you whispering them in his ear mockingly with that sweet smile playing on your lips. It puts an uncomfortable sensation in his chest.
He can eventually assess the situation with less indignation and more interest. He wonders what you see when you look at him, what thoughts you think about him when youâre alone. Do you think about him at all? He wants to see into your brain for just a few moments, dig up whatever in there relates to him.
Which, he reminds himself numbly, is insane and sounds exactly like the thoughts of somebody with a crush.Â
Youâre in the lab at every waking hour in the days leading up to the mission. Bucky glances through the glass wall when he walks by, pretending heâs on his way somewhere else even though there isnât much else in this wing of the base. Most of the time youâre scribbling on the whiteboard, back to him. Sometimes you catch him and give him a friendly wave. Bucky averts his gaze quickly every time.
His mind is running amok and the mission pays dearly for it.
Itâs still a success - Yelena guarantees that - but Buckyâs lack of preparation really shows. Heâs bruised and bloody but Yelena gets it worse and she makes sure he hears about it. Both of her eyes are beginning to go yellow with the beginnings of a bruise and she has severe burn marks littered over her arms where even the suit was not enough to stave off the flames. She switches between English and Russian as she curses Bucky out to his face. For better or for worse, he understands every word.
Yeah - he was sloppy.
Heâs beaten to a pulp and his adrenaline is still singing in his blood from more than one close call when they reach the base. Yelena is still jabbering on about how she will never be picking up the slack for him again, about how heâs supposed to be the team leader, about how bad sheâs going to be hurting in the morning. Heâs paying attention to her somewhat until they reach the hallway outside lab.
Because for the first time in days, it looks as if itâs empty.
Bucky comes to a halt and Yelena spins around. The total solid blackness of her stare almost scares him into submission.
âI swear Iâm listening to you,â he says, before she can utter a word. âI know I fucked up badly and we can have a proper conversation about this soon. Just- give me a few minutes. I forgot to do something.â
He is fully expecting her to fight him on this, but she must be able to read the desperation in his tone at some level, because she simply gives him a bewildered frown. She looks at him like that for a few beats, then raises her eyebrows to communicate that she is severely unimpressed, and continues on her way to the nurse.
Bucky waits until he can no longer hear her steps echoing down the hall before he steals over to the door of the lab, punching in the code with a sense of determination he hasnât felt in days. He knows exactly where heâs going this time.Â
The cabinet is locked again, but this does not present much difficulty. Your bobby pins are in the same pile as before and he is not half-crazed with nerves this time. The adrenaline from the mission is doing its job. He jimmies the lock in a matter of seconds.
Heâs scrambling to open the book on the same page as before, knowing he wonât see anything new but desperate to see those words (has a crush? has a crush? has a cru-) again.
Except heâs wrong, because there is definitely something new. Itâs a folded page, tucked into the gutter where the two pages meet. Bucky picks it up and slowly, cautiously unfolds it.
âStop looking inside my deskâ. Sprawled in big, square letters in the centre of the page.
Itâs not addressed to him by name, but itâs been folded neatly into the notes that you wrote up about him which he supposes is enough of a message. He double-checks to see if you edited anything as you clearly knew that he would be looking this time but everything is exactly as he had left it, those dreaded words (has a crush? has a crush? has a-) still lingering at the bottom of the second page.
Humiliation and guilt flood him in no small measure. He is an expert assassin who just got caught out for snooping in a colleagueâs journal. He must have tucked one of the papers back into your notebook wrong, or left the bobby pins out. The top floors of his brain are back from Marthaâs Vineyard. Theyâre screaming at him that heâs sloppy. They sound just like Yelena, now that he thinks of it.
The guilt is probably the worst of it. Knowing that you carried around the knowledge that he violated your privacy, but said nothing. You could have gone straight to HR (if HR even exists in a place like this - he has never thought to look into it). But instead you didnât even try to make him feel bad about it. You had just dealt with it the same way you deal with all the shit he throws at you; with patience, with gentleness, but without letting yourself be stood on. You had let him know that you see through him, but hadnât backed him into a corner, because thatâs not who you are.Â
Youâre sweet. And Bucky knows it, even if he has always pretended he doesn't.
The realisation doesnât hit him, doesnât strike him like a lightning bolt or knock him on his ass. Itâs more like something he falls into with overwhelming discomfort and more than a little defeat. Because heâs really known it all along, even if he never admitted it to himself.
(has a crush? has a crush? has a cr-?)
He has a crush.
He doesnât want to look too far into the fact that he knows where your room is. He wasnât even aware that he did know, until he started walking with the intention of tracking you down and suddenly found himself outside the door of your room. Had he made a mental note of where you were staying? He must have. Heâs coming to an awful lot of awkward realisations today.Â
His fist lingers over your door for a full minute before he can bring himself to knock. Thereâs a moment of silence where you are most likely trying to pretend that youâre not in, but Bucky can hear your shallow breaths, your steady, thumping heartbeat. He knocks again and hears you heave a sigh, followed by a rustling of fabric and your footsteps creeping to the door.
You open the door wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt - the logo for some band Bucky doesnât recognise plastered over the front. Itâs crumpled and looks like it badly needs to be ironed, but it looks so damn pretty anyway hanging over your delicate thighs - but then anything probably would. His mouth goes dry.
âHi Bucky,â you say with a tired exhale and only then can he drag his eyes away from your legs and to your face. Your hair is askew, eyes bleary and dull, the soft imprint of bedsheets on your face.
He woke you up. It can hardly be 8pm yet, but you seem to have been out cold since the mission wrapped. Your eyes grow much more alert when they give him a proper once-over.
âJesus, are you ok? What hap-â You frown, stop short. âAre you just back from the mission? Bucky, you need to go to the nurse. You look like shit.â
Bucky is new to this whole âcrushâ thing, but heâs fairly sure that being told that you look like shit isnât the best sign. He canât look you in the eyes. âI will, I just- I need to talk to you. Please.â
You frown but step aside so he can walk in. Thereâs a sinking feeling in his gut and he really has no idea what he even wants to say to you - he just knows he has to say something.Â
Your room is the exact same as his, from the white linen sheets to the grey cupboards in the small kitchenette, but something about it being yours makes it look different. Less empty.
He looks around, surveying the area as if thereâs anything to survey. Youâre standing in front of him with an expectant hand propped onto your hip. He tries not to look at it. It sinks into your t-shirt and he can suddenly see your form - the imprint of your side visible through the fabric. He swallows. âI, uh- I got your note.â
Your hand drops, as does your skeptical frown. Your lips twitch into a small smile instead, lips pursed as if youâre trying to stop it from forming. âOh.â
âYeah.â
You look at him. Bucky looks back. Blinks. Neither of you say anything for some time. He can hear agents returning to their rooms outside, distant tired voices murmuring. You gesture for him to take a seat on the bed and he does, taking off his shoes and leaning up against the headboard. You join him shortly after, warm thigh almost touching his. Heâs glad you donât have the super-hearing he does, or you would be able to hear his heart thundering under his ribs.
âHow did you know?â is all he can manage after a long stretch.
âKnow what? That you have a crush on me?â Hearing you say it out loud makes Bucky flinch. You donât react, just let him settle. He nods.Â
âI could tell. From your behaviour towards me.â Youâre speaking about this so casually. Itâs uncomfortable to hear you talk so upfront about a subject he has dodged, even within his own mind, for so long - but it does help to ease the embarrassment just a bit to hear you speak as if itâs something natural. Not something terrible or embarrassing.Â
âBut Iâm awful to you,â he says. And thatâs something that he has had to come to terms with in the last few days too.
âExactly,â you say, shrugging. Youâre not shrinking from his gaze. âYouâre not an unreasonable or mean man, Bucky. That behaviour isnât normal for you. And I have never given you any reason to distrust me - at least, I hope I havenât - so it was one of my theories.â
âYou had theories? Plural?âÂ
âWell I also thought for a while that it might be possible that you just didnât like me for no reason in particular. But then yourâŚâ you pause, smiling sheepishly, as if youâre giving him an embarrassing diagnosis. âbody language convinced me otherwise.â
Buckyâs faces flushes. His entire body flushes. His mind drifts back to when you measured him. He wonders how many other instances like that there were, without him even noticing.
âWhy didnât you-â he stammers, voice strained. âWhy didnât you ever say anything?â
You raise an eyebrow, lips lifting into a teasing grin. âThat would have gone really well.â
He thinks about it. How he would have reacted, even a week ago, if you had brought this discovery to him. It certainly would not have gone down well. He physically grimaces, imagining the scenes that might have taken place.
âWhy are you still so nice? If I were you, I would have hated myself.â
âI never hated you for it, Bucky,â you say, smiling kindly at him in a way he is so far from deserving that it sets his stomach alight. âI donât know much about what was done to you before. I never wanted to know anything beyond what was strictly necessary for my job because I figured you wouldn't want me to. But I guess I figured that not everything would be easy after that. Especially not⌠relationships. Sex.â
Bucky shifts upon hearing you use the word âsexâ. His mind is racing. âWh- I donât-â
You donât rush him. He almost wishes you would so he could get something out, but instead you sit patiently, waiting for his response. He doesnât fully understand whatâs happening - how you could see right through him when he himself could not. How you could give him this much grace and patience.
Bucky hasnât experienced much softness in his life. Heâs always on the chopping block for things he did do and for things he didnât. Heâs never really taken too much issue with it. He accepted pretty early on in his life that he was dealt a shitty hand. And now heâs being handed softness on a plate - forgiveness, acceptance, kindness. Heâs not sure what to do with it.
âIâm sorry,â he say eventually, because thatâs really all there is to say. âI wish I didnât put you through that.â
You roll your eyes, grin never leaving your lips. âI forgive you, Bucky,â you say, as if itâs just that easy. Maybe it is. Maybe it is with you. âIt was kind of cute actually. Like when some kid starts tugging on your pigtails in kindergarten because he likes you.â
Bucky truly canât think of a worse comparison. He is already humiliated at the fact that heâs a middle-aged man being schooled through a crush by his crush. Comparing him to a kid is only confirming to him how embarrassing the situation really is.
âOh, come on,â you laugh, taking in his horrified expression. âIt is cute.â
You look so pretty when youâre laughing and smiling at him. Heâs seen this expression on your face with the rest of the team, but heâs so rarely given you cause to give him more than a tight grin as he passes. Now that he has accepted his feelings for you, the guys in the basement of his brain have broken free. Theyâre running through all the corridors, whooping and hollering. He hadnât realised how many of the buggers were down there until now.Â
Heâs overwhelmed with the intense urge to get close to you, to touch your face, your hair, your lips. He needs to go before he can do any of those things and freak you out any further.
âWhatever you say,â he murmurs, face still red. âRegardless, I really am sorry. I wish I could have directed this towards anyone else. You didnât deserve it.â
Heâs got his feet planted, ready to take his leave.
âI donât,â you say, casually, just looking at him with a blank expression.
He freezes. âYou donât⌠what?â
âDonât wish you felt this for someone else.â
He canât move. Can hardly even breathe. He looks at you with a sort of astounded confusion and you just roll your eyes again, as if heâs taking a great deal of time to figure out something very obvious.
âIt would be a pretty shitty situation for me. Yâknow, since I have a crush on you too.â
Are you messing with him? Bucky isnât sure exactly what expression crosses his face, but it must be whatever you were hoping for, because youâre tittering; a lovely, soft sound. And he can do nothing but watch.Â
Something isnât computing. You eventually stop giggling, but your grin doesnât drop. Youâre just smiling sweetly as if you hadn't just said something to tip his whole world on its axis.
It hadnât ever occurred to Bucky that you could like him back. He had been so preoccupied with denying that he felt anything for you, he hadnât even really thought about it. And even if he had, thereâs no way he could ever expect you to actually reciprocate. Not with the way he has acted to you.
But, somehow, you do.Â
And Bucky has that strange, nagging sensation again - the feeling that something isnât right - but itâs not the same as before because itâs mingled with hope this time. Like he canât quite believe that this might be true, heâs suspicious that perhaps itâs not, but god - he hopes it is.
âWhy?â he chokes out. You donât laugh at him when his voice cracks.
âWhy what?â
âWhy do you have a-â He canât even say it. You donât make him.
âDonât fish for compliments, itâs unbecoming,â you say and youâre teasing him but he finds he doesnât really mind it.Â
âItâs just- It doesnât make-â Bucky tries to stammer, before you finally take pity on him. You reach a hand over slowly and place it in Buckyâs. Itâs small and warm and still soft despite the welts and cuts - tokens from your work. His heart flutters once in his chest, heat stirring in his stomach.
âI canât explain why I like you, Bucky. I just do. I think youâre a good person and I knew that even when you didn't quite know how to act around me. And I love how much you protect the people you care about and youâre funny without trying to be, but itâs more than just that. I just like you.â
He thinks he gets what you mean. If you were to ask him, he would try to explain why he feels the way he does about you. But language is inadequate to express it. Itâs uncomfortable and messy and it was almost impossible to understand, let alone communicate what has been happening inside of him - whether to himself or anyone else. He just likes you too.Â
But, critically, he doesnât deserve you. He didnât deserve you before he met you, didnât deserve you when he took out his unresolved trauma on you and certainly doesnât deserve you now, just because the tide has changed.
He knows you can see the cloud falling over his face, but youâre not perturbed. You lean forward with another one of your sweet smiles until your face is just inches from his, but you donât move further. Youâre letting him make the decision.
Bucky glances once at your lips, delicate and swollen from biting, and he accepts that he never really had a choice anyway. He leans down to kiss you as if in a daydream and feels the way he gives himself over to you in an almost absent way - he is spilling over the side of himself when your lips meet his.
Although you had leaned over for this reason alone, you still gasp against his lips - a high, breathy sound that makes his pulse jump. Heâs feeling a bit outside himself.
His metal hand goes to the back of your neck to gentle pull you closer. The other goes to your thigh, just to feel his skin on yours. He rubs circles there and tries to fend off a spell of dizziness at how good it feels just to have you against him like this.
Heâs thinking about those moments in the middle of the night when he takes a sip of water and suddenly realises that heâs completely parched. How just one sip of it makes him want to sink the whole glass. Itâs been so long since heâs kissed someone like this - since heâs felt the desire to - and it almost physically hurts, how much he wants this. How much he wants you.
Youâre squirming against him, moving up slowly to straddle him, perching yourself on his large lap. Your movements are careful and considered - like youâre giving him the time to say he doesnât want this. He wishes he could tell you just how badly he does, but removing his lips from yours doesnât seem worth it. He moves his hands to your hips instead. Gives them an encouraging squeeze.
The heat of your body is seeping onto his lap and through his chest. He kisses you just for the selfish pleasure of it; not for any design or purpose - just to feel it. He takes your bottom lip into his mouth, clumsy and desperate and feels you sigh against him.
âBucky,â you say, parting from him. He doesnât realise that he is following your lips in a daze until you put a hand up to stop him.
âHm?â he responds mindlessly. His head is swimming.
âWill you let me touch you?â
Through the confused haze of his scrambled brain, he can only think about the fact that youâre already touching him. You have one hand on his chest, the other behind his neck. This is more touch than he has felt in decades.
But gradually he comes to. He blinks the daze out of his eyes and sees that you are sitting still, looking to him for a response. He almost lets the guilt eat away at him again at the kind patience on your face. He nods instead.
Youâre still watching him closely when you grab the ends of his t-shirt and peel it over his head. Bucky has almost forgotten that heâs injured. When he looks down, his chest is littered with purple bruises and deep burns. He suppresses the urge to grab his t-shirt back from you, only because you lean forward to press a gentle kiss to his collarbone.
He watches as your hand on his chest slips slowly downwards. He shivers when you trail past his nipples, when you lighten your touch over his injuries. You trace the end of his stomach, before grazing his cock over his black tac pants. He canât help the deep puff of breath he releases. His heart is thumping with equal doses of anxiety and exhilaration.
Heâs breathing heavy and you look at him, eyes glassy and searching to see if he is okay with this. He doesnât have the words for how okay he is, so he reaches a hand up to run through your hair and presses another ardent kiss to your lips.
When you part from him, youâre smiling. You unbutton his trousers and slowly pull them down along with his underwear, just far enough so his cock springs up against his bare, sweaty stomach. Heâs mildly embarrassed by how clearly worked up he is already. Heâs rock hard. Precum is smattered around the head of his cock and strings of it are stretching from his cock to his underwear as you peel it back.
You have a bashful look on your face as you take in his size, eyes falling to his lap and mouth parting. He almost feels shy for a moment. He was by no means small before the serum, but he knows his size is totally abnormal now. He has an irrational worry for just a moment that youâre about to pack the whole thing up and tell him to leave, but he can read excitement in your expression too.Â
You trail your fingers lightly over the head and Bucky hisses, hips bucking up into your hand. Your eyes snap to his, astonished.
âYouâre very sensitive.â
Bucky flushes. âI havenât uh-â he stammers. âItâs been a while.â
âWhatâs a while?â
He wonders if it can get any more embarrassing than this. âFew decades. No big deal.â
He expects you to be astonished again, but you have no reaction at all. âI thought that might be the case.â
He wants to ask how you knew, but you clench your fist over his cock, giving him a soft pulse and he can no longer get any words out. He just grunts, watching you move your hand up and down, slowly massaging his length. His dick looks so much bigger in your small, soft hand than it does in his own rough grip. His hands shake as they move to grip your thighs in a futile attempt to find something with which to anchor himself.
âDoes that feel good?â you ask. Your eyes are slightly clouded.
âYeah,â he answers, voice coming out strained.Â
You lean forward slightly and Bucky thinks you are about to kiss him. Just as he moves to meet your lips with his own, you open your mouth to purposely spit downwards. The warm liquid meets the tip of his cock and cascades downwards towards your cupped fist.
He canât help the desperate moan that falls from his lips, his head falling back against the headboard. He thinks that image of you might possibly live in his brain forever.
You use the new lubrication to stripe across his length with your right hand, the other moving down to play with his balls. You keep your hand gentle but tight and his hips jerk forward unintentionally, even as he tries to still them. Heâs groaning different versions of your name but he can hardly hear himself over the pulsing in his ears.
Youâre not rushing it. There hardly even seems to be an intention with what youâre doing - the way youâre watching him makes him feel like youâre doing this for the simple pleasure of seeing him like this. Itâs a far cry from how he does it when heâs alone - clinical, functional - whatever makes him cum the fastest. Youâre taking your time and letting him feel what he had convinced himself he no longer wanted.
He can accept that he has been lying to himself about that too, as he watches you now. You can hardly move your eyes from where youâre stroking him, watching your hand move with an almost detached curiosity - as if youâre not in control of your own motions. He has been starved of this - of all physical touch - for the longest time, but it had never seemed in reach so he denied that he had any interest in it at all. Itâs almost overwhelming his senses now.
You squeeze his cock and rub small, affectionate circles at the base. The intimacy of it - the tenderness - almost makes him blow his load early. A brief panic takes hold of him at the thought of it. He grips your wrist quickly and your movements halt. You look up at him with alarm.Â
âI canât-â he stammers. âIâm gonna-â
âOh.â You smile. He flushes.Â
You bring your hands to his bare chest and give him a soft, gentle kiss that makes his eyes flutter closed and his breath stutter.
âI want to make you come, Bucky,â you murmur against his lips. âBut in my mouth. Is that okay with you?â
âGod- fuck-â he breathes, just at the words alone. His face is pinched up with a barely contained restraint while he tries to bring his heart rate down. You wait patiently for his answer and he feels a rush of affection for you that is so strong it almost bowls him over. How could he have thought that he felt anything for you but deep, intense adoration? You know intuitively just by looking at him that this is a big moment and not something he can rush. He finds that he now trusts you so implicitly with this vulnerability, he canât even imagine a time when he didnât.
âYeah,â he manages eventually. âPlease. Wanna feel your mouth on me.â
You kiss him again, deep and slow. He chases your lips even as you manoeuvre yourself away and lower yourself so you are level with his cock. Your hand reaches up again to pump him a few times and his chest heaves.
You press a light kiss to the tip and a groan falls from his lips. His head falls back against the headboard but he fights the instinct to close his eyes. Heâs too busy watching you.
A pink tongue lolls out of your mouth and then your lips are closing in on him, just wrapping around the tip. His hand reaches out to card through your hair and he doesnât push you down any further but he is still fighting for control over his body. His body is trying to make him thrust into your mouth, which heâs sure will send him over the edge if he canât get a grip on himself soon.Â
You begin to bob your head, gradually taking more and more of him in each downswing. He feels a bit loose around the edges. The pleasure is bordering on too much, but he finds that he trusts you enough not to panic about it. He doesn't get caught up in how he looks or sounds or whether heâs about to embarrass himself; he just lets it happen because he knows that itâs what you want from him. He thinks he would do anything in the world if he thought you wanted it of him.
You look so pretty with his cock down your throat. Youâre glancing up at him teary and doe-eyed while his tip nudges the back of your throat. He feels the ridges of your tight throat squeeze around him. Heâs aware he probably looks desperate and needy, but itâs impossible not to while heâs feeding his cock down your throat.
âS-shit, feels good-â he whines. Actually whines. If he was any more lucid, he would be embarrassed. But he likes the way you look up at him afterwards.Â
The way youâre reacting to him is sinful. He worries that you wonât be able to take it every time he nudges deeper, but your eyes just roll back, like you canât get enough. You even whimper around him, as if heâs the one getting you off.
He canât remember how this used to feel, but he doesnât think it was ever this good. You do a sliding motion with your tongue, pressing it up against the veins of his dick. He grunts and grips your hair harder, hips giving jerky thrusts into your mouth every now and again when he canât stop or control it.
âFuck, Iâm gonna-â he strangles out. âBaby, Iâm gonna come.â
Baby. Thatâs a new one. Heâll examine it later.
His voice - the sort of breathless desperation in it - feels foreign in his own mouth but it makes you moan. Bucky feels the vibration it makes against his cock and comes his brains out.
He lets out a strangled groan, spilling himself down your throat. He feels a certain awe as he watches you try to keep up with swallowing, eventually giving up and pulling off to jerk him. His spend spurts up across your face, soils his chest and his thighs. He wonders briefly if you will be annoyed.
âFuck, thank you,â he sighs, only distantly aware of what heâs saying while he comes down from his high. Weak streams of cum are still spilling from him as your hand slows its pace. âSorry.â
You level him with a quirked brow, as if he said something funny. âSorry for what?â
He looks at you, all of his cum dripping from your cheeks and chin. You look so pretty like this - so his. âItâs everywhere,â he says, even as he canât avert his gaze.
You smirk and dip your finger into a pool of cum gathered on his abdomen.
âIt is everywhere,â you agree. He can do nothing but watch entranced as you bring your finger to your mouth, sucking the pearly liquid off it.
His cock has barely had a second of reprieve - he can feel it twitching to life again. Its way of telling him that it has been severely neglected for the last seventy years.
âLet me touch you.â He intends for it to come out sexy and demanding, but it hits his ears as more of a plea.
âNot today,â you say, picking up a corner of the duvet and wiping your face with the sheet. You pull his pants back up for him without much difficulty and hop off his lap. Buckyâs brows furrow with confusion and a hint of dread. Why donât you want him touching you? Have you decided that you no longer want him? Has he fucked this all up already? He tries to hide the panic thatâs hitting him like a semi-truck with a nod and a wavering smile.
You see it. Of course you do. You curl up next to him, popping one leg over his. His cum is spilling from his chest and onto your t-shirt, but you donât seem to mind.Â
âI donât want you rushing this,â you say, brushing a gentle hand through his hair. He fights the urge to nuzzle into your hand. âI think what we did today is enough of a step.â
He considers your words. It makes him feel like a fucking child to have you talk to him this way, but⌠you might not be wrong. His heart is still racing uncomfortably in his chest from the novelty of it all and as much as he would kill to touch you, heâs not sure what heâs doing anymore. Itâs one thing for him to sit back and let you take care of him. This would be another thing entirely.
Youâre right, of course, and it is becoming blatantly obvious you can read him better than he can read himself. Still, he has to make a genuine effort not to mope at the idea of leaving you and your warmth to go back to his cold, empty room.
âBucky,â you say firmly, using two fingers to nudge his face over to yours. He meets your eyes and finds it a little more difficult to sulk. âI like you and I want to do this right. I want you to touch me so bad, but only when youâre ready to. Will you trust me?â
His eyes go big and wide and an awkwardly vulnerable feeling passes through him. You like him. You want him to touch you.
Youâre still waiting for him to answer. You always are. You never speak over him, never assume. Bucky has spent so much of his life being overpowered, his choices ignored or stifled. Itâs unfamiliar and uncomfortable but not unpleasant. He nods.
âI like you too,â he stammers clumsily. âSo much.â
You laugh. âI know.â
In a brief lapse of silence - your head on his chest, his hand stroking tentative circles on your thigh - he almost feels like the two of you are melting into one. He matches your breathing unconsciously, heart slowing while he holds you close, bodies melding together. You press a small kiss to his pec and he accepts it easily and gratefully. He is struck by the picture of you snuggling up to him - astounded by just how cute he finds it.
âI think you should go to the nurse.â You poke a bruise and he bites back a hiss. You look up at him with a raised eyebrow, like you know that heâs just pretending not to be hurt.
âLater,â he mumbles. Truthfully, the idea of leaving your room sounds awful to him. All that waits for him outside is cold, empty nothingness. He will delay it for as long as youâll let him.
He tries not to spiral - tries not to think about the fact that telling him to go to the nurse might just be the least awkward way you can think of to get him to leave.Â
You like him, he reminds himself with some conviction. You said so.
âNot later. Go take a quick shower and Iâll meet you in your room after youâve been to the nurse.â
He gives you a surprised glance out of the corner of his eye.
You giggle. âWe could stay here but my sheets might need a wash.â
He rolls his eyes but he is considerably less reluctant to leave your presence with the promise of seeing you later. You detach yourself from him. Smart move - he would never move as long as he has you pressed up against him.
He huffs a sigh in protest, but heaves himself up and makes his way into the ensuite and notches on the shower. To his surprise, you totter in after him and take a seat on the closed toilet lid.
With some of his typical confidence returning to him, he leans downward to kiss you while he yanks off his pants. He feels your cheeks round against his face.
âYâjust gonna sit here and watch?â
The way you smile up at him through your lashes almost makes him fall to his knees and beg for you to reconsider his request. You tilt your head innocently. âWell I need something to think about while youâre gone.â
He groans, pushing his forehead against yours - almost pained. He can feel the breath of your laugh against his lips.Â
He knows that soon he will get a lecture soon for not reporting to medical immediately. He also knows that heâs well overdue a verbal beating from Yelena. His body is bruised and broken and tired. His nerves are frayed and his adrenaline is still dangerously high. None of it matters - all Bucky can see and hear is you. Itâs not so bad, really, having a crush.Â
a/n: fun fact i watched a youtube video about lock picking to write this and i think i can pick a lock now!! (i will definitely not be using this for nefarious purposesâŚ)
Warnings: 18+ only. Some fluff. Slight Angst. Mutual Pinning. Mention of sexual activities.
Summary: Long hours, sharp tongues, and unbreakable trust have defined Industrial Inputs CEO Bucky Barnes and his secretaryâs dynamic, always walking a fine line. But some lines arenât meant to be left uncrossed.
Word Count: 13.2k.
notes: This is one of the works I'm submitting for the @avengers-assemble-bingo event for Bucky's 108th birthday, running throughout March. The prompt was "CEO AU".
Also, this piece is to participate in Grem's 20 Characters with 20 Questions for 20 Tropes Challenge by @gremlin-girly Using Bucky Barnes' character, "When were you going to tell me about this?" question, and mutual pining trope.
Bucky Barnes never wanted to be here.
He never wanted to be in this office, suit, or life. But fate had a funny way of forcing people into the things they swore theyâd never become.
The room was dim since the heavy curtains were drawn shut to block out the midday sun. The only light came from the glow of his monitor, casting long shadows over the polished surface of his desk. He sat hunched over it, resting his forehead against his crossed arms.
A soft sigh broke the silence.
âAgain?â
He didnât move. Didnât need to. He already knew who it was.
âThis is the fourth migraine this week,â she continued, with an edge of exasperation. âIâm making you an appointment with a neurologist. You like it or not.â
Bucky exhaled sharply, mixing a scoff and a tired chuckle. âYouâre overstepping.â
âOh, it is not in your best interest to start talking about overstepping,â she shot back, arching a brow. âWant me to make a list? Ten years under you, since you were a manager, mind you. It will take a couple of pages.â
Bucky grunted in response, looking for the right words, but she was already moving, pushing the coffee table aside and clearing a space on the plush carpet.
âCome on,â she said, glancing at the clock. âYou have the meeting with Schwarz in forty minutes. You know, the one I had to postpone twice already?â
Yeah. He knew. He just didnât care.
He stayed put for a second longer, staring at the dark wood of his desk. His head throbbed, and the pressure behind his eyes seemed to crush everything. He could still hear his fatherâs voice in the back of his head âHeadaches? You think I got to where I am by whining about a fucking headache?â but right now, George Barnes could go to hell.
With a slow, resigned sigh, Bucky pushed himself to his feet. He shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, rolling his shoulders as he made his way over to the open space sheâd cleared. Lowering himself onto the rug, he sprawled out on his back, letting his arms rest loosely at his sides. As the exhaustion dragged him down like quicksand, he closed his heavy-lidded eyes for a moment.
She knelt behind him, pressing her cool fingers into the pressure points at the base of his skull. He tensed on instinct, prepared to anticipate pain, even from something meant to help.
âJesus,â she muttered, working her thumbs into the knotted muscles of his neck. âYouâre tense as concrete again.â
He let out a slow breath through his nose, letting her hands do their work. The pain sharpened for a moment before it started to dull, releasing the pressure just enough to make his migraine a little more bearable.
âSpeaking of overstepping,â she continued, âyou should really hire a professional masseuse, Bucky. Have them come in three times a week and-â
âI donât want a stranger rubbing me up and down while Iâm ass-up and vulnerable on a pansy cot.â
She snorted. âSo dramatic.â
His mouth twitched, but he didnât bother correcting her. If she was talking, it meant she wasnât hovering with that worried look in her eyes.
She worked his knots, kneading the tension from his neck and shoulders before her fingers traveled upward. With a gentler touch, she started rubbing slow circles into his temples, easing the pressure that had settled deep in his skull.
âRebecca called, again.â She said casually, but he could hear the warning under her words. âSays you had her bloc-â
âNot now,â he groaned.
She sighed but didnât stop. âI know you donât want to, but just meet with the guy for ten minutes, and youâll get her off your back.â
âI wonât waste even five minutes listening to her new fucktoy ramble about some ârevolutionaryâ idea for industrial inputs,â Bucky muttered. âI know itâs going to be some half-baked high school powerpoint with stock photos and shit. Thatâs the kind of man she likes to have around.â
She scoffed, still working her fingers against his scalp. âHe is cute, though.â
His eyes snapped open.
He didnât move or say anything right away, but his gaze was locked on her now, sharp, unreadable, and just a little too intense. He didnât like that. Didnât like the way she said it.
âIs he, now?â His voice came out pretty even, but there was something underneath it. Something edged.
She smirked, unbothered. âNot my type, but I can see why sheâs⌠fond of him.â
His jaw ticked, and he exhaled slowly through his nose before letting his eyes fall shut again, but the tension in his body didnât relent in the way it had before.
Yeah. The headache wasnât going anywhere.
Just as he was starting to relax again, the door creaked open without so much as a knock, and a head popped inside: the new intern. The kid was his fatherâs friendâs grandson or something, which meant he had about three functioning brain cells and the audacity to use them in the worst ways.
âSorry to interrupt your⌠erm-â
âGet out,â Bucky muttered, not even opening his eyes.
âBut I just wanted to know-â
Bucky sat up so fast that the guy flinched. âGet the fuck out and close that door before I send you to count staple hooks in a basement, kid.â
The intern squeaked, stumbling back before the door shut behind him in a not-very-subtle way.
"Moody, arenât we?â she sighed, shifting her weight as she sat back on her heels. âYouâre still a Sarge at heart, it seems. Poor kid almost pissed his pants.â
His jaw worked slightly at the title, but he ignored it.
âThe door is there for a reason. BesidesâŚâ he muttered, rolling his shoulders, shifting his gaze away.
He didnât say what else he was thinking, but didnât have to. She already knew. The way the intern had found them -he sprawled out on the floor, and she knelt behind him, hands on his body- it was enough to set off the office rumor mill.
âDonât worry. Even if you donât get out of your dungeon very often,â she mused, stretching her arms over her head, âyou do know thereâve been rumors for a couple of years now, donât you?â
Bucky turned fully toward her, narrowing his gaze. âWhat?â
âCome on, like the one where I was sucking your cock on that video call with that Japanese exec from the thermoplastics deal? With the guy watching it all because the camera was badly angled?â
His face twisted, and he waved his hands. âYou werenât even there that-â
âOr, my personal favoriteâ she continued, âthat a window cleaner saw us on full display as you rammed my ass against the glass one afternoon?â
Buckyâs expression darkened into something truly menacing. âBullshit. The cleaning crew comes on fucking weekends-â
She snorted. âPeople who gossip donât care much about facts, Bucky. Thatâs just how things are.â
âWhy didnât you tell me anything?â he asked with irritation.
She smirked, unfazed. âWhat for? Itâs not like it was going to change anything. And you firing people left and right over some rumor no one even knows where it started⌠Not a good look.â
He pressed his tongue against his cheek, ready to argue with her, but before he could, she glanced at the clock.
âTen more minutes, and Schwarz will be here.â Her tone was all business now, but then her gaze flicked back to him, sharp and assessing. âHowâs your arm?â
Bucky pressed his lips into a thin line.
She sighed. âThat bad, huh? Lemme see.â
âYou donât-â
âI do,â she cut him off, already shifting. âItâs probably one of the things thatâs got you so moody lately. And the reason Iâll probably have to send the Germans a very nice basket of goodies after you mistreat their guy.â
Bucky let out a slow breath, but when she just stood there on her knees, arms crossed, waiting, he reluctantly popped open a few buttons of his expensive shirt. As he slid it off his shoulders, the scent of his cologne -warm, woodsy, with an edge of spice- assaulted her senses.
Beneath, he wore a pristine white tank top. And, his bad arm.
Irregular scars marred the skin in a twisted canvas that sprawled up to his shoulder, a reminder of the Syrian shrapnel that had nearly cost him the limb entirely. Inside, a lattice of titanium plates and screws that held together shattered bones and torn muscle.
Bucky exhaled sharply as he rolled his shoulder, feeling the familiar grind of metal and bone, and the fucking pain. Most days, he could push past it. Ignore it. But some days, like today, it devoured him, made everything sharper, his patience thinner, and his temper shorter.
She reached out. He could see the way her gaze softened slightly as she took in the limb, hovering her fingers just above the scars. She was softer, yes, but never pitied him.
He let his head tip back against the edge of the couch, closing his eyes as her hands worked their magic over the worst knots of his upper arm, easing some of the strain. He hated how easy it was for her to do this, to get him. To handle him. It should piss him off. Maybe it did.
But he didnât tell her to stop.
As she gently rubbed on the offending limb, his mind drifted to the hospital bed, to his suspended arm buried in a mix of cast, pipes, and pulleys.
A bitter taste rose in his throat. The sharp sting of antiseptic, the cold bite of metal restraining his ruined arm, the dull pain buried beneath layers of medication. His mother crumpled at the foot of his hospital bed, clasping her hands in silent prayer. And his father⌠standing rigid, arms crossed, and a voice edged with finality.
"Well, now that youâve had your share of independence and adventure, I assume you understand that you are meant to be with us. To serve the family the way we prepared you to."
Not a âYouâll be okâ. Not a âWeâre glad you made it home aliveâ. Just âYouâve learned your lesson.â A muscle in Buckyâs jaw twitched as he stared at the ceiling, willing the memory away.
Her fingers pressed into a tight knot near his bicep, bringing him back to the present. He exhaled through his nose.
âWhereâd you go?â she asked, softly.
His lips parted, with the instinctive lie ready on them -Nowhere-. But when he turned his head to look at her, he caught the way she was watching him, with that usual awareness, so he let out a breath and closed his eyes again. âNowhere important.â
She hummed and started pulling his shirt back into place, her touch lingering a second too long on him as she smoothed the fabric over his shoulders.
âWell, master,â she teased, the title laced with mockery, âitâs almost time to see the Germans.â
Bucky huffed, dragging his hands down his face before starting to button his shirt. She moved to stand, but before she could, his fingers wrapped around her wrist. Firm, warm, just enough pressure to make her breath catch.
âThanks,â he muttered.
She swallowed, willing her face to stay neutral, to ignore the way warmth curled in her stomach at the roughness in his tone.
âYou know thereâs no need,â she said, carefully measured, as if saying anything more might give too much away.
His grip loosened, and she pulled back, smoothing the imaginary wrinkles from her skirt. If he noticed the way her pulse jumped beneath his fingers, he didnât say a word. Once she finished straightening her clothes, she turned on her heel and strode toward the office door.
âIâll let them in in ten, okay?â
Bucky exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulder once more before nodding. âYeah.â
----
She had suspected it wouldnât go smoothly, but even so, when the heavy wooden door finally clicked open, the Germansâ expressions were unreadable, stern and tense.
She cursed inwardly.
Even if the meeting had been rocky, she hoped theyâd at least reached an agreement. Otherwise, in ten minutes, her phone would be ringing with George Barnes on the other end, barking at her because Bucky refused to pick up. And, as always, sheâd have to endure his tirade until he inevitably demanded she put his son on the line.
With a sigh, she pulled open a drawer, curling her fingers around a blister pack of Tylenol.
Then, smoothing her expression, she knocked gently on his office door.
A low, muffled groan was the only response she got before she stepped inside.
The sight wasnât unfamiliar. Bucky sprawled on the couch with his shoes off, covering his face with a cushion like it could somehow block out the world. She knew how this went. If the headache was bad enough, it wouldnât be long before he was hunched over the bathroom sink, pale and nauseous, cursing under his breath. And, as she suspected, he hadnât brought anything to help.
She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. âShould I expect a call from Barnes Senior in the next few minutes, or can I focus on other chores?â
Another groan. âI think he wonât call, but who the fuck knows? Nothingâs ever enough for him. Maybe he has a few things to say about the deal, things even a fresh graduate should know.â His voice was thick with irritation, but there was something else underneath. Resignation.
She tsked. âGood thing you donât listen to him. Much.â
âHmm.â
She stepped forward, holding up the blister pack between two fingers. âHere. I bring an offering that might change your mood.â
âWhatever it is, leave it on the desk. And donât give me any calls.â
âAre you really rejecting Tylenol?â
A single half-lidded eye peeked out from behind the cushion, scrutinizing her like sheâd just asked him to sign over the company. Then, he muttered, âFuck, what would I do without you?â
She smirked. âProbably chomp the heads off the few people who still have the balls to speak to you.â She leaned against his desk, watching him sprawl across the couch, with the cushion still covering his face. âSpeaking of your stellar social skills,â she said, The signing for the Research & Development Collaboration deal with Prescott got moved from Tuesday to Friday. You still havenât told me which day you want your plane ticket booked.â
Silence.
She frowned. âBucky?â
He exhaled sharply against the cushion before finally shifting it just enough to mutter, âAbout that.â
That tone set off a flicker of suspicion in her chest.
âI know a couple of the board members are going just to play court jesters,â he continued, voice still thick with exhaustion. âButâŚI want you there.â
Her brows furrowed. âSorry, what?â
He let the cushion fall away just enough to glance at her. âI want you there.â A beat. âI need you there.â
Something in her stomach twisted. Not at his words -no, she was used to being indispensable- but at the tone he used.
âI need to see-â
âYou handle logistics, and you filter out unnecessary conversations. I'd rather not waste my time listening to a bunch of suits trying to kiss my ass. You keep people in check.â He sighed, tilting his head back onto the couch.
She raised a brow. âSo you need me as a buffer?â
He shot her a dry look. "I need you to make sure I donât tell the wrong person to go fuck themselves."
A flicker of something -something warm- stirred in her chest before she pushed it aside.
âFine. Iâll book my ticket too.â she said, trying to sound unaffected. âBut I want juicy compensation for being away from home in non-working hours. And, I won't babysit you the whole trip".
Bucky huffed a laugh, still sprawled on the couch, with the cushion resting against his temple instead of covering his face. âYouâll do it anyway, even when itâs not part of your job.â He gestured vaguely toward the blister of Tylenol still sitting in her hand. âYouâre like a mother hen.â
And fuck, how did he like that? How much did he like her, always two steps ahead of him, anticipating his worst moods and dealing with them before they could ruin his day completely? It should drive him insane, how easily she handled him, read him, but instead, he was perfectly fine with it. He craved it.
She narrowed her eyes, unimpressed. âWell, this time mama is getting a compensation, James,â she shot back, drawing out his name like a warning. âBecause I had plans for Friday night.â
He schooled his expression, pushing himself up onto his elbows. âYeah? With who?â
âI donât think thatâs relevant.â
Just like that, something in his chest twisted, sharp and possessive.
âMust I remind you that you signed an availability clause two years ago?â His voice was measured, but there was an edge beneath it. âYou agreed to be available if the firm needed you.â
If I need you. His eyes seemed to say it, even if he didnât.
She let out an incredulous laugh. âWow. This is the first time youâve ever thrown that in my face. But donât worry, I donât need the reminder.â She rolled her eyes. âAnd Iâm pretty sure availability doesnât mean ownership, Bucky. But itâs fine, Iâll see my godson another day.â
Buckyâs grip tightened on the cushion.
Her godson.
He exhaled through his nose, and his voice came out controlled. âGood. Then itâs settled.â
She scoffed, shaking her head. âYou know, you couldâve just asked nicely instead of throwing corporate fine print at me.â
He pushed himself fully upright, ignoring the dull ache still throbbing behind his eyes. âI know.â A pause. His fingers dragged over his temple. âSorry, I⌠this is killing me.â
She hesitated for a beat, caught off guard by the unusual admission.
âIâll approve the extra compensation,â he muttered, reaching for the Tylenol she still hadnât handed over.
âNah,â she waved him off. âAs you said, itâs already covered in the clause. Thatâs why my salary was increased in the first place. I was just messing with you.â
Bucky quirked a brow. âNot many people can get away with that, you know.â
âOh, but this mother hen knows she can.â She smirked. âJust a little.â
He huffed, watching as she poured a glass of water and handed him the blister pack.
âNone of that scotch after taking these, you hear me?â
âYes, maâam,â he drawled, amused despite himself.
She squeezed his good shoulder before heading for the door, and the warmth of her touch persisted where her fingers had pressed against him.
----
The lobby was a mess of tired travelers and frazzled staff, as the storm outside cast long shadows through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The wind howled, rattling the glass as Bucky ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply.
âThis is ridiculous,â he muttered. âA place with this many stars and a price tag that could feed a small country, and they canât even keep track of reservations?â
She sighed, rubbing at her temple. âItâs just one night, Bucky.â
He shot her a look. âThatâs not the point.â
âNo, the point is that weâre exhausted, itâs almost midnight, and Iâd rather not spend the next hour arguing with the poor guy at the front desk when we both know theyâre fully booked because of the storm.â She gestured toward the rain hammering against the glass. âUnless youâd rather sleep in the lobby, in which case, be my guest.â
His jaw ticked, but he didnât argue. Instead, he grabbed the key card off the counter with a glare, muttering under his breath as he turned toward the elevator.
She sighed again, following. This was going to be a long night.
Bucky leaned against the doorframe, watching as she took in the room with wide eyes. The Renaissance-style decor, the heavy carved furniture, the ridiculous four-poster bed with actual curtains⌠it was over the top, even for a place like this.
âWell, this is⌠something,â she murmured, slowly turning in place before making a beeline for the bathroom.
He heard her sharp inhale, then -God help him- a pleased little hum that was dangerously close to a moan.
His bad mood tempered just a little.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he stepped further inside, glancing at the coffee table stacked with neatly packaged luxury treats. He had no doubt they came with a price tag steep enough to make even him scoff.
She poked her head out from the bathroom, grinning. âYou think theyâd notice if I just sat in the tub and refused to leave?â
For the first time since the airport delays, he almost smiled. Almost. Then he sat in an oversized armchair. The long flight, the delays, and the cold air outside had worsened the stiffness in his arm.
She eyed him knowingly, arms crossing. âSpeaking of the tub, why donât you take a shower? Or an immersive bath? Heat those bones a little. Youâre tensing the arm a lot, you know.â
He seemed to consider it for a second, rolling his shoulder slightly. But then he shook his head. âAfter you. Youâre cold too. Ladies first.â
She arched a brow. âI appreciate the chivalry, but you need it more-â
âAll I hear right now is a hen clucking.â He cut her off, smirking as he kicked off his shoes and sank deeper into the chair.
Her eyes narrowed. âEndearing.â
He shrugged, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
âWell, since you offered,â she huffed, âIâm going to test the tub. And donât expect me to be out in less than thirty minutes because I wonât. If you need the bathroom, I donât know, use a vase or something.â She said as she started to rummage on her suitcase, looking for her nightgown.
Bucky snorted, âSo regal, just what this place needs.â
As soon as the bathroom door clicked shut, she let out a long breath, and her shoulders slumped as she finally dropped the facade. Out there, she had to keep up the usual push and pull, the teasing deflections, the confidence that made it seem like sharing a room with him -sharing space with him- was just another minor inconvenience.
But alone in here, she could let herself feel the weight of the situation.
She set her nightgown on the counter, running her hands over the silky fabric before reaching for the faucet. The deep tub groaned as steaming water rushed in, the sound filling the room as she braced herself against the edge of the sink.
This shouldnât be affecting her so much. It wasnât the first time theyâd traveled together, and it wasnât even the first time sheâd seen him this exhausted, this raw from the day. But something about tonight, about his request for her to be here, about the way his voice softened when he said he needed her there -itâs killing me- stirred something deep and restless inside her.
She swallowed hard and reached for the buttons of her blouse, undoing them slowly. He didnât mean it the way she wanted him to. He never did.
She reminded herself of that fact as she slipped the blouse from her shoulders, shivering slightly at the rush of cooler air against her skin. Bucky was⌠Bucky. Intense. Guarded. Possessive, sometimes, in ways he didnât even realize.
But never hers.
She sighed, pushing down the stupid, persisting ache in her chest as she reached for the zipper of her skirt. This wasnât new. Sheâd spent years training herself not to hope for something that wasnât there. And yet, every now and then, heâd let something slip -a look, a word, a need- and it would take everything in her not to lean into it.
The tub was nearly full now, and the steam curled in soft ribbons toward the mirror. She inhaled deeply, letting the warmth settle over her body, soothing and distracting all at once.
Bucky wasnât doing any better.
He sat in the oversized armchair, socked feet planted firmly on the carpet, drumming his fingers idly against his knee. The tension in his shoulder hadnât eased, not even a little. He rolled it again, flinching at the dull throb radiating from his arm.
Maybe he shouldâve taken the damn bath first. Maybe the heat wouldâve helped more than sitting here, stewing, staring at the closed bathroom door like some lovesick idiot.
Not that it mattered. She wasnât into him.
He knew that much.
Women who wanted something more -who wanted him- they left hints, like breadcrumbs leading straight to their intentions. Heâd seen it a thousand times in the circles he frequented. The way they gravitated toward him, playing coy with soft laughs and lingering looks. Subtle touches under the table, fingers tracing patterns on his thigh. The way theyâd beam at the expensive gifts, their smiles slipping the second he showed more interest in his bed than in whatever designer bag they were parading around.
And then there was her.
She didnât play coy. She didnât bat her lashes or leave accidental touches to test the waters. Instead, she petted him. Nursed him. Brought him Tylenol like it was her goddamn job -which, technically, it was-. And he liked it. At first, it had been enough, her dependable presence that kept him from losing his mind when everything else was chaos.
But eventually, it wasnât.
Eventually, he started watching for the crumbs, the hints, waiting for something, anything, that told him she saw him as more than just her boss or her friend.
And he found nothing.
Because a woman who wanted something more wouldnât massage the knots from his arm like it was second nature, without hesitating, without blinking. Wouldnât press her fingers into the scarred muscles like she wasnât touching the part of him that made most people flinch.
He huffed, rubbing his palm over his face.
She was comfortable with him. Too comfortable.
And fuck, it was funny, in a twisted way, how every other woman heâd been with tried not to look at his arm -careful not to let their revulsion show- but she touched it like it was just another part of him.
Because thatâs all he was to her. Just another favor.
Nothing more.
----
After exiting the bathroom in her red silk nightgown -a gift from her friends- she thanked her past self for not just throwing in an old cotton camisole.
âWell, I emptied the tub and started filling it again,â she said, leaning against the doorway. âMaybe you should go check the temperature. Itâs one of the last things I donât know about you.â She tried to keep it light, casual.
Bucky stared at her longer than necessary. He had seen her in professional clothes, casual clothes, even bundled up in thick sweaters during late nights at the office, but never in something like this. It wasnât even that revealing, but the way the silk fell against her body, catching the dim light, made his thoughts go places they shouldnât.
He forced his gaze away, scoffing.
âBucky, donât tell me you didnât even unpack pajamas.â
âDonât use âem,â he said, watching her expression shift.
She blinked, clearly caught off guard. âYouâre joking.â
His smirk deepened. âNope. Iâm more of a⌠natural type of guy.â
She pressed her lips together, visibly trying to suppress a reaction. Interesting.
âWell, I hope you at least brought sweatpants or-â
âWasnât supposed to be sharing a room, remember?â He shrugged, stretching out in his chair. âDidnât think about it. But donât worry, I still have underwear. Are boxers still scandalous to you?â
She crossed her arms, tilting her head. âI can manage a slutty pair of boxers, thank you very muchâ
Bucky huffed a chuckle, turning to his suitcase. He rifled through his things, pulling out the garment in question. âRelax. I was planning on wearing a robe -there are always robes in these places- to protect your maidenhood.â He smirked, but his fingers tightened around the fabric.
She rolled her eyes, ignoring the heat creeping up her neck.
âTake the bed. Youâll probably be dead asleep by the time I get out.â He suggested.
âNonsense.â She waved her hand in a dismissive tome. âThat couch is too damn small for you. You take the bed.â
Bucky frowned, standing up straight. âHow the fuck could I send you to the couch? Itâs irritating that you could even consider me capable of that.â
Her brow furrowed. âDonât be stubborn, your body-â
His expression darkened, and his voice cut in sharp. âIâm not crippled, doll. I let you play mama all you want, but at the end of the day, Iâm a grown man who can sleep on a damn couch without whining like a bitch.â
The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. He saw her expression shift. Surprise, hurt, and something more guarded sliding into place. He had sounded exactly like his father just now, and the realization made his stomach churn. He exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. âJust⌠donât be stubborn, okay?â
Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and strode toward the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
And as soon as he was alone, he cursed himself.
----
As she slipped under the covers, feeling the crisp hotel sheets' cool against her skin, her mind replayed the moment over and over.
The sharpness in his tone. The way his eyes darkened, his jaw set tight like he was bracing for a fight that wasnât even there. She had only meant to be practical; his body did take more strain, whether he liked it or not. And yet, the way he snapped felt like she had crossed some invisible line she hadnât even known existed.
She stared at the ceiling, exhaling slowly. Iâm not crippled, doll. Had she made him feel like that? She had never pitied him, and he knew it. Bucky was the strongest person she knew, even when he was constantly grumpy and in pain.
Maybe that was why she did it. The taking care of him. Because no one else did. No one else noticed the stiffness in his shoulder after long days hunched on his desk or the way he rubbed at his temple when a migraine was creeping in. People either feared him, admired him, or wanted something from him. But who was actually in his corner, making sure he was okay without expecting anything in return?
Maybe thatâs the problem.
Maybe, to him, she was just another person putting him in a box he didnât want to be in. She had assumed he liked it, the way she doted him, the way she noticed him. But what if, in his mind, it only confirmed that she didnât see him the way he wanted to be seen?
----
The water lapped at his collarbones as he sank deeper into the tub, letting the heat work through the persistent tension in his muscles. His head tipped back against the cool porcelain, and he closed his eyes.
He shouldnât have snapped at her. She hadnât meant anything by it; she never did. She was just looking out for him, the way she always did, and heâd thrown it back in her face like an ungrateful asshole.
With a sigh, he dragged a hand over his face, water dripping from his fingertips and wetting his scruffed face. He wasnât mad at her, had never been mad at her. He was mad at himself. Mad at the way the frustration curled in his gut over things that werenât her fault. She didnât deserve that. Heâd make it up to her in the morning. He wasnât sure how yet, but he would.
----
At 3 a.m., she stirred awake, blinking against the soft glow of the city lights seeping through the curtains. Her gaze landed on his silhouette, sitting rigid on the couch, outlined by the streetlights below.
She frowned, pushing the covers aside and padding toward him. âHey.â
He startled slightly as if he hadnât heard her coming, too lost in his thoughts. âHey.â
An awkward silence stretched between them.
âRough night?â she asked, quirking a brow, trying for nonchalance.
Bucky glanced at her, then quickly averted his gaze. âYeah.â A beat passed before he exhaled heavily. âDidnât mean to snap at you.â
Normally, she wouldâve brushed it off, waved away his apology like she always did. But this time, she stayed quiet, letting him speak.
âYou donât deserve to be on the receiving end of my tantrums,â he admitted, his voice quieter than before. âSeems like itâs becoming a habit lately, having to apologize for them. But really, doll, Iâm sorry.â
Something in her chest softened. It was unfair how easily those simple words soothed the discomfort that had been eating her since their argument. She wanted to reach for him, reassure him. âI know youâre nervou-â
âNo.â He cut her off, shaking his head. âIâm nervous and frustrated by this deal, yeah, but thatâs not an excuse to be an asshole. At least not with you.â He let out a humorless chuckle, running a hand down his face. âSo donât do that. Donât⌠justify me the way my mother did with my father when he beat her up on a weekly basis.â
She sighed, crossing her arms. âWell, you were kind of an asshole, if thatâs what you want to hear.â
He huffed out something like a laugh, shaking his head, but she wasnât done.
âBut you also know we have the kind of relationship where I call you out when that happens. How many times have I told you to fuck off?â
His lips twitched. âNever.â
âOkay, not in those exact words, but you know what I mean. Donât be a smartass now.â
Bucky bit his lip, letting her continue.
âI know youâve been working on this deal for over a year. I also know your fatherâs been breathing down your neck about it, just waiting for you to slip up so he can shove his twisted version of âtough loveâ down your throat. And on top of that, I know this damn weather is making your arm and shoulder miserable. So, Iâm letting it pass. You already apologized; why wouldnât I accept it?â
His face was unreadable now, all traces of amusement gone as he nursed his glass of scotch.
She quirked a brow, aiming for levity. âOr what? You got some kind of kink? Want to be punished for being a bad boy?â
Bucky choked mid-sip, coughing as the liquor went straight up his nose.
âOh my God, you do!â she gasped, grinning like sheâd just uncovered some deep, dark secret.
âNo!â Bucky spluttered, still coughing, his face red as a beet. He barely managed to set his glass down without spilling it.
She knew he was probably telling the truth, but she also knew how easily he embarrassed over certain things, and there was no way she was letting this pass.
âYou couldnât sleep because you were craving a spanking? A little pinching, maybe?â she cooed.
His head snapped toward her, eyes wide with horror. âMy God, woman, stop it.â
She smirked. âTell you what: Iâll stop if you take the bed.â
âI told you I-â
âIâm still taking it too.â
That shut him up. He blinked at her, clearly thrown back.
âItâs so big my whole damn living room could fit on it,â she pointed out. âWe can share, so you donât have to hurt your masculine pride, and mother hen here gets to be happy knowing youâre not miserable on that fancy couch.â
Bucky exhaled, scratching the back of his head. âI donât knowâŚâ
She crossed her arms, tilting her head. âTell me one good reason why this is a bad idea. Weâre both exhausted, and thereâs enough space on that mattress to fit two more people between us.â She raised a brow. âI promise I wonât steal your virtue.â She winked, and he nearly groaned.
Oh, but he wanted her to take it, not his damn virtue, but something else. And that was the problem.
He couldnât even use the excuse of propriety, he was already sitting there in just his boxers, and it wasnât like she hadnât seen him shirtless before. Hell, sheâd been massaging his arm and back for years without batting an eye.
So, really, what was he holding onto?
âWill you shut it if I say yes?â he muttered.
âJust for tonight.â She grinned.
----
She climbed into bed, doing her best to act casual, like this wasnât anything out of the ordinary. Like she wasnât hyperaware of the fact that Bucky was standing just a few feet away, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, no robe in sight.
âWe have to be there at nine,â she said, adjusting the blankets around her. âSo weâve got, what⌠maybe four hours of sleep?â
The mattress dipped as he sat down, and she felt the shift beneath her. She told herself not to look. But when he moved to lie down, she turned her head, catching his gaze, and ended up on her side.
He hesitated for a moment before mirroring her, rolling onto his side so they were facing each other in the dim glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtains.
For a moment, they just looked at each other. Even with the shadows softening his features, she could still see it, the stress in his brow, the weight pressing down on him. The doubt.
So she leaped.
Hesitating, she reached across the space between them, palm up. âYouâve got this, Bucky,â she said, in a soft but firm tone. âYouâre going to do great.â
His eyes flicked to her hand, and surprise flashed across his face, but it only lasted a second. Without hesitation, he reached out with his scarred hand, wrapping his fingers around hers, and gave a small squeeze. âThanks.â
----
The deal with Prescott went just as expected, some rough patches here and there, but overall, both sides walked away satisfied.
As requested, she had sorted through the attendees beforehand, making sure Bucky knew exactly who he could afford to ignore and who required his attention. Not that he always followed her lead, but to her surprise, he was in a much better mood than the night before.
Maybe it was the decent nightâs sleep. Maybe it was the fact that, despite his nerves, he had handled the negotiations flawlessly. Or maybe it was just that he finally let himself lean on someone for just a little.
Bucky stepped out of the conference room, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the tension from the negotiations. His gaze landed on her instantly, curled up in one of the lounge chairs, with a coffee cup in her hands, looking perfectly calm. She raised a brow when she noticed him watching her.
âWe have a cocktail party tonight,â he announced, coming to stand beside her chair.
She took a sip before answering. âWe?â
âMe. The board jesters. A bunch of industrial guys.â
âRight. So, you,â she corrected, setting her cup down.
He huffed. âI want you to come.â
She frowned, caught off guard. âAre you sure itâs not just for you and the board members?â
âIâm sure.â
She leaned back, studying him. âBucky, I donât exactly have cocktail-party-appropriate clothes lying around.â
He shrugged. âNeither do I.â
That made her snort. âYeah, somehow, I doubt that.â
âNo, really,â he said. âI didnât pack for this, which means I gotta go get something to impress a bunch of snobs. You might as well come with me.â He caught the hesitation in her body language instantly, his sharp blue eyes narrowing. âThatâs your only reason for doubting, right?â
She exhaled, knowing there was no way to wiggle out of it. âYeah, thatâs the only reason. ButâŚâ She opened her mouth, then hesitated. How was she supposed to explain that their budgets were galaxies apart? That the tie heâd pick out probably would cost as much as her monthly groceries?
âBut what?â he pressed.
Fuck it.
âBut, we are almost at monthâs end, and I still have to pay the-â
âWait. No, no,â he cut in, shaking his head. âIâm not expecting you to buy a fucking dress, doll. The company will.â
She frowned. âBucky, I donât think thatâs appropriate-â
âI, the director, am the one making you attend this shitty event,â he interrupted, crossing his arms over his chest. âObviously, itâs a company expense that my secretary looks good there, because if she doesnât, the company image looks bad too.â
She gave him a flat look. âDid you just say I dress poorly in a roundabout way?â
His jaw dropped. âThat is not what I said.â
A smirk tugged at her lips. âMmhmm.â
Bucky groaned, running a hand through his hair. âCan you just let me do something nice without fighting me on it?â
She sighed. âFine.â
âGreat,â he said, already dialing a number. âWe leave in an hour.â
----
The last thing she expected when he said they were going shopping was to find herself standing inside a Prada store. She had anticipated something fancy, sure, but Prada? This was a whole different level. She was almost afraid to breathe too hard, worried sheâd somehow stain or break something just by existing.
A perfectly dressed clerk approached them, and the moment the womanâs eyes landed on Bucky, her posture shifted: poised, interested, appreciative. She on the other hand, might as well have been invisible.
âWhat can I do for you?â the clerk asked, with a voice all smooth with professionalism and something more.
Bucky barely glanced at her. âWe need a cocktail dress for her and a suit for me.â
Immediately, the woman waved over a co-worker, passing her off while keeping Buckyâs attention firmly on herself.
âWere you looking for something specific?â the second clerk asked her while signaling her to follow.
âUh, yeah. I was thinking an empire dress with a V neckline.â
âLet me show you what we have.â
----
After trying on two options that didnât feel quite right, she slipped into the third dress. The fabric hugged her in all the right places, elegant but not over-the-top, and when she pulled the curtain open, she froze.
Bucky was standing there, dressed in a black suit so well-fitted it might as well have been tailored for him on the spot. His ivory dress shirt contrasted against his sharp features, and there was something about the way he wore the suit -confident and powerful- that made her stare.
What she didnât realize was that he was staring right back, caught off guard as he discreetly bit at his bottom lip.
âGuess thatâs the dress,â he said, his voice just a little rough.
âYou think so?â She did a slow spin, letting the fabric swirl around her.
âDefinitely.â He managed to say.
She grinned. âGuess thatâs the suit?â
He didnât say anything, just gave her a pleased half-smile that sent warmth curling into her chest.
After purchasing the medium heels and the purse that she tried hard not to think about the cost of, they had lunch at an upscale restaurant.
----
By the time they reached the hotel, she was still reeling a little from the whole shopping trip. The Prada bags felt almost radioactive in her hands, she could barely process the fact that she now owned something so expensive, let alone the fact that Bucky had made the entire thing seem as casual as buying a cup of coffee.
As they approached the front desk, the receptionist greeted them with a polite smile. âGood afternoon, Mr. Barnes. We have the second room available now if the lady would like to move in.â
Before Bucky could respond, she beat him to it. âGood. Can I take it now?â
âOf course, maâam,â the receptionist said, eyes flickering to Bucky for a moment, then back to her. âIâll send someone up to move your belongings.â
âOh, thereâs no need,â she replied quickly, trying to play it off with a small smile. âItâs just a small suitcase and is already upstairs.â
âVery well, maâam. Please enjoy your stay,â the woman said, giving her the magnetic card.
As the elevator ascended, Bucky crossed his arms and shot her a dry look. "That was fast."
"Huh?" she blinked, shifting the shopping bags in her grip.
"You practically threw yourself over the door card." He chuckled, but there was something almost edgy beneath it.
"Well," she shrugged, "I was supposed to be there from the start, Bucky. Now you wonât have to miss my⌠how do you call it? Clucking?" She winked.
Bucky scoffed, but his jaw worked like he was trying to stop himself from saying something. And maybe he was. Because the truth was, he would miss it.
He had no business getting used to her presence, to the way she looked after him. But those few hours theyâd shared in the same bed? Dreamless. The first time in a long time his mind had given him peace. And now, standing here, the thought of losing that -even just the simple comfort of her being near- felt⌠wrong.
He glanced at her and found her watching him with an amused tilt of her head. He swallowed down whatever mess of thoughts he was having and shrugged instead. "Iâll survive."
----
The message came through: "Ready?"
She took a breath, smoothing her hands down the dress that still didnât feel entirely real. "Yeah, coming out now."
Stepping into the hallway, she turned and promptly forgot how to breathe.
Bucky stood there, waiting, a few doors down. The same suit from earlier, yes, but now fully put together. His hair was neatly combed back, his scruff freshly trimmed, and the addition of a sleek watch and cufflinks only added to the devastating effect. He looked like heâd stepped straight out of a high-end catalog, the kind of man people turned to look at the moment he entered a room.
Her pulse stuttered.
He caught her staring, but he didnât call her out for it, probably because he was doing the exact same thing.
She looked stunning. That dress had already been perfect in the store, but now, with her makeup done, her hair styled just so, and the soft glow of the hotel lighting catching on her skin? He was fucking dying to close the space between them, to inhale and find out which perfume sheâd chosen tonight. Would it be the one he liked the most?
His eyes briefly dipped to her neckline before he could stop himself, and his traitorous cock twitched in interest. Damn it. He forced his gaze back up, schooling his face into something composed just as she started toward him.
"You look good, sweetheart," he managed to say.
She smirked, sliding her hand into the arm he offered. "You cleaned up good yourself, boss."
----
The ride in the limo was... interesting.
The board members who had come along were in high spirits, congratulating themselves and Bucky on the deal, clinking their glasses of expensive whiskey as they rehashed key moments from the negotiation.
And yet, somehow, she was left out of the conversation entirely.
Not just the business talk, that she understood. She wasnât part of the board. But even the petty, circumstantial chatter, the kind of polite small talk that people filled silence with, never once included her. It was as if she were just there, a piece of decoration beside Bucky, an accessory rather than a person.
Of course, to them, thatâs exactly what she was.
Just his secretary. The one everybody knew he was fucking.
Now, heâd simply taken it a step further and brought her to the cocktail party, dressed up in Prada and heels, just like a good mistress should be.
Bucky didnât seem to notice. Or if he did, he didnât care.
He was fully engaged in conversation with the others, discussing projections, potential expansions, and other things that werenât meant for her ears.
She knew this would happen. The moment he asked her to come, sheâd known sheâd feel out of place. And yet, some naĂŻve part of her had thought -hoped- it wouldnât be this bad.
She wasnât sure why, but something about the way the man across from her kept glancing up from his phone, barely acknowledging her except for those quick, assessing looks, made her stomach turn. His fingers moved smoothly over the screen, typing something, then pausing -another glance, another smirk- before resuming.
She forced herself to sit still, to smooth her dress over her lap, to ignore the creeping feeling at the back of her mind that something about this moment would come back to haunt her.
----
As they stepped into the reception, they blended seamlessly into the elegant crowd. The board members exchanged greetings with familiar faces, shaking hands and making small talk. A few acquaintances took notice of her, flickering their gazes between her and Bucky before curiosity got the better of them.
âAnd whoâs this lovely lady?â one of them asked with a polite smile.
There was always a beat after that -just a split second of realization- before the inevitable, knowing oh followed.
If he noticed the shift in peopleâs expressions, he didnât show it. Either he was oblivious to it or, more likely, he just didnât care. He was too used to these circles, to their assumptions, to their judgments. But she felt it. Every curious glance, every subtle flick of the eyes that said, so, he finally brought her along.
At some point, he made a passing joke âTen years dealing with me, just for that, someone should give her an award,â which earned a few chuckles from the men around him. She mustered a polite smile, but inside, she could already feel the exhaustion creeping in.
She needed a drink. Or a few.
Slipping away, she made her way toward the bar and ordered a Gancia cocktail, sitting in one of the fancy stools.
Meanwhile, Bucky was still deep in conversation when a firm hand landed on his shoulder. His brows furrowed immediately -he wasnât fond of being touched- but as he turned, his irritation sharpened into something heavier.
His father.
George Barnes stood there, exuding effortless charm as always, but he knew better. He braced himself for whatever was coming.
âGood job, son.â
For a moment, it almost sounded⌠honest, proud. But then, just as predictably as the sun rising, he leaned in ever so slightly, voice lowering so only Bucky could hear the next part. âYou managed not to ruin it.â
Bucky's jaw ticked. But he exhaled slowly through his nose, keeping his expression neutral.
George straightened, turning back to the small group with a practiced smile. âGentlemen, if you donât oppose, Iâd like to steal my son for a moment.â The group murmured their good-natured agreements, stepping aside as the older man clapped a hand on Buckyâs shoulder again, making his muscles coil with irritation.
"What are you doing here?" Bucky asked, words laced with aggression but softened enough to avoid drawing attention.
His fatherâs smile didnât falter as he tilted his head slightly. "It's a corporate party. Why wouldnât I be here?"
Buckyâs brow furrowed, and his tone grew colder. "Because it's three states away, and you have no business here."
George chuckled lightly, as if this conversation was little more than a minor inconvenience. "Oh, but you are wrong, I do have business here. I have shares in Prescot & Co. Surprised?"
"In the bare minimum," Bucky replied with a smile that didnât reach his eyes. He took a flute of champagne from a passing waitress, keeping his expression carefully neutral, tightening his grip around the delicate glass as his eyes remained fixed on his father.
Georgeâs lips quirked into something like a smirk, clearly unfazed by the tension. "I know I gave you the industrial input branch to play with, James. And youâve been doing a decent job. But itâs never bad to be aware of whatâs going on there."
Buckyâs gaze flickered momentarily to the crowd around them, trying to gauge how much of this was being overheard. He wasnât sure if his fatherâs presence here was meant to make some kind of point or just another round of his usual subtle power moves. Either way, he hated the feeling that his every step was being watched and scrutinized.
"Well, Iâm doing just fine without your input," Bucky said, taking a sip of his champagne, trying to sound controlled.
His fatherâs eyes never left him, and the faintest smirk played on his lips. "Hm, and speaking of knowing whatâs going on the firm..." George drawled, glancing toward the bar where she sat. "When were you going to tell me about this?" he asked, with a casual tone but loaded with implication.
Buckyâs body went rigid at the mention of her. His eyes shot toward her, but he quickly masked the tension creeping through his body. "What is it to tell?" he shot back, trying to downplay the situation.
George sighed, like he was explaining something to a child. "Some little birds keep me informed about your affairs on the firm, son. And theyâve been signing songs about you two for years now." His gaze flickered over to her, still perched at the bar, before he looked back at his son with a smug expression.
Buckyâs jaw clenched. He could feel the familiar sting of being patronized, and it fueled his growing irritation. He leaned in slightly, keeping his voice calm but laced with the growing sharpness of his frustration. "Itâs all bullshit, Dad. Maybe youâll need to pick better your little spies." He hated the insinuations, the familiar condescension that George always slipped into conversations like these. The man always had a way of making his son feel small, of making everything seem like some petty game.
George didnât flinch. His smirk only deepened. âOh, I know about your escapades, James. Those bimbos you dated, the ones you dared to bring home. That last one, Mandy, or Marney...â he waved a hand. âBut always, always, the songs about you and that âsecretaryâ of yours remained.â
Buckyâs eyes narrowed, but he fought to keep his composure. âJesus, Dad. Itâs my fucking secretary. At this level, itâs like having a work-wife. We never asked or told you anything about Esther in what, forty years working with her?â his voice was tight, defensive.
The old man quirked a brow, looking almost amused. âExactly.â He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. âIâve been fucking Esther on my desk for the last thirty of those forty years, and no one had said a word or suspected anything. Why? Because I have brains, son.â His expression hardened. âIt seems I keep overestimating you, thinking you could mask an office affair as it should be.â
Buckyâs stomach twisted.
âYou donât know shit about me,â he said, his voice dangerously low.
His father smiled. âI know more than you think.â
Bucky let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. âThen youâd know that if we were a thing, I wouldnât hide her,â he stated in a low but firm tone. âIâd parade her at every opportunity, make damn sure everyone knew she was mine.â His lips curled into something that wasnât quite a smirk, more like a warning. âWho knows? Maybe Iâll surprise you one day.â
George scoffed. âYou wouldnât dare. Youâd be the talk-â
Bucky cut him off with a sharp smile. âYour last name would be the talk. And thatâs what concerns you, isnât it, Father?â His voice was smooth, but there was steel beneath it. âBut since you know me so well, you already know that I couldnât care less about the tabloids, your social circle, and, lastly, your opinion on this matter.â
His fatherâs expression flickered, and something dark flashed in his eyes, but Bucky didnât give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, he drew on that well-practiced smile, the kind that could fool any onlooker into thinking this was just a polite conversation between father and son. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode into the crowd, leaving George standing alone in the wake of his words.
----
As she nursed her drink at the bar, she became aware of someone approaching. A tall man with a confident, almost cocky stance settled beside her.
âDidnât think Iâd see you here,â he said, flagging down the bartender without even glancing at her.
She turned slightly, taking in the sharp suit, the perfectly styled blond hair, the smug air about him. John Walker. She recognized him from a few previous company functions, one of George Barnesâs people. He wasnât part of Buckyâs branch of the company, but he had enough pull to be a nuisance when he wanted to be.
âWell, here I am,â she replied coolly, lifting her glass to her lips.
John smirked. âMust be nice. Traveling in style, all expenses paidâŚâ His gaze flicked briefly to her dress, then the Prada bag sheâd set down by her feet. âGuess it pays to be the bossâs favorite.â
Before she could respond, another voice cut in.
âThere you are.â
Bucky.
His presence was commanding. He stepped between them, close enough that John had to shift back, barely masking his irritation. Bucky didnât acknowledge him, his eyes were only on her.
âI need you to reschedule the Montgomery call for next week, now.â he said smoothly, the words rolling off his tongue easily. A perfect excuse, a simple reason to pull her away.
She blinked, catching on quickly. âOf course, boss.â
John chuckled, shaking his head. âDamn, Barnes. You really donât let her out of your sight, huh?â He took a slow sip of his drink, then added, âYou should loosen the leash a little.â
Bucky went still.
It was subtle, the tic on his jaw, the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides but she could feel the shift in the air.
John had no idea how close he was to getting his teeth knocked in.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing a little smile that didnât reach his eyes. âFunny. I was just thinking about tightening yours.â His voice was deceptively light, but there was no mistaking the threat beneath it.
Johnâs smirk faltered, but before he could respond, Bucky turned to her and offered his elbow. âWalk with me.â
She didnât hesitate.
He barely spared Walker another glance as he guided her toward one of the balcony doors. The noise of the party dulled as they stepped outside, and the cool night air contrasted with the heat simmering beneath his skin.
"What did he tell you?" His voice was low and measured, but she knew better. He was seething.
She let out a small sigh. "Ah, just some silly banter we usually have," she tried to deflect, stepping closer to the railing.
Bucky stayed near, and his gaze flicked to hers. âWhich consists ofâŚ?â he pressed, his voice quieter now but no less sharp.
She sighed, realizing there was no way he was going to let it go. âGod, Bucky, itâs just stupid.â
âIf itâs stupid, you can tell me.â He pushed.
She hesitated, but under the weight of his stare, she relented. âSome stupid thing about being the bossâs favorite.â
Bucky raked a hand through his hair, and the muscle in his jaw ticked again. "That fucking bastard," he muttered. He started to turn back toward the party, and she recognized the intent in his posture. He was going to find Walker and probably, without subtlety, give him a piece of his mind.
She reached out instinctively, wrapping her fingers around his inner elbow. "Donât you dare cause a scene over some juvenile taunt."
"He disrespected you," Bucky bit out with restrained anger.
She exhaled, trying for humor. "Did he lie? Am I not your favorite employee?"
Buckyâs scowl deepened. âYou know what he meant by that.â
She smiled a little. "I do. But I just donât care, Bucky." Her fingers lightly curled against his arm. "I know who I am and the place I occupy. John Walkerâs opinions are not relevant to me."
His eyes flickered with something unreadable. "The place you occupy?"
âYes. As your secretary, as a friend.â She said it so matter-of-factly, like it was the simplest truth. âYou and I both know thereâs nothing between us. Itâs just so stupid. Heâs seen the women you associate with; how could he even presume-â
Buckyâs chest did something stupid. He wasnât sure what, only that it felt tight and hot and made him irrationally irritated. âWhat kind of women?â
She let out an incredulous laugh. âOh, come on, Bucky. The Vogue cover type.â
Bucky stared at her. âThe Vogue cover type?â he echoed, like he was tasting the words and finding them bitter.
She let out a small laugh. âYou know what I mean. The ones with the perfect hair, the designer wardrobes, the endless legs-â She gestured vaguely, like that explained everything. âThe ones people expect a man like you to be with.â
Bucky scoffed. âA man like me?â
She rolled her eyes. âYouâre rich, successful, powerful, and on top of that, handsome. Itâs not exactly shocking that youâd go for-â
Bucky let out a sharp breath. âFor what?â he interrupted, voice edged with something dangerously close to frustration. âA goddamn mannequin?â
She blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard. âBucky, thatâs the only kind of woman Iâve ever seen enter or exit your office in ten years. The only kind you arrange dates with. The only kind you send flowers to,â she pointed out, her tone laced with incredulity. âDid you never notice a pattern in your partners?â
He said nothing. Because she wasnât wrong.
He couldn't deny it. Couldnât, because that was the kind of woman that always approached him. The kind of woman that fit neatly into the world he operated in. The kind of woman he was expected to have perched on his arm. The kind of woman who made sense.
And the kind of woman who was so different from her.
Because he couldnât dare to be with someone who even resembled her. To be what? A cheap replacement for the luscious body and sharp tongue he really wanted in his bed? No. That wouldâve been pathetic. Even for him.
And maybe he was delusional, but he couldâve sworn there was something there, an edge in her voice when she spoke about his so-called type, as if she had already decided for the both of them that they could never be a thing.
And God, he was tired.
So tired of this stupid dance that had lasted years of what-ifs, blurred lines, untold truths, and all the office gossip that never seemed to die.
His patience snapped.
âWhat, do you think itâs so impossible for us to be something more?â
She froze, and her eyes widened with surprise. âWell, I never perceived anything resembling -um- interest from you,â she stammered.
Bucky let out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking his head. âDo you think I would let anyone touch me the way you do if I didnât feel something?â
She went speechless for a second, parting her lips, scrambling for an answer. âWell, maybe-â
âNo,â he cut her off, low and heated. âAnd you know it. Tell me one person youâve seen me with who has that level of intimacy with me. One person who can approach me, who can touch me, who can nurse me like a fucking child and I let them.â His chest rose and fell with the force of his words, the frustration thick in every syllable. âYou wonât find anyone.â
Because there was no one else. Only her.
Bucky moved in, crowding her against the cool balcony railing, his body was a wall of heat and tension. His hands werenât on her -yet- but he was close enough that she could feel his breath, the scent of his cologne mixed with champagne, wrapping around her like a slow burn.
His voice was low, almost rough. âThe question here is⌠do you feel anything else besides âfriendlyâ empathy when you touch me?â His blue eyes were searching, desperate for something he wasnât sure she could give. âHave you ever wanted this to be something more?â
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
His jaw flexed, and his fingers curled into fists at his sides like he was barely holding himself back. âAm I the only one who thinks that- fuck.â His head dipped for half a second, as if frustrated with himself, before he looked at her again, with a dark, unreadable gaze. âThe only one of us that feels like us could be a thing?â
His words were a shock to her system, leaving the air thick, charged between them. His hands found the railing on either side of her body, bracketing her in without touching her.
And she was also tired, so goddamn tired.
Tired of pretending.
Tired of thinking about what was proper.
Tired of believing she could be nothing more to him than his dutiful secretary.
Tired of swimming through dates and relationships that, even with effort, never felt fulfilling.
She looked up at him, the man she had spent endless hours working for, hours that seemed to pass in a blink. The man marked by scars, both physical and psychological. The ruthless wolf who ruled a company he never truly wanted, yet refused to let go of. The man who, in the deepest corner of his mind -even if he never admitted it- wanted to be seen by his father.
The man she had learned to read so many years ago, whose moods, silences, and tells she knew by heart.
The man she couldnât stop caring for because no one else did. Not even himself.
The man she was in love with.
And she couldnât deny him.
"You are not the only one who feels all of those things," she heard herself say, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
She averted her gaze quickly, suddenly aware of the distant noise of voices and clinking glasses behind them. But before she could step away, he leaned in, still caging her against the balcony railing.
Bucky turned his head slightly, scanning their surroundings. There was no one. And fuck if he cared if there was.
His intense gaze snapped back to hers. "Do you mean it?" His voice was low, almost rough. Then, after a beat, he exhaled sharply and took a fraction of a step back, and his hands ghosted over her arms as if forcing himself to give her space. "Arenât you feeling pressured right now? By my position? By our⌠dynamic?"
She scoffed, shaking her head, "You know me well enough to know I donât let myself be pressured. I think my first week under you made that clear."
A dry chuckle left his lips. "God. You dared to lecture me about not being a servant just for asking for a coffee."
Her lips parted in disbelief. "Oh, donât you dare play the victim here," she shot back, jabbing a finger lightly against his chest. "You barked at me to walk eight blocks in those fucking heels just because you wanted that petroleum filth they called gourmet espresso. You had five excellent coffee shops between here and there, but no, you had to have that one, which charged you double for dirty water."
Bucky let out a low, amused hum, catching her hand before she could retreat. His grip was firm but soft, and his thumb glided absentmindedly over her knuckles. His gaze dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up.
"I thought of firing you on the spot," he admitted, almost reflectively.
Her brows lifted. "Oh, how gracious of you not to."
His smirk deepened. And then, slowly, deliberately, he lifted his other hand, tracing the curve of her cheekbone with the rough pad of his thumb.
"But then I realized," he murmured, tilting his head, "I got so fucking turned on when you didnât cower and spoke your mind."
Her breath caught as his fingers slid back, cupping lightly the base of her neck.
"Itâs so goddamn rare," he continued, dipping his voice into something huskier, "to find someone in these circles who actually says what they mean. Who doesnât just⌠bend."
His grip tightened at the back of her head, and his fingers fisted in her hair, undoing part of her hairstyle as he tugged just enough to tilt her face up toward his. His pupils were blown wide, dark and consuming, the pale blue of his irises nearly swallowed by the heat behind them.
"But I'd be lying," he murmured, as his breath brushed against her lips, "if I said I havenât thought about bending you in other⌠more pleasurable ways."
A tingle ran down her spine, her body reacting before her mind could catch up. The heat rushed to her face, completely unaccustomed to this side of him, this raw, unveiled hunger. The daily life they shared, the comfort they had built over years of working side by side, had nothing to do with the way he looked at her now.
Like a predator.
A handsome, fucked-up predator, ready to consume her whole.
And she was going to let him.
Far in the back of her mind, the worries of what this would mean, of the implications of crossing this line, of the scandal and gossip if anyone found them like this, all of it faded into irrelevance. The only thing that mattered was the way his fingers tightened in her hair, the way his body crowded hers against the railing, and the way his gaze locked her in place like she was something he had no intention of letting slip through his fingers.
She tried to feign a little nonchalance. "Is this your pickup line for fancy cocktail parties? Telling a lady you want to bend her?"
His low chuckle rumbled against her, his amusement laced with something far more dangerous. He didnât pull away when she tried to call him out. No, he attacked.
"Oh, I think this lady enjoyed it very much," he murmured, brushing the shell of her ear with his lips, his voice thick with satisfaction. "The way she squirms under my gaze tells me everything I need to know."
The warmth of his breath made her shiver as his manicured stubble grazed her cheek, rough against the softness of her skin. Strands of his loosened hair tickled under her chin as he slowly turned his face, skimming his lips over hers, just the ghost of a touch, but it set her entire body on fire. Without thinking, she pressed the softest peck to the corner of his mouth.
And that was all it took.
He let go.
To hell with the party. To hell with his father, the endless charade of appearances, and whoever might walk through those balcony doors.
His other hand fisted the fabric at her lower back, yanking her against him as his lips crashed onto hers. It wasnât gentle. It was a claim, deep, possessive, and unrelenting. His expensive suit wrinkled under her desperate grasp as her fingers clawed at his lapels.
Her purse tumbled from her shoulder, hitting the ground with a dull thud, but she couldnât bring herself to care. Not when Bucky was pressing her against the railing, caging her in, one large hand tightening its grip on her hair to hold her exactly where he wanted.
He kissed her like he was trying to ruin her for anyone else. Like he was sealing something between them, something untold but inevitable. His tongue parted her lips and swallowed the soft gasp that escaped her own.
Her knees weakened, but he was there, securing his grip as if daring gravity to try and take her from him. A deep, satisfied groan vibrated against her mouth as she arched into him, digging her nails into his shoulders.
Without even thinking, he pressed a thick thigh between hers, forcing a sharp gasp from her lips.
Bucky felt it, her bodyâs reaction, the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers tightened their hold on him. His grip on her waist grew firmer, his fingers pressing into the fabric of her dress as if he wanted to imprint himself on her, to make sure she felt him everywhere.
"Thatâs it, doll," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction, his lips barely leaving hers as he spoke. "I can feel how much you want this."
His thigh flexed, pressing up against her just right, and she bit down a whimper, tilting back her head against the railing. Bucky took advantage, latching his mouth onto her exposed throat, scraping over the delicate skin with his teeth before soothing it with his tongue.
Her hands fisted his suit, wrinkling the pristine fabric even further, but he couldnât care less. Not when she was trembling against him, not when she was letting him take control, letting him push, pull, and claim in ways neither of them had dared to acknowledge before tonight.
His breath was uneven when he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his pupils blown wide, hunger and something far more dangerous swirling in that stormy blue. âLetâs get the fuck out of here,â he growled, his grip constricting on her waist as if he might just drag her away.
For a moment, she teetered on the edge of saying yes, of letting him whisk her away and finish what they started. But then reality seeped in: the clinking of glasses, the sound of conversation just beyond the balcony doors, the weight of eyes that could turn at any moment.
She swallowed hard, forcing her hands to press against his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt. âWe⌠we canât.â
âLike hell we donât,â he countered, as he dragged his thigh between hers again. The friction made her bite her lip, shifting her hips instinctively toward him, betraying her resolve.
âDonât be a brat,â she murmured. âYouâre here to make connections, to pretend you give a damn about these people. Not to mention your fatherâs just waiting for you to slip.â
âI donât give a fuck-â
âBucky.â She exhaled, calming herself. âThis is good for you. A couple of hours, and then we can go.â
His exhalation was sharp, and his grip faltered for just a second before his forehead came to rest against hers. He felt dejected. She let her fingers trail down his lapels, smoothing out the wrinkles she had put there.
âHoney,â she murmured, softer now, âI want this as much as you do.â
His lips parted, ready to argue, but she pressed a finger to them, shaking her head. âNo. You told me you wanted me on this trip as a buffer, to help figure out who you can be a dick to and who you canât.â
A muscle in his jaw ticked. âMaybe I just wanted you close.â
Her heart stuttered, but she didnât let herself dwell on it. Instead, she dragged her hands down his arms, squeezing his wrists before stepping back just enough to force some distance. âShush. Iâm doing what Iâm supposed to.â She smirked, playful now, tilting her head. âDonât be stubborn. Be a good boy and talk to those people. We have plenty of time for ourselves once this ends.â
His nostrils flared, and for a second, she thought he might argue. But then, with one last lingering touch along her waist, he huffed a quiet curse and pulled away.
She was right. He knew she was right. But seeing her all disheveled against the railing, lips swollen from his kisses, breath coming in uneven little gasps, none of it helped his restraint.
Which was exactly why, instead of stepping back into the party like a man with self-control, he grabbed her wrist and tugged her toward a darker corner of the balcony.
âBucky! What-â
She barely had time to protest before her back met the cool stone wall, and his body caged hers in, shielding her from view.
âIâm being a good boy,â he murmured, his voice low and edged with amusement. âYou failed to perceive how you -and probably I- look right now.â His fingers brushed the curve of her cheek, tilting her chin up, and his eyes swept over her face and down her neck, to where her dress was slightly askew from his hands. âWe canât walk back in there looking like two horny teenagers who made out while the adults were talking,â he said, ghosting his lips over her temple, in a teasing but firm tone.
She swallowed, barely suppressing a shiver as his hands roamed her body, smoothing over the wrinkles in her dress and fixing his own tie with a frustrated sigh.
âAnd whose fault is that?â she muttered, smoothing out the lapels of his suit jacket before reaching lower to straighten the part of his shirt that had somehow come untucked during their little ordeal.
Bucky chuckled, watching her fuss over him with narrowed eyes. âDonât you dare throw this on me when we both know you were pretty damn excited a minute ago,â he teased.
Her hands stilled, lips parting in protest, only to be cut off by a sharp gasp as one of his hands abandoned its pretense of decorum and slid down to cup her ass, squeezing with deliberate firmness.
She yelped, smacking his chest, but his smirk only widened.
âNow stop being so bossy and help us look mildly demure,â he murmured, all mock innocence, though the way his hand rubbed slowly at her rear said otherwise.
She huffed, rolling her eyes as she batted his hand away, not that it did much, considering he was still crowding her against the wall like he had every intention of misbehaving again, and his scent clung to her like a second skin.
âDemure? After what you just pulled?â she scoffed, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles on her dress. âThe nerve you have,â she muttered, running her fingers through her hair, trying futilely to regain some composure.
Bucky chuckled, slow and smug, brushing a thumb across his lower lip as he watched her. âAnd yet, you let me and enjoyed it. And⌠youâre still here,â he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction.
She exhaled, somewhere between exasperation and amusement. âFor now.â
His eyes darkened, and his amusement flickered into something deeper as he leaned in, fanning his warm breath against her temple. âFor good.â
If you are the author of any of these and would like me to remove an entry or tag please lmk!
Please heed any warnings on the fics themselves, you are responsible for your own media consumption. Stay safe and take care!
This is (not) fine by @artficlly (NSFW)
Author's summary: Personal assistant rules: don't crush on Bucky Barnes. Definitely don't misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never *ever* get stuck alone with him in an elevator.
His girls by @/artficlly
Author's summary: Alpine barely tolerates anyone but Bucky, so when she curls up in your lap without a second thought, the team is left reeling especially when it leads to the not-so-subtle revelation that you and Bucky have been sneaking around for months.
My heart went oops! by @myladybelle
Author's summary: You think youâre friends who occasionally kiss, but Bucky thinks the two of you have been exclusively dating for a while now. it only takes one post-mission debrief for the whole team to realise someoneâs missed a memo.
Heart First, Sanity Later by @orellazalonia
Author's summary: You, a dangerously chaotic genius with the common sense of a soggy spoon, somehow captures the heart of Bucky Barnes. Despite the constant emotional whiplash, raccoon-related injuries, and deeply cursed inventions, Bucky finds himself falling hard... somewhere between a Capri Sun intervention robot and a vent related rescue.
Temple by @aquaticmercy
Author's Summary: Bucky Barnes is struggling to say 'I love you', so he says other things to make sure you know he cares.
Promise without ceremony by @cheekybarnes
Author's summary: Bucky Barnes gave up on marriage a long time ago. But then, somewhere deep in a storm-soaked safe house, he pulls a bullet from your leg and accidentally proposes in the process.
Bucky Barnes and back scratches by @heldbybarnes
Request: bucky barnes are back scratches? I know it's vague but I also know how amazing you are!
Sticky Confessions by @juniebjonesin
Author's summary: bucky moves into your spare room expecting nothing more than four walls and a place to sleep. instead, he finds floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, sticky note conversations, late-night takeout, and a girl who always puts herself last.
Creamy or Crunchy by @marvelstoriesepic
Author's summary: Bucky joins you grocery shopping to everyone's surprise.
The Pull of Gravity by @jamesbuckybarnesandnoble
Author's summary: Bucky and you get paired on missions and it's like knowing you were always meant to be, but he's shy and emotionally complex.
Sound Check by @/cheekybarnes
Author's summary: Buckyâs never been one for live music or crowded barsâbut the first time he hears you sing, heâs ruined for anything else.
Whose Cat Is It Anyway? by @saltyjoy
Author's summary: For the longest time, you thought the cat roaming the tower wasnât owned by anybody. Then you eventually realize that the âTower Catâ does, in fact, have a name, and is owned by none other than Bucky Barnes himself, the one team member you arenât exactly best friends with. After Bucky finds out that Alpine has become fond of you, he starts giving you odd looks and passive-aggressive comments. This leads you to the conclusion that he is jealous of you for taking his cat. However, as time goes on, you come to the realization that it might be the other way around.
The Domestic Clause by @vunblr
Author's summary: Bucky agrees to a discreet cleaning service to tend to his apartment while heâs away. He never expected the care of someone heâd never met to become the gentlest part of his daily life.
Sparks fly by @/mcrdvcks
Author's summary: You were Bucky's neighbor while he was a congressman and staying in New York. When Valentina announces them as the New Avengers, Bucky and the team go with him to pack up his apartment. But then you show up, calling him "James."
Stupidly Lovesick by @/saltyjoy
Author's summary: You want Bucky to be happy, even if that means it breaks your heart every time you see him with Natasha. With the aid of Steve, you two devise a series of plans in order to get them together. What you fail to realize is that Bucky and Natasha are simultaneously devising a series of plans to get you and Steve together, even if it pains Bucky.
"I'm not an easy person to love" by @firingstars
Request: Congratulations on reaching a thousand! Can I request: ⥠âi am not an easy person to love.â âi think iâve got the hang of it.â
Incoming by @54nboo [multipart]
Author's summary: after two years of you talking into his ear, bucky meets the face behind the voice on the comms after a tricky mission.
Day After Tomorrow by @buckyarchives
Author's summary: enhanced hearing is both a blessing and a curse. eavesdropping, loud music, footsteps and when your sweet neighbor has been coughing her pretty head off all day.
Proof of return by @/cheekybarnes
Author's summary: You die and come backâevery time. But when a mission pushes your limits and you donât return right away, Buckyâs worst fear threatens to finally be true.
Five times he almost did by @/cheekybarnes
Author's summary: Five times Bucky didn't say 'I love you'âand one time he did.
He was chaos, he was revelry by @/mcrdvcks
Author's summary: Bucky tells you to go out and have a day at the mall and get whatever you want. When you only buy a $20 Squishmallow, he has to intervene.
Two sugars by @/mcrdvcks
Author's summary: As the Avengers team medic it's your job to take care of everyone. So why does Bucky feel like he gets special treatment? Surely a medic wouldn't know the exact way he likes his tea.
I hate it here by @/mcrdvcks
Author's summary: You meet Bucky at therapy where Dr. Raynor shares a small office with Dr. Cole. You two slowly connect over mystery books and coffee outings. Until one day you don't show up.
Not even a little by @intrepidacious
Author's summary: The problem of living with Bucky is that he makes it impossible not to fall in love with him. Even though you could list several hundred reasons why itâs a bad idea. And you have.
Right where you left me by @redemptive-truth
Author's summary: After accidentally slipping through a portal into an alternate Earth, she discovers that this worldâs version of herself is deadâand that version of herself had an unexpected, mysterious bond with Bucky Barnes
Warnings: A/B/O dynamics. Knot. Breeding. Rough Sex. Scent Kink. Dub-con elements: breaking and entering, but all sex is enthusiastically consented. Non-traditional alpha purring. Size Kink. Premature Ejaculation. Feral/Possessive Behaviour.
Summary: Who would have thought that an inconspicuous vent in a bakery alley would be what brought them together: the omega who never felt right with any alpha, and the asset who wasn't supposed to want at all.
Word Count: 12.7k
Masterlist
5:07 AM.
The sky hasn't decided yet whether it's going to dawn or surrender back to night. Itâs that liminal hour when the city just stops, too late for the night crowd, and too early for the commuters. Just the street cleaners, the delivery trucks, and the bakers finishing their shifts.
She pulls her jacket tighter against the October chill and starts walking.
Twelve blocks, itâs not far. Close enough that she doesn't need the subway, but far enough that her legs feel it after eight hours on her feet, kneading dough. Her shoulders ache. Her lower back protests. She smells like the industrial-strength flour that gets into everything, no matter how many times she washes her hands.
She doesn't see him.
But he's there.
----
Three rooftops back, tracking her with the concentration it would use on a target: eyes cataloging her gait, her route, the way she favors her right leg slightly after a long shift. But this isn't a mission. Thereâs no handler voice in its ear telling it where to go, what to do, or who to eliminate.
Just her scent in the air.
Brown sugar and yeast, yes, but underneath that⌠omega. Warm and sweet and something that makes Soldat's chest constrict in a way that has no name, no designation, no mission-relevant purpose.
It doesn't understand why it's following her.
Can't articulate the drive that pulled it off its assigned route many nights ago, and keeps pulling it back to the alley behind the bakery, to the vent that breathes her scent into the dark.
It still has things to do that don't include stalking an omega through pre-dawn streets like something hungry.
But it can't stop.
Has tried. Twice. Completed the mission and returned to wait for new orders. And both times, it found itself an excuse to be back in that alley at 3:47 AM when the oven is hot, and her scent filters through the vent.
Omega. Mine.
The thought comes from somewhere deep. Some base-level recognition that bypasses protocol and conditioning, and makes Soldat's hands shake.
She turns the corner onto a quieter street.
Residential. Old brownstones with iron railings and window boxes that haven't been tended in years. It drops from the rooftop to a fire escape -silent, controlled- and continues tracking her from the shadows.
It shouldn't be doing this.
Knows it shouldn't.
Handlers arenât here. It chastises itself.
There's no debrief scheduled for today. No extraction team waiting.
Only her scent on the wind.
----
Her building is old. Pre-war, maybe. Brick facade with a fire escape that's seen better decades. She lets herself in through the front door -no doorman, it notes, filing it away in the part of its brain that still calculates threat assessments- and disappears into the stairwell.
It waits sixty seconds.
Counts them, precisely. Giving her time to reach her floor, -the one that smells like her- to unlock her door, to be safely inside before-
Before what?
Soldat doesn't know.
Doesn't have a plan. Just the pull in its body that screams closer and the scent memory that's been driving it slowly insane for days.
It should leave, but it's already moving. Not toward the front door, but toward the fire escape.
Metal fingers find purchase first on iron rungs worn smooth by decades of weather. It climbs silently, the thing barely creaks under its weight because it knows exactly where to place its feet, how to distribute the load.
It moves up the side of the building like water flowing upward. Silent and inevitable to the second floor.
Her window faces the alley, so it crouches on the fire escape landing, perfectly still, and watches her shrugging off her jacket and draping it over the back of a chair, toeing off her shoes, and leaving them by the door.
Itâs a small apartment, a studio layout, its mind automatically catalogs. Kitchen area, living space, bathroom door, and a bed in the corner.
She moves through the space and opens the fridge -light spills out, illuminating her for three seconds- grabs a bottle of juice. Drinks. Sets it down.
And pulls her shirt over her head.
Soldat's breath stops.
It can see skin it has no right to look at, and it can't make itself turn away. Can't make itself leave, like every remaining protocol says it should.
Because she's just there. Right there, separated from it by a pane of glass and ten feet of air, and the seventy years of conditioning that says don't want, don't need, don't feel.
But Soldat is feeling.
Chest tight, breathing uneven. Cock still hard. Has been hard since it caught her slick-scent through the bakery vent two hours ago, an ache it doesn't remember ever experiencing before.
And it wants.
She disappears further into the apartment.
A door closes. The bathroom, its mind supplies automatically. It hears water running through the pipes. Shower.
Every instruction it has left says to disengage now. Report the issue, because that's what this is, isn't it? An issue.
It isn't supposed to follow civilians home. Isn't supposed to be crouched on a fire escape at 5 AM watching an omega through her window like something feral.
Its hand moves to the window ledge.
Testing.
The old wood is swollen with moisture. The latch is visible through the gap in the curtains, a simple mechanism, not designed to keep out anyone who actually wants in.
Don't.
Its other hand goes to the knife at its thigh.
Leave. Disengage. Return to base.
But it's already moving.
The blade slides between the window and the frame. Simple leverage. The latch gives with barely a click, the wood is too old, and the mechanism is too worn to provide real resistance.
The window slides up smoothly, and the scent-
Fuck.
It escapes out of the open window like a physical thing. Concentrated. Undiluted. Brown sugar, yeast, and omega, coating the inside of its mouth, taking root inside its lungs.
Soldat is inside before really processing it.
The window slides shut behind it, and he just stands there, surrounded by her scent.
The shower is still running. It can hear it through the bathroom door. Can picture her under the spray, water running over skin it saw for three seconds and can't stop thinking about.
Its cock throbs.
Insistent. Painful. It looks down at the bulge behind its pants like it belongs to someone else, like it's a malfunction rather than proof that the drugs are failing, have been failing, because the body knows she's its.
It is biological, absolute, and completely outside of its control.
It crosses to the other window -the one that faces the living area, opposite the bathroom- and sits down on the sill.
It doesn't hide. Doesn't try to blend into shadows or position itself tactically, just waits.
Because she needs to see it. Some part of it that isn't entirely a weapon understands that surprising her, cornering her in the bathroom, or grabbing her when she's vulnerable, would be wrong.
Would make her afraid.
And it doesn't want her afraid.
Wants-
It doesn't know what it wants. Just knows it's going to wait right here until she comes out.
The water cuts off.
Its breathing goes shallow as it hears her moving around in the bathroom. A towel. The medicine cabinet opening and closing. Footsteps. The door handle turning, and finally, the door opening.
----
She steps out of the bathroom barefoot, wrapped in a towel, hair damp and dripping down her back.
And freezes.
Because a man is sitting in her window.
No, not a man. Something else. Something that makes every rational thought in her head go quiet, replaced by a single, primal recognition that bypasses her brain entirely and speaks directly to that omega part of her that had seemed dormant almost all her life.
Alpha.
He's engulfed in black. Tactical gear that looks military, maybe a mercenary, she doesn't know enough to tell the difference, just knows it's meant for violence. A polymer mask covers the lower half of his face as some kind of muzzle, and it should look wrong, should look like something out of a nightmare, but doesn't.
Above it, his eyes.
Blue. Pale, pale blue. The color of ice over deep water.
And they're locked on her.
Not looking. Locked. Fixed in a way that makes her instinct whisper predator even as her omega biology sings yes.
Black paint is smeared across the upper half of his face, crude, deliberately, the kind of thing meant to swallow the light and turn a man into a shadow. His hair hangs lank, brushing his shoulders, dark and tangled like it hasn't seen a brush in weeks. Maybe months.
And his left arm-
Metal.
Plates and articulated joints that catch the yellow light from her bedside lamp, silver and unmistakably not human. It rests on his thigh, fingers splayed, and she can see the micro-movements, the tiny recalibrations of servos and mechanisms that keep it alive.
She should scream.
She should run, lock herself back in the bathroom, call 911, something, anything other than just standing here dripping onto her floor in nothing but a towel that suddenly feels thinner than paper.
But her body doesn't respond with fight or flight.
It still responds with yes.
Because that scent, oh god, that scent.
It hits her fully now that she's out of the steam-thick bathroom. Leather worn soft with age. Gunmetal, cordite. And underneath it all, something alive and warm. Clean sweat, musk, cedar smoke, and a bass note she doesn't have a name for, but her body knows.
It's him.
The ghost she's been smelling through the bakery vent for days. The phantom that made her slick in the middle of a shift, made her hands shake while she shaped croissants, made her lie awake at night with her fingers between her legs chasing a release that never quite came because it wasn't him.
He's real.
He's in her apartment.
And some twisted, fucked-up part of her -the part that's never felt right with any alpha she's tried to want, the part that's been waiting for something she couldn't name- feels like he belongs here.
Her pulse hammers in her throat. She can feel it, hot and frantic, thudding against her scent gland. Her skin prickles with hyperawareness, the towel too rough against her nipples, and-
Oh no.
Oh no.
Warmth between her thighs. The telltale slick slide that means her body is already reacting, already preparing, already wanting in a way she's never felt with flesh-and-blood alphas who bought her drinks and asked politely and did everything right.
She's getting wet for a stranger sitting in her window like a bird of prey.
The shame of it burns, but not enough to stop it. Not enough to make her body listen to her brain's increasingly frantic commands to move, run, do something.
She hears him inhale and sees the way his entire body goes rigid.
Oh fuck.
He smells it.
----
It watches her freeze.
Sees the way her pupils blow wide, black swallowing the color until there's barely any left. Perceives the flutter of her pulse, rabbit-quick, omega-fragile. Sees the water droplets sliding down her collarbone, disappearing into the edge of the towel.
She hasn't screamed.
That's⌠weird. Civilians scream when it appears in their private rooms. They run. They freeze and shake, and sometimes they cry, but they don't just stand there staring at it like-
Her scent changes, and it takes it half a second to place it, and when it does, something in its brain fractures.
Slick.
It tenses.
That's not- omegas don't smell like that for it. Warm and sweet and wanting, with pheromones that pull at something on it, that the handlers said was fixed.
But it's surfacing now.
Clawing up from whatever dark place they tried to bury it, and it doesn't know what to do with it. It doesn't have a protocol for this. Just the overwhelming need to get closer, to bury its face in her throat and breathe.
Its cock throbs. Heavy, aching, trapped behind tactical fabric that suddenly feels painfully constricting.
It shifts slightly on the windowsill, trying to relieve the pressure, and the movement is clumsy. It doesn't know how to do this. Doesn't remember ever needing to.
Her eyes drop.
She's looking at the obvious bulge straining against black fabric, at the evidence of something it thought was dead.
She should be running.
Why isn't she running?
"How did you get in?" Her voice comes out steady. Not scared, or angry.
Like this is a normal question to ask a heavily-armed stranger sitting in her window at five in the morning.
It doesn't answer.
Doesn't know how to answer.
So it stands.
The movement is fluid and controlled because the body knows how to move smoothly even when the mind is fracturing.
She's still just standing there, still looking at it with those wide eyes, pupils blown. The towel is slipping slightly on one side, and it can see a droplet of water sliding down between her breasts, and its mouth goes dry.
It takes a step toward her.
Then another.
Her scent gets stronger with each foot of distance it closes. Thicker. Sweeter. The slick-smell underneath makes something in Soldat's alpha core growl with satisfaction because yes, omega wants, omega is ready-
No.
It doesn't think like that. Isn't supposed to think like that. Omegas are targets or obstacles or irrelevant sources of pain, not-
Another step.
She hasn't moved.
Hasn't backed up, hasn't reached for a makeshift weapon, hasn't done any of the things a smart person should do when a strange man invades her home.
Three more steps and it's close enough to feel the residual heat from her shower radiating off her damp skin. Close enough to see the way her chest is rising and falling too fast, shallow breaths that make the towel shift with each inhale.
Close enough to hear the slight hitch when it stops less than a foot away.
----
He is close enough that she can see the black paint smudged at his temple, the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow, the way his pupils have blown so wide the blue is almost gone.
Close enough to drown in his scent.
It's overwhelming this close, and her body responds like he's touching her even though there are still inches of space between them.
More slick. Warm and mortifying, sliding down her inner thighs beneath the towel.
She watches him scent the air, watches his pupils dilate even further -if that's even possible- watches his Adamâs apple bob as he swallows.
He knows exactly what her body is doing.
And some absolutely insane part of her is glad.
His metal hand comes up slowly, like he's giving her every chance to bolt, to scream, to do literally anything other than stand here and let him.
The hand hovers near her face.
Not touching. Just so close that she can see her reflection dancing in the fingers plates, warped and strange, and hear the whisper-quiet whir of mechanisms, as he holds it perfectly still.
Her heart is hammering so hard she's sure he can hear it, but she doesn't flinch.
Doesn't do any of the rational things a person should do when a stranger breaks into their home and reaches for their face with a metal hand that could probably crush her throat without effort.
Just stands there, meeting those burning blue eyes, her heart a war drum in her chest, and waits.
Because this feelsâŚ
Right.
Every alpha she's ever tried to force herself to want was just wrong. Wrong scent, wrong touch, wrong everything. Going through the correct actions because that's what omegas are supposed to do, supposed to crave, but her body never responded. Never wanted.
Until now.
A stranger in tactical gear with a metal arm and war paint, and her body is screaming yes louder than it's ever screamed anything in her life.
She watches his hand hover, and in defiance of every rational instinct, she takes a step forward. Closes those last six inches of space until the towel brushes against his thigh, and his scent completely surrounds her, drowns her, ruins her.
And reaches up.
Her fingers wrap around his metal wrist -still hovering, still waiting- and she guides it down, pressing that cold palm against her cheek.
----
She touches it, and Soldat furrows his brows.
Because no one touches the arm unless they have to. Handlers avoid it. Technicians maintain it with detachment. Targets flinch from it. Witnesses scream when they see it.
But she-
A sound is ripped out of it, low, subvocal, resonating in the hollow of its ribcage. It doesn't recognize it at first. Doesn't have a reference for the frequency, the pattern, or the way it seems to vibrate through its entire body.
Not a growl, not a snarl.
Something else.
Something the handlers never trained it for because alphas don't⌠alphas aren't supposed to-
Purr.
Soldat is purring.
It doesn't know how to stop.
Doesn't know if it wants to stop.
Because she's still touching the arm, still holding its wrist, and her eyes are closed now, her face tipped into the metal palm like she's seeking comfort from it.
From it.
The purr intensifies.
Its thumb moves -carefully, because the arm could hurt her so easily, and that thought makes something violent twist in its gut- and brushes along her cheekbone.
Her breath catches, and Soldat hears it, and wants to touch more.
Wants to map every inch of her body with both hands, with its mouth. Wants to bury its face in her throat and learn the exact composition of her scent. Wants to know what she tastes like. Wants to-
It hands grip her shoulders and pulls her closer, using the momentum to bend down and bury its face in the curve of her neck where the scent gland sits and inhales, or tries to.
Because the mask creates a barrier between its face and her skin. Only millimeters of separation, but it might as well be miles.
Itâs not enough.
It presses closer, trying to get its nose flush against her throat, trying to eliminate even those few millimeters of distance.
But the rigid edge of the muzzle won't let it, and the frustration is maddening.
The sound that rips out of its throat is not a growl. Smaller than that. Sharper. Almost a whine, high and thwarted, vibrating through its chest in a way that makes it freeze becauseâŚ
Because it doesn't make sounds like that.
It pulls back from her throat, hands still on her shoulders, and it stares down at the space between them like it's a tactical problem requiring assessment.
Remove it.
The thought surfaces clean and logical. A simple solution to a simple problem.
Its flesh hand releases her shoulder and lifts toward its own head. Fingers reaching for the straps at the back, close enough that it would only take a second, just release the catch, pull the strap freeâŚ
Then the hand stops, freezing mid-motion, and Soldat's jaw clenches beneath the muzzle.
The conditioning surfaces automatically and absolutely. Operational equipment stays on until a handler authorizes removal. The Soldat doesn't touch the gear. Doesn't adjust it. Doesn't remove it.
Waits for orders. Always waits for orders.
But there are no orders here.
No handler voice in its ear telling it what to do, what's permitted, what comes next.
Just the omega standing in front of it and the scent it can't reach, and the need clawing inside it like something trying to break out.
Its hand trembles. Actually trembles. Seventy years of conditioning screaming don't touch the equipment warring with the biological imperative howling get closer to omega.
She makes a sound.
Soft. Questioning. Her eyes watch the internal struggle in real time.
And it realizes, she can see it. The conflict, the frozen hand.
The Soldat's hand drops back onto her shoulder. It can't do this.
The frustration is physical. A tightness in its throat, a pressure behind its eyes, and the whine tries to surface again, but it swallows it down because it doesnât want to show weakness to her, besides its uselessness.
The word surfaces bitter and cold.
Can't even take off its own gear. Can't function like anything other than a weapon waiting for orders that aren't coming.
----
She can see it in his eyes.
He wants the mask off. The way he's looking at the space between them with something that's not quite frustration, or confusion, but somewhere in between.
Trapped.
He's trapped by something she can't see. Some kind of rule he can't break, even though every line of his body is screaming that he wants to.
He's not going to take it off himself.
Can't, or won't, or has been trained so thoroughly not to that his hand literally won't complete the motion even though he's desperate for it.
And that⌠that's wrong. Whatever they did to him, whoever they are, it's wrong.
Her hands come up slowly, carefully, so he can see it coming.
She reaches past his shoulders, past his neck, finding the straps at the back of his head. Her fingers brush through his tangled hair, searching for the buckles hidden beneath.
"Can I?"
Her voice is barely a whisper. Rough with want and the absolute insanity of what she's doing, asking permission to unmask a stranger who broke into her apartment, like that's the wildest part of this situation.
But nothing about this makes sense, so why should this?
He nods, almost military in its precision.
And something in her chest aches at how strange that is, that he needs her help to remove something that's clearly bothering him. That he can't just do it himself.
She reaches up and carefully -so carefully- lifts it away.
The straps pull free from his hair. The contraption comes away from his face, and she can see the slight indentations it left on his skin, red marks where it pressed too tightly for too long.
How long has he been wearing this?
She doesn't ask.
Just holds the mask for a second, then drops it, and it hits the floor with a dull plastic thud that seems too loud in the quiet of her apartment.
For the first time, she sees his whole face.
Sharp jaw. Dry lips parted slightly as he drags in air like he's been holding his breath. A mouth that looks like it was made for smiling, except she doesn't think he remembers how. The black paint extends down past where the mask sat, smudged across his cheeks making his eyes look even more intense.
He's⌠beautiful. Devastatingly so.
Not pretty, not soft, but beautiful. All sharp edges and hard lines, and a vulnerability in his eyes that doesn't match the rest of him.
And he's staring at her like she's the only thing in the world that matters, like she just gave him something he didn't know he needed.
The moment the mask leaves his face, he moves.
Fast, faster than she can track, his face buries into the curve of her throat, and the sound he makes is wrecked.
A shuddering inhale that she feels all the way down between her thighs. His nose is pressed directly against her scent gland now, nothing between them, and his whole body goes rigid against hers.
Then he breathes her in again, deep and desperate, and the groan he makes is so raw it makes her knees weak.
She feels his lips part, and the wet heat of his tongue dragging directly over her scent gland, tasting her, and her vision goes white for a second.
Her head tips back.
Automatic. Instinctive. Omega nature taking over and offering her throat to an alpha she doesn't even know, and she should be terrified of how right this feels.
But she's not.
He licks her again, slower this time, deliberately, learning her taste. Then his mouth seals over the gland, and he sucks.
The sound she makes is high and breathy and omega, and she feels it, feels her knees give out, feels her body go liquid and pliant.
He catches her.
The metal arm bands around her waist instantly, hauling her up and pinning her against him so her feet barely touch the floor. She's pressed against tactical gear and body armor and all that heat radiating off his body, and the towel-
The towel is gone.
She doesn't know when it fell. Doesn't care. Can't think past the way his mouth is working her throat, licking, sucking, the scrape of teeth that makes her gasp and arch into him.
He's hard.
She can feel it against her hip, thick and insistent even through the clothing, and he's grinding into her like he can't help himself. Like his hips are moving on pure instinct, chasing friction and relief and something he doesn't have words for.
The purr is still going.
That deep, subvocal vibration she can feel everywhere they're touching: his chest against hers, his arm around her waist, his face in her throat.
Wrong, some distant part of her brain whispers. Alphas don't purr.
But he is.
And it's the most beautiful thing she's ever felt.
She tilts her head back further, giving him more access, and the noise he makes in response is purely animal. Grateful and starving and so far gone she knows -knows- that something is deeply wrong with him.
Not wrong like dangerous.
Wrong like broken.
The way he touches her is frantic but not cruel, demanding but not bruising, desperate but not violent. Like he's running on instinct with no learned behavior, no finesse. Just need, confusion, and the desperate drive to get closer.
His flesh hand grips her thigh and lifts, hitching her leg up around his hip and pressing in hard, grinding his erection against where she's slick and open and aching, and the pressure makes her whimper.
He pulls back just enough to look at her.
His eyes are wild. Just thin rings of ice around bottomless black. His lips are wet, the black paint smudged where his face was pressed into her throat. He's panting like he just ran miles, and she can see it-
The confusion.
The need.
The absolute terror of not understanding what's happening to him. He doesn't know what he's doing, what he seeks.
But she wants to pull him down to her bed and let him figure it out. Wants to guide those shaking hands, wants to teach him what touch can feel like. Wants to watch him come apart with her name on his lips, except she doesn't even know his name and-
"Please."
The word falls out of her mouth. Barely a whisper. Rough and desperate, and she doesn't even know what she's asking for.
But he seems to understand.
----
Please.
The omega says it like a prayer, and something in Soldat's mind just shatters. Because she's asking. Begging. Not for it to stop, not for it to leave her alone, but for more.
Her scent is everywhere. On its tongue, in its nose, soaking into its skin through the tactical gear. Brown sugar and yeast, and that salt undertone that makes its alpha instinct groan mine, omega, MINE.
Her leg is wrapped around its hip. Her body is bare and warm and pressed against it, and it can smell how wet she is, and its cock is so hard it hurts.
It feels pain. Real, physical pain, because it hasn't been hard in⌠it doesn't know how long. Doesn't remember what this feels like, this ache low in its belly, this pressure behind the zipper of its pants that won't go away no matter how it grinds against her.
And she's letting it.
Not just letting, she's arching into it, making those high breathy sounds that spike straight down Soldat's spine, and it doesn't know what to do.
It knows how to kill. Knows ten ways to incapacitate from this position. Knows where to put the knife, the bullet.
Doesn't know how to touch her without breaking her.
Its flesh hand is gripping her thigh too tightly. It can see its knuckles white with pressure, can calculate the exact force needed to bruise, and it tries to ease up, but can't make its fingers let go.
Because if it lets go, she might-
Soldat doesn't know what it's afraid of. That she'll run. That she'll stay. That this will end. That it won't.
Her hands come up.
Slide into its hair, tangling in the unwashed strands, and she pulls.
Not hard. Just enough to guide its face back to her throat, and it complies because it can't do anything else. Can't think past the need to have its mouth on her skin, to taste the scent gland again, to feel her pulse against its tongue.
It licks a stripe up her throat, tasting her, and the purr intensifies until its entire chest is vibrating with it.
She whimpers, and the sound goes straight to its leaking cock.
It doesn't know what it's doing. Just knows it needs to move, needs friction, needs something.
Its hips jerk forward, grinding the thick length behind its pants against her, and the heat there -wet and slick and ready- makes its vision blur.
Omega.
Wants.
Needs.
The thoughts don't form in words. Just primal drive, instinct clawing up from wherever they buried it. Its free hand -the metal one, careful, so careful- slides down her side. Traces her waist, her hip, until it reaches her thigh, the one not wrapped around him, and it grips, gentle as it knows how, which might not be gentle enough, and lifts.
Both her legs are now wrapped around its waist, her back against the wall, its both hands holding her up by her ass, and she's completely open against it now.
Nothing but its tactical pants between them. It can feel the slick soaking through, can smell it so thick in the air it's drowning everything else out.
It grinds forward.
The pressure makes her gasp -loud and sharp- and her nails dig into its shoulders through the vest.
Yes.
It does it again. Harder. Chasing the friction, the heat, the sounds she's making. Its hips move in a rhythm it doesn't remember learning, rutting against her like something feral.
She's saying something, but it can't process the words. Just the tone, breathy, desperate, wanting, and it's enough.
More than enough.
Its mouth finds her throat again. Finds the scent gland and bites. Not hard. Not breaking skin, just enough pressure to make her feel it, to hold her, to-
Mark?
The thought surfaces sharp and alien. Soldat doesn't mark. Doesn't claim. It's not supposed to-
But its teeth are on her gland, and she's keening, high and sweet and surrendering, and its primal alpha nature is screaming YES, MINE, OMEGA, CLAIM-
No.
Can't.
Not allowed.
It doesn't know who decided that or why, just knows it's true. It can't bond her. Can't keep her.
But it can't let go either.
Can't stop grinding against her, can't stop purring, can't stop holding her against the wall like she's the only thing that matters in the world.
She pulls its hair again, forcing Soldat's face up, making it meet her eyes. And what it sees there is want, need. But also something else.
Understanding, maybe.
Like she can see the fracture and the confusion inside its head.
Her thumb brushes its cheekbone, smearing the black paint. Gentle in a way nothing has been with it in years.
"It's okay," she whispers.
And Soldat doesn't know what she means.
Doesn't know what's okay. This isn't okay, none of this is okay. It had broken into her home and put its hands on her, and she should be screaming and squirming but instead she's-
"It's okay," she says again, and her lips brush against it like she's afraid it might break.
Soldat freezes.
Her lips are warm. Soft. Moving gently against its mouth like she's asking a question, but it doesn't know how to answer, doesn't know what to do with its mouth except keep it closed, rigid, and unresponsive while she kisses it with a tenderness that disarms it.
She pulls back.
Just a fraction. Just enough to look at it, and Soldat can see the question in her eyes even though she doesn't ask it out loud.
Is this okay?
It doesn't know.
She kisses it again, slower this time. A soft press of lips, then another, feather-light brushes that make its breath hitch.
Her hands slide from its hair to cup its face -cradling it between her palms like it's something precious- and she kisses the corner of its mouth. Its jaw. The edge of its lips again.
Patiently, like she has all the time in the world.
Like she's not pinned against a wall, held up by its hands under her ass, legs wrapped around its waist while completely naked.
Soldat's brain tries to process this, but her tongue flicks out. Just barely. A soft, wet touch against its bottom lip that sends electricity straight down its spine.
The sensation is-
Soldat doesn't have a reference for it.
Its breath catches. Actually stutters in its chest because no one has ever done that to him.
The tongue traces its bottom lip again, a little bolder this time, and something in Soldat's chest constricts. It's compelling, her mouth on its mouth. The promise of more if it just-
If it just takes it.
And something inside it just⌠snaps.
It surges forward, crushing its mouth against hers and takes.
Because it doesn't know how to do this softly. Doesn't know how to kiss like she was kissing it, all tenderness and patience. Just knows want and need and more, and its mouth opens against hers, demanding, claiming.
She gasps against its lips.
It swallows the sound. Licks into her mouth, tasting her -omega, sweet, mine- and her flavor explodes across its tongue like nothing it's ever experienced.
Its flesh hand comes up from her ass and grips the back of her head, fisting her damp hair and holds her still while it kisses her like it's starving.
She makes a sound, high and breathy, and Soldat growls.
Can't help it. The sound rumbles up from its chest, vibrating through the kiss, possessive and feral and alpha in a way it didn't know it still could be.
The metal arm under her ass flexes. Lifts her higher against the wall, adjusting the angle so it can kiss her harder, deeper, can tilt her head back with the hand in her hair and devour her mouth.
She whimpers into the kiss and her hips roll, grinding down against where Soldat's cock is straining behind its zipper, and the friction -fuck, the friction-makes its hips jerk forward on instinct.
It's still kissing her. Can't stop kissing her. Can't pull away even to breathe because breathing means not kissing, and that's unacceptable.
Its hips grind up. Her hips roll down. The rhythm builds between them, clumsy, desperate, uncoordinated, and it can feel her heat even through the tactical pants.
Slick. So much of it, soaking through the fabric.
For it.
It tears its mouth away from hers just long enough to breathe -one harsh gasp-and then it's dragging its lips down her jaw, her throat. Back to the scent gland that's calling to every broken alpha instinct it has left.
It bites down.
Harder than before. Still not breaking skin, but claiming the space, holding her throat between its teeth while she keens above it.
Her hands fist in its hair. Pull hard enough to hurt, but the pain is good. Grounds it. Keeps it tethered to this moment, this omega, this impossible thing that's happening.
Its metal arm shifts, adjusting its grip on her ass, fingers spreading wider, and it can smell everything. The heat. The slickness. How ready she is.
How much she wants.
Its hips are still grinding up against her in a rhythm that feels right, even though Soldat doesn't know why. Chasing pressure and friction, and the heat radiating from between her legs.
She's panting now. Harsh little gasps every time its hips thrust up, every time the thick length behind its pants grinds against where she's open and slick and wanting.
"Please-"
She says it again. Broken and desperate, and Soldat doesn't know what she's asking for, but it wants to give it to her.
Wants to give her everything.
Its mouth releases her throat. Licks over the mark its teeth left behind -soothing, claiming- and then finds her mouth again.
Kisses her hard. Deep. Swallowing her gasps and her whimpers while its hips grind up harder, faster, chasing something its body knows even if its mind doesn't.
The pressure is building, low in Soldat's belly, behind its cock. Something coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust, every slide of slick-heat against fabric, every sound she makes into its mouth.
Her teeth catch its bottom lip. Bite down just enough to sting, it snarls into her mouth.
Its metal hand grips.
Pulls her down harder against its shaft while its hips snap up, and the angle -fuck- the angle grinds the ridge of its cock directly against where she's hottest.
She cries out.
Breaks the kiss, head thrown back against the wall, and it can see the pleasure breaking across her face, can see her eyes roll back, can feel her thighs shaking around its waist.
Beautiful.
She's beautiful.
And Soldat is-
It's-
The pressure peaks.
Crests like a wave, and Soldat doesn't know what's happening, but it can't stop, can't do anything but grind up into her one more time, hard and desperate and-
Everything goes white.
----
She feels him go rigid against her, and then-
He makes a sound.
Low and guttural and broken, muffled against her throat where his face is buried now, and she feels it, feels him shuddering against her, feels the rhythmic pulse against her hip even through his pants.
Oh.
He just-
Her brain catches up a second too late, pleasure still sparking through her nerve endings from the way he was grinding against her, the perfect pressure against her clit, the desperate rhythm that had her right on the edge-
But he got there first.
And something in her breaks with something tender and possessive and achingly sad all at once.
Because this -this desperate, uncontrolled response- tells her everything she needs to know about how touch-starved he is, coming from friction alone.
Her alpha came untouched, shaking against her, and the intimacy of that moment makes her throat tight. And somehow she is glad her body, her scent, was enough to make him lose control so completely, that could give him this.
Even if she's still aching. Still empty. Still wet and wanting and so close to the edge she could cry.
The purr has stuttered into something irregular, broken, almost pained. And her omega instincts surge.
Protect. Soothe. Comfort.
Her hands move on instinct, one sliding into his hair, the other pressing flat against his chest, where she can feel his heart racing like a war drum.
His grip on her hasn't loosened.
Still holding her up, metal arm banded under her ass, flesh hand fisted in her hair at the nape of her neck. Still pressing her into the wall like she's the only solid thing in his world.
He's not moving.
Heâs just frozen there, face buried in her throat, breathing hard and ragged against her skin. She can feel the wetness between them, his release soaking through his pants, merging with her slick, warm where their hips are still pressed together.
And he hasn't let go.
Won't let go.
She can feel it in the tension of his body, the way his fingers are still fisted in her hair, the trembling in his flesh hand that suggests he's fighting every instinct to squeeze tighter, hold harder, never release.
Like he's terrified she'll disappear if he loosens his grip even a fraction.
"Hey," she whispers, and her voice comes out⌠wrecked.
"Hey, it's okay."
She doesn't know if she's talking to him or herself.
Doesn't know what she's reassuring him of. That coming like this is okay? That she's not disgusted? That she's not going anywhere?
All of it, maybe.
She feels his face shift against her throat. A tiny movement, his nose dragging along her scent gland like he's seeking reassurance in her smell.
And her heart just-
Breaks.
Breaks for this broken alpha who doesn't even know how to accept comfort without making it into something instinctive and biological.
His breathing doesn't even out. If anything, it gets worse. Harsher. Like he's trying to pull himself together and failing.
And she notices it, the alpha shame. Of losing control. Of being weak. Of needing.
"Alpha," she says, and she's surprised by how steady her voice comes out. How sure. "It's okay. You're okay."
She doesn't know if he understands words right now -doesn't know how much of him is even there behind those pale eyes- but shesays it anyway.
Like she can make it true just by believing it hard enough.
The purr is starting to even out now. Still irregular, but less jagged. And she can feel the exact moment something changes in him, when the shame starts to give way to something else.
His grip tightens fractionally. The hand in her hair flexes, and his face presses harder into her throat, and the sound he makes is low and rough and utterly possessive.
Mine, it says without words.
Omega. Mine. Not letting go.
And fuck, she wants to be his.
Her thighs are starting to shake from the position. Legs wrapped around his waist, all her weight held up by his arm, and she's not sure how long they've been like this, but her muscles are beginning to protest.
"Hey," she says softly. "You can⌠you can put me down if you want. I can grab a towel, clean up a bit-"
No.
He doesn't say it, just makes a sound -low, immediate, almost a growl- and his grip tightens on her.
Metal and flesh both, holding her closer instead of letting go, and his face presses harder into her throat like the suggestion of separation is physically painful.
She feels him shake his head.
Just once. Sharp and definitive.
Not letting go. Not putting her down. Not giving her space to clean up or think or do anything except stay right here, wrapped around him, her scent in his lungs.
"Okay," she whispers, and she doesn't know why she's surrendering so easily. Doesn't know why the word falls from her lips like a vow. "Okay, alpha. I'm not going anywhere."
And she⌠should probably be concerned about that reaction.
Should insist on disengaging, because they're both a mess, his release soaking through his pants, her slick coating her thighs and the fabric, the obscene mix of it smeared between them where their bodies are pressed together.
But the way he's holding her, the way his breathing is starting to change again. Getting heavier. Rougher. Not the ragged gasps from before but something else. Something deeper.
His scent shifts.
Sharpens.
She smells it even through her own arousal, through the mess between them, leather and gunmetal going darker, muskier, edged with something that makes her inner omega sit up and pay attention.
Alpha.
Not just alpha.
Rutting alpha.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
He's-
Before she can finish the thought, he moves.
Turns from the wall, carrying her like she weighs nothing, and crosses her small apartment in a couple of long strides. Her bed is right there -unmade, sheets still tangled from when she left for work yesterday- and he doesn't hesitate.
Just leans forward and deposits her on it. Not rough, but not gentle either. Without ceremony, she's suddenly on her back on the mattress, legs falling open, and he's standing over her, looking down with those pale blue eyes engulfed in blown pupils.
Somehow, she feels more naked now, exposed. Sprawled on the bed, thighs still shaking, slick coating her inner thighs and probably the sheets beneath her.
He can see all of it, and he's staring where she's open. Wet. Swollen. Still aching from how close she was before he came, before everything stopped.
His nostrils flare.
And the sound he makes is-
Feral.
----
The scent is everywhere.
Brown sugar and yeast and the slick of her arousal, but now it's mixed with the smell of Soldat's own release, and it's-
Obscene.
The word pops into its mind, and it's correct. The mix of their scents shouldn't blend like this, but it does, and it makes its inner alpha go absolutely feral with possessive satisfaction.
Soldat's cock is stirring again.
Shouldn't be possible. It just came, hard enough that it's still feeling the aftershocks, still wet and sensitive under its pants, but it doesn't matter.
Because she's there.
Spread out on the bed, and it can see it now. Can see the slick coating her inner thighs, can see how ready she is, can smell it thick and sweet and calling to every broken instinct it has.
It doesn't think.
Just drops to its knees beside the bed gracelessly, metal hand bracing on the mattress, flesh hand going straight to her thigh.
Gripping, spreading her wider.
She makes a sound -surprise, maybe, or arousal- but it barely registers. Can't hear anything past the rush of blood in its ears.
It needs to taste her.
Not the scent gland this time. Not her throat or her mouth or any of the places it's already learned.
Here.
Where her scent is strongest, purest, where she's slick and open and-
It buries its face between her thighs.
Fuck.
The word detonates in its head, sharp and visceral, because she tastes sweet, and salt. Omega.
Its tongue drags through her folds -clumsy, unpracticed, chasing the flavor- and she gasps under it. Her thighs try to close on reflex, but its hands are there, metal and flesh both, holding her open.
Keeping her spread while it licks.
Learning her. The texture, the taste, the way she's so wet the slick coats its tongue, slides down its throat.
It growls against her.
Can't help it. The sound vibrates through her core, possessive and hungry, and she whimpers. Soldat does it again.
Licks slower this time, more deliberate. Dragging its tongue from her entrance up to-
She jerks.
Hips bucking up, a sharp inhale, Soldat freezes.
There.
That spot. Small and swollen, and when its tongue brushes it again, she makes the sound again, high and broken.
Clit.
The word surfaces from somewhere. Detached. But Soldat doesn't need the terminology. Just needs to know that touching there makes her react like that.
Makes her want.
It seals its lips around it and sucks.
----
She screams.
Can't help it. Can't muffle it. The sensation rips through her body like lightning, his mouth on her clit, sucking hard and wet and perfect, and her back arches off the bed.
Her hands fly to his hair, fisting in the tangled strands, and she doesn't know if she's pulling him closer or trying to push him away because it's too much, too intense, she's already been on edge for-
His tongue circles her clit. Flicks over it. Then sucks again, and she can't breathe.
He's-
He's devouring her.
Face buried between her thighs like he's starving, like this is the only thing he wants in the world. His hands are holding her open, and she can feel his nose pressed against her mound, can feel the vibration of the sounds he's making.
Growls. Deep and continuous, rumbling through her core every time he licks, every time he tastes her.
He doesn't know what he's doing.
She can tell. The movements are enthusiastic but uncoordinated, chasing reactions without technique. Licking everywhere, tasting everything, like he's trying to map her by flavor alone.
But it works.
Because he's paying attention. Learning what makes her gasp, what makes her hips buck, what makes her pull his hair and whimper his-
She doesn't even know his name.
The thought penetrates through her pleasure-drunk brain and dissolves immediately because his tongue just found her entrance and pushes inside.
"Oh fuck!"
The curse rips out of her. His tongue is inside her, licking, and the sensation is so foreign and good and wet that her thighs start shaking again.
He groans against her.
The vibration travels straight through her core, and she can feel it, feel him tasting her from the inside, feel the way his tongue curls and explores like he's trying to drink every drop of slick.
And there's so much.
She's never been this wet in her life. Can feel it coating her thighs, soaking into the sheets, and he's lapping at it like it's the best thing he's ever tasted.
His metal hand shifts on her thigh.
Adjusts its grip, and then-
She feels it.
The cool press of metal against her entrance. One finger, articulated and precise, pressing in and stretching alongside his tongue.
"Alpha-"
The word escapes her lips. Desperate. Pleading. She doesn't even know what she's asking for.
But he seems to understand.
His tongue pulls out. The metal finger becomes two, and he pushes them in -slowly, carefully, letting her feel the drag- and she loses it.
----
Soldat can't stop.
Can't pull away from her taste, the slick coating its tongue, the way she's whimpering and pulling its hair and making sounds that go straight to its cock.
Which is impossibly hard again. Aching, still wet from before, and it starts grinding against the mattress without conscious thought. Seeking friction, seeking relief, but it's not enough.
The pants are too restrictive. The fabric cuts into its cock every time it thrusts forward, and it's wrong.
Theyâre in the way.
It pulls back from between her thighs -just for a second, just enough- and its hands go to its belt, ripping it open.
The buckle clatters, the tactical webbing falling away, and then it is yanking at the fly. Buttons, zipper, whatever, it doesn't care. Just needs them off, needs the pressure gone.
The pants and undergarment peel down over its hips, shoved down to mid-thigh, and-
It looks down.
Its cock is twitching, flushed, and still wet from its release, cum smeared along the length, sticky and cooling against overheated skin. The smell hits immediately: the musk of spent alpha mixed with her slick-sweet omega scent in the air.
Its lip curls.
Not in disgust. In something else. Something possessive and satisfied because that's their scent. Mixed. Merged.
But it's also⌠messy.
Soldat doesn't do messy. Doesn't-
A sound interrupts its thoughts.
Her.
Whimpering.
Its head snaps up.
----
She's staring.
Can't help it.
He's... fuck. He's big.
Still wet from coming in his pants, she can see it, the streaks of his release coating it, glistening with the light from her bedside lamp.
And the smell.
It makes fresh slick slide down her thighs, makes her body ache with want so visceral she can barely think past it. She needs-
But he's already moving.
Already turning back toward the bed, dropping his gaze to where she's sprawled on the mattress, legs still spread, and she can see the intent written clearly on his face.
He's going back down. Going to bury his face between her thighs again, taste her again, and-
Yes, his mouth felt incredible. The enthusiastic, uncoordinated desperation of it, the way he licked and sucked like he was starving.
But that's not what she needs right now. Not when he's right there, hard and ready, and she can smell how much he wants her.
"Wait-"
The word tumbles out before she can stop it. Desperate. Pleading.
"Alpha, wait-"
He freezes.
Mid-motion. One knee on the bed, hands reaching for her thighs, and those pale eyes snap up to meet hers.
She sees the confusion dance across his face.
And then-
His expression shutters.
Goes from open and needy to closed and determined in the space of a heartbeat, and his hands land on her thighs, metal and flesh both.
And the grip is different now.
Firmer. Restraining.
His fingers dig in -not painful, but unmistakably harder- and he pushes. Spreading her thighs wider, pinning them to the mattress, and the look in his eyes-
Oh no.
He thinks she's telling him to stop.
Thinks she's refusing, resisting, and his entire body language has changed into something that makes her inner omega sit up and take notice.
Dominant. Controlling. Alpha.
"No, I just-" she tries again, voice coming out shakier than she wants. "I want-"
But he's not listening.
His gaze drops back between her legs. Fixed. Focused. And his hands press down harder, holding her flat against the mattress.
The message is crystal clear:
Stay still. Let me.
And-
Fuck.
She whimpers.
Can't help it. Can't stop the sound that escapes her throat because the dominance in the gesture, the way he's pinning her open, the raw alpha energy radiating off himâŚ
It should scare her.
Should send up every red flag about consent, control, and danger.
But it doesn't. It just makes her wetter.
Makes her body respond with a fresh gush of slick because, apparently, her omega brain thinks being held down by this strange alpha is the hottest thing that's ever happened to her.
But that's not what she wants, not right now.
She needs him inside her. Needs to feel that thick cock splitting her open, needs to be filled and claimed and bred, and if she doesn't get it soon, she's going to lose her mind.
She writhes.
Twisting in his grip. Not trying to escape, just trying to move, to shift position, to show him what she wants.
But his hands just tighten, holding her down more firmly, his shoulders settling into a posture that says he's not going to let her move until he's done with her.
Okay.
New strategy.
She stops fighting the pressure pushing her thighs down, and instead, she uses it. Let him think he's won, let her legs go slack in his grip for just a second-
And then she twists.
Hard. Fast. Using the slickness of her sweat and the slick coating on her thighs to slip out of his grip, throwing her weight sideways.
It catches him off guard.
His hands lose purchase for half a second -just half a second- but it's enough.
She rolls onto her stomach.
Scrambling. Hands planting on the mattress, knees pulling up under her, and-
His metal hand lands on her hip immediately.
Firm grip. Already trying to maneuver her, and she can feel his intent: he's going to flip her back over, get her on her back again so he can put his face between her legs and-
She doesn't let him.
Plants her knees wide. Braces her weight forward on her elbows. And arches her back, hard. Pushing her ass up and out, spine curving in a deep arch that puts everything on display.
Presenting herself.
The effect is immediate. His hands go still on her hips, and the pressure trying to flip her over just⌠stops.
She can feel him freeze behind her. Can feel his gaze locked on her body, on the position she's in.
And she knows what he's seeing.
Her on her knees. Back arched so deep it almost hurts. Ass high in the air, thighs spread wide.
Completely open. Completely vulnerable. Offering.
"Please," she gasps into the mattress.
Her voice is wrecked. Desperate. Shaking with need.
"Please, alpha-"
She reaches back, both hands sliding over her ass, down between her thighs, and-
She spreads herself open for him.
Fingers pulling her folds apart. Exposing her entrance, slick and clenching and empty. Exposing her clit, swollen and oversensitive. Exposing everything.
Desperate.
Obscene.
Begging.
"Please- I need- please-"
----
Soldat's brain shutdowns. Every thought fragments into white noise because she's-
Presenting?
The visual input hits its alpha instincts like a tactical nuke:
Omega. On her knees. Back arched. Ass up, and thighs spread wide, holding herself open.
Showing Soldat exactly where she wants it. Where she needs it.
Begging for it.
Omega wants.
Omega needs to be bred.
Again, the thoughts don't form in words. Just primal recognition slamming through its neural pathways with brutal, devastating clarity.
This is what the body was built for. This moment. This position.
And they tried to kill it.
Tried to suppress, chemically neuter, erase this entire drive from its system. Seventy years of injections and conditioning stomping down every breeding instinct, every mating urge, every biological imperative that makes an alpha alpha.
And it's all coming back now, roaring back to life with devastating, unstoppable force. The Soldat's cock throbs again. Hard. Aching.
And it can feel it, the need building like pressure behind a dam about to break.
Need to mount her.
Need to breed her.
Need to fill her and knot her and make her MINE.
It moves before processing the thought, crawling onto the bed. Knees hitting the mattress on either side of her thighs, bracketing her, caging her in.
One hand -metal- grips her hip. Servos engaging to hold her steady, hold her exactly in position. The other hand drops to its cock, wrapping around the base. The skin is oversensitive, still tender from coming so hard before, but it doesn't matter.
Nothing matters except getting inside her.
It lines up, dragging the head of its cock through her folds -so wet, so slick, coating the tip- and finding her entrance.
There.
The head presses against her opening, and it can feel the resistance, feel her body starting to yield, and-
She makes a begging sound.
Desperate. Pleading.
And something in the Soldat's chest snarls.
Possessive. Feral. Every remaining shred of control burned away under the weight of pure instinct.
Mine.
Omega is MINE.
Soldat's hips push forward. Not slow, or carefully. And the heat-
Fuck.
The word detonates somewhere in its fractured consciousness because the sensation is-
Overwhelming.
Tight. Hot. Perfect.
It can feel her body struggling to adjust. Feel the flutter of her walls around just the tip, trying to accommodate the intrusion.
And Soldat-
Soldat doesn't stop.
Can't stop.
Just pulls back half an inch and drives forward harder, forcing deeper. Splitting her open. Burying itself halfway with one brutal thrust and-
The sound she makes.
High. Broken. Somewhere between a scream and a sob.
----
She can't breathe.
The sensation of being split open, stretched in ways she's never experienced, is so overwhelming that her mind goes completely blank.
Her body is struggling to accommodate the thick intrusion forcing its way inside, and god, there's so much slick, she can feel it coating her thighs, easing the way, her omega body preparing itself to be mounted.
The pressure of being filled too fast, too much, has her walls relaxing and clenching around him, trying to adjust, trying to make room, and it's so much more than any toy she's ever used, more than any alpha she's been with.
Just those first few inches, and she already feels impossibly full.
Her hands fist in the sheets as a high, shocked sound rips from her throat. Not pain or discomfort, but raw, filthy pleasure because she didn't know it could feel like this.
Didn't know her body could stretch like this, yield like this, open like this for an alpha's cock. Didn't know being filled could feel so right that her inner omega is practically screaming yes, this, MORE.
He pulls back half an inch -barely anything- and she feels the drag of every ridge and vein, feels the way her body is gripping him desperately like it doesn't want to let go, trying to keep him inside where he belongs.
And then he slams forward, harder and deeper, burying himself halfway in one brutal thrust.
The cry that tears from her is ragged and wrecked because oh fuck, YES, the stretch is perfect. She can feel her body yielding and surrendering even as it struggles to accommodate the impossible slide of his thick cock forcing deeper, filling her in ways that make her inner omega purr with savage satisfaction.
Because this, this is what she's built for. This is what her body has been screaming for every time she's gone into heat alone, every time she's fucked herself on toys that were never enough, every time an alpha touched her and it felt wrong because they weren't him.
This fullness, this alpha mounting her and forcing her body to yield and open and take him, this is what she's been waiting for her entire life without knowing it.
And it feels so fucking good.
"Alpha-" The word spills from her lips, broken and desperate and drenched in need. Not a protest but pure, filthy appreciation because he's so deep already and she can feel him shuddering above her, can feel the trembling restraint in his grip, and she wants him to lose it. Wants him to stop holding back and just fuck her the way his instincts are demanding.
His grip on her hips tightens -metal fingers digging in, flesh hand trembling- and she knows he heard it, knows what that word does to him.
He makes a sound, low and possessive and feral, and then he moves.
Pulls back so she feels every devastating inch of the drag, that delicious friction against her inner walls that makes her gasp and clench around him, and then he slams back in harder, deeper, forcing the rest of the way in with one brutal thrust until she feels his hips flush against her ass.
And the feeling is-
Fuck.
It's everything.
He's everywhere -inside her, around her, the weight of his body pressing her into the mattress, the heat of his skin against her back, his cock buried so deep she swears she can feel him in her throat- and the sensation of being stretched around him, stuffed full of alpha cock, mounted and claimed is so intense and perfect and right that her vision goes almost white.
Her body clenches around him reflexively, her inner walls rippling and squeezing his length, trying to pull him impossibly deeper even though there's no more room for it to go, and she feels her arms give out , her back arching deeper, presenting herself even more, and she can't do anything except feel him filling her.
She needs more.
Needs him to move, to fuck her, to use her body exactly like his instincts are screaming at him to do. Needs to feel him pounding into her, rutting into her, like the desperate omega she apparently is.
"Please-" she gasps into the mattress, and her voice is absolutely wrecked. Desperate. Filthy. Her hand reaches back blindly, finds his wrist, and squeezes hard. "Move. Alpha, please-â
Because if he doesn't start moving soon, if he doesn't give her what her body is screaming for, she's going to lose her fucking mind.
----
Soldat snarls in response.
Move?
Her begging comes from somewhere deep, somewhere primal. And it wants to give it to her. Whatever she asks.
Wants to fuck her. Breed her. Claim her.
Now.
Its hips pull back slowly, dragging its cock almost all the way out, feeling every inch of tight omega heat clinging to it, trying to keep it inside.
And then it slams back in.
Hard.
The omega screams and moans, high and sharp, and the sound goes straight to its heavy balls, flipping every remaining switch from control to breed.
It doesn't know how to do this gently.
Doesn't have the reference. Doesn't have the capacity right now with her scent flooding its system, with the feel of her wrapped around its cock, with seventy years of chemical castration breaking apart under the weight of pure biological drive.
So it just fucks.
Pulls out and slams back in, setting a brutal rhythm immediately. Hips snapping forward, the slap of skin on skin is obscenely loud in the small apartment, and she's taking it.
Taking every thrust. Her body yielding even as it struggles to adjust, slick easing the way, and Soldat can feel it, feel her getting wetter, feel the way her walls are clenching around its cock.
Its metal hand tightens on her hip.
Servos whirring as it grips harder, using the leverage to pull her back into each thrust. Making the penetration deeper, harder, and-
The omega makes another sound. A different moan, long and low and completely debauched, and her forearms lower completely, as she presses her face into the mattress.
Surrendering.
Letting it use her.
Soldat snarls again.
Possessive. Feral. Its flesh hand releases her hip and moves to the back of her neck instead, gripping. Holding her down while its hips thrust faster, chasing something its body knows even if its mind doesn't.
She's whimpering into the mattress.
High, continuous sounds with each thrust, and Soldat can smell it, can smell her arousal spiking, can smell the way their scents are mixing where they're joined.
Omega slick and alpha musk and the wet, obscene sound of the fucking as it drives into her over and over and over.
Its cock is still sensitive. Every thrust sends sparks of almost-too-much up its spine, pleasure edging toward pain, but it doesn't matter. Can't stop. Won't stop.
Because she needs this.
It can tell. Can read it in the way she's pushing back into each thrust now, can hear it in the sounds she's making, can smell it in the way her scent keeps getting sweeter.
Omega needs to be fucked.
Needs to be bred.
And the Soldat is-
Soldat is going to-
No.
The thought surfaces sharp and cold. The Soldat can't. Isn't allowed to breed. The handlers said-
But there are no handlers.
Just instinct. Pure and brutal and clawing through its system, demanding it claim this omega, fill her, knot her-
Knot.
Soldat can feel it. The base of its cock starts to swell, pressure building with each thrust. It's going to lock inside her and-
And she's going to take it.
Its rhythm falters.
Just for a second. Uncertainty flickering through the haze of need because this is- this is too much. Once it knots her there's no taking it back, no undoing it, and-
She pushes back hard.
Takes its cock to the hilt and grinds, pressing her ass flush against its hips, and the whimper she makes is so desperate, so needy, that its brain just-
Breaks.
Fuck the handlers.
Fuck seventy years of suppression.
Soldat is going to knot his omega.
Its hand leaves her neck. Both hands go to her forearms, and it lifts her, pulling her up until her back is arched almost vertically, until she's on her knees with Soldat pressed against her back.
Changing the angle completely.
And then it drives in.
Deeper than before. So deep the omega sobs, and it can feel it, can feel the head of its cock hitting something that makes her whole body shake.
There.
The Soldat does it again.
Pulls almost all the way out and slams back in at that angle, and she cries out. Loud, uncontrolled, her thighs shaking, and it can smell the spike in her arousal.
Close.
She's close.
It can tell. Can read it in her body language, in her scent, in the way her walls are starting to tighten around its cock.
Soldat's rhythm turns brutal.
Fast and hard and deep, hitting that spot, chasing her orgasm because it needs -needs- to feel her come on its cock. Needs to feel her clench and shake and break while it fills her.
Its metal arm bands across her chest, holding her upright, holding her in place, while its flesh hand drops between her legs and finds her swollen clit.
The omega shrieks.
Hips bucking, body jerking in Soldat's hold, but it doesn't let go. Just keeps fucking into her, keeps its fingers on her clit -circling, pressing, rubbing- and she's sobbing now.
Incoherent. Desperate. Completely overwhelmed.
"Please- please- alpha, I'm-"
She doesn't finish the sentence.
Just shatters.
Soldat feels it. Feels her walls clamp down around its cock like a silken fist, feels her whole body go rigid and then shake, feels the gush of fresh slick as she comes hard.
And it-
It roars.
Can't stop it. Can't control the sound ripping out of its throat as its knot swells, expanding rapidly, locking them together as the orgasm hits it like a freight train.
White-hot. Devastating.
Its hips jerk forward one last time, burying its cock and knot as deep as physically possible, and then it's coming.
Spilling inside her. Filling her. Breeding her the way every broken instinct is screaming at it to do.
The omega is still shaking.
Still coming, her walls rippling around the knot, milking it, and Soldat can't think past the pleasure, past the overwhelming rightness of being locked inside her.
Mine.
Omega.
MINE.
The knot pulses. Once. Twice. Pumping more into her with each throb, and she's-
She's taking all of it.
It can feel it. Feel her body accepting everything it's giving, can smell the way their scents are completely merged now.
Inseparable.
Her legs are shaking. The only thing keeping it upright is the metal arm still banded across her chest, holding her against it. The flesh hand has fallen away from her clit, braced on the mattress instead, because Soldat's coordination is gone.
Just-
Gone.
Pleasure still rolling through it in waves, aftershocks making its cock pulse inside her, and she's-
She's making sounds. Small, whimpering. Not in distress. Something else.
Its face drops to her shoulder, nose finding her scent gland on instinct, and it breathes her in. Brown sugar and yeast and satisfied omega, and the purr starts again.
Deep. Subvocal. Vibrating through both their chests where they're pressed together.
The knot is still locked. Not going down anytime soon.
She's not fighting it or trying to pull away. Sheâs just leaning her weight against its chest, trusting it to hold her up.
And Soldat does.
Metal arm secured under her breasts, flesh hand moving from the mattress to her hip. Holding her. Supporting her. Keeping her upright while they're locked together.
It doesn't know how long this lasts, doesn't have a reference for how long a knot holds. Just knows it can't pull out even if it wanted to, which it doesn't.
Can't imagine wanting to leave the tight heat of her body. Can't imagine letting go.
The purr continues, steady now. Soothing. It doesn't know if it's trying to soothe her or itself. Maybe both.
Her head tilts.
Just slightly. Turning toward Soldat's face still pressed against her shoulder, and it can see her profile. Eyes closed. Lips parted. Face heated and damp with sweat.
Beautiful.
The word surfaces unbidden.
It has never called anything beautiful before, because it doesn't have the framework for aesthetic appreciation. But she's-
She is.
Especially like this. Fucked out and knotted and completely trusting it to hold her.
Its nose drags along her scent gland, taking her in, and she makes a soft sound -pleased, satisfied- tilting her head, giving it more access, and Soldat's purr deepens.
----
She can't feel her legs.
Can't feel much of anything except him. Inside her. Around her. The metal arm holding her upright. The purr vibrating through her chest. The knot stretching her so full that she can barely breathe.
And it's-
God, it's perfect.
She's never felt like this before.
Never felt so completely claimed. So utterly taken. Every alpha she's ever been with was⌠adequate.
But this-
This is different.
This is feral and desperate and completely uncontrolled, and somehow it's exactly what she needed without ever knowing she needed it.
She can feel his nose dragging along her scent gland, can feel the rumble of that impossible purr, and her inner omega is just-
Singing.
Satisfied in a way she's never experienced. Sated. Content.
Because he, her alpha-
She doesn't even know his name, and she's already thinking of him as hers.
The thought should probably scare her. Should send up red flags about bonding too fast with a stranger. But it doesn't.
Because this isn't fast.
This is inevitable.
Like every decision she's ever made led her here, to this moment, knotted and claimed by an alpha who broke into her apartment and looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth having.
His knot pulses inside her.
She feels it. The throb, the gush of warmth, and her body clenches around it automatically. Milking him. Taking everything he's giving, even though she's already so full it's almost too much.
Almost.
But not quite.
Because her body wants this. Wants to be filled. Wants to be bred. Every dormant omega instinct she had is purring in satisfaction.
Yes. This. Him. Finally.
She feels him shift behind her.
The metal arm around her tightens slightly, and then he's pulling her more upright, bringing her back flush against his chest. She's properly kneeling now, her back supported entirely by his body, and the angle change makes her gasp because the knot-
Fuck.
The knot feels even bigger like this. Deeper.
And his flesh hand-
It slides down.
Over her hip, her thigh, and then between her legs and cups her mound, covering where they're joined. Where his knot is stretching her, where the mess of their combined release is slick and obscene between her thighs.
His palm presses gently as his fingers spread to cover all of it, her, him, the evidence of what just happened.
The sound he makes against her shoulder is possessive. Satisfied. A low rumble that's half-purr, half-growl.
Mine, the gesture says.
Bred. Claimed. Marked. MINE.
And she whimpers.
Because yes.
Yes.
His.
Completely and utterly his.
His purring deepens.
Smug. Like he knows exactly what that sound means. Like he's pleased she's responding to his possessiveness instead of fighting it.
His face shifts against her shoulder, nuzzling deeper. His nose drags along the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, breathing her in like he can't get enough.
And then she feels his lips.
A kiss.
Soft. Tender. Pressed against her sweat-damp skin.
Then another. Along her shoulder. Gentle and reverent and completely at odds with the brutal way he just fucked her.
His teeth scrape. The edge of a nip that doesn't break skin, doesn't hurt, just makes her shiver.
Her hand comes up and reaches back -awkward angle, but she manages- and threads into his hair, combing through the tangled strands while he continues his exploration of her shoulder, her neck, every inch of skin he can reach from this position.
He makes a sound against her skin, and she can feel him settling.
The frantic energy bleeding out, the feral drive giving way to something gentler. Still possessive. Still intensely alpha, but softer.
His forehead comes to rest against the back of her neck.
The hand between her legs stays there, rubbing slowly, smearing their mess on her knotted entrance. A constant reminder of what they just did, what they are now.
The knot still pulses occasionally. She doesn't know how long this lasts -thirty minutes, an hour?- but she's not in a hurry, can't bring herself to care, not when he's holding her like this.
Not when every instinct she has is screaming mate.
True mate.
Hers.
She lets her eyes close.
Leans her head back against his shoulder and lets the metal arm support her weight, lets the purr lull her into a haze of satisfaction and safety.
And for the first time in her life, she feels complete.
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SUMMARY. You and Bucky have history. History of hating each other. One messy fuck in a bathroom later, youâre both scrambling to pretend it didnât change anything. What better way to save oneâs heart than by breaking the other first?
WORD COUNT. 17.5K
WARNINGS. college au, lowk enemies to lovers, enemies-with-benefits but with like so many feelings, MDNI, both reader and bucky are toxic, extremely messy, they hurt each other repeatedly, sometimes deliberately, verbal degradation, jealousy, possessiveness, hurt/comfort, angst, miscommunication, romanogers on the side (i like them together, sue me), intoxication, caretaking, reader gets sick (hangover, a fever), acts of service as love language, smut, brat taming, unprotected pnv, oral (f receiving), fingering, public-ish sex (bar bathroom, an alley), public risk, pussy pronouns, pussy slapping, pussy inspection, slight overstim, slight edging, choking, nipple tugging, hair tugging, hate-fucking, dom!bucky, mean!bucky, no use of y/n.
NOTES. that was long. no, seriously, please read the warnings before you interact. these guys are messy. college students acting like college students, and who better to tell you than someone who got fucked over so many times in college? heh.
I am incapable of not ending on a happy note, so thereâs obviously a happy ending. Like Iâve truly tried my best to actually redeem them both, but if you donât like it⌠please donât complain đ
Inspired by this fic by @smorgaswhored ! thank you đĽš
READ ON AO3
Steve and Natasha are dating, which is fine. Great, even. They're stupidly perfect together. What's decidedly not fine is Bucky Barnes tagging along everywhere like some sort of gorgeous, infuriating barnacle you can't scrape off.
The man is a menace. A complete and utter disaster of a human being who somehow manages to fail half his classes while looking like he stepped out of a cologne ad. He doesn't give a single flying fuck about his GPA, shows up to lectures hungover more often than not, has this way of smirking at you that makes your blood pressure spike in more ways than one.Â
Three days ago, everything changed. And by changed, you mean you fucked him in a club bathroom like some kind of feral animal in heat, and now you're sitting here trying to pretend it never happened while your pussy has the audacity to clench at the memory.
It went down like this. Steve and Nat had dragged you both to that overcrowded club downtown, sticky floors and watered-down drinks that cost twenty dollars. You'd volunteered to be the designated driver because you're a good friend, responsible, the kind of person who thinks ahead. What you didn't know â because why the fuck would you, since you and Bucky barely exchange civil words â was that he'd made the same decision.
So there you were. Stone-cold sober, watching Nat and Steve get progressively more handsy on the dance floor while nursing the same Coke you'd been working on for an hour. You were contemplating faking a family emergency just to escape when you noticed some guy sidling up to you at the bar.
He was fine. Decent smile, nice enough jawline, generically attractive. And you were bored, so you smiled back. Laughed at his mediocre joke. Let him lean in close enough that you could smell his cologne, woody and expensive that did absolutely nothing for you.
What you didn't notice, what you were too focused on Mr. Mediocre to catch, was Bucky watching from across the bar, jaw doing that tense thing it does when he's pissed, fingers drumming against his beer bottle.
The guy's hand landed on your lower back, and that's when Bucky materialized beside you like some kind of vengeful spirit. "We need to go."
You turned to look at him, ready to tell him exactly where he could shove his we, when you caught the look on his face. "Excuse me?"
"Steve's sick. We're leaving."
The guy next to you raised his eyebrows, clearly picking up on the tension, and Bucky's gaze slid to him with something that might have been a smile if smiles could draw blood.
"Bucky â" But he was gripping your elbow, steering you away from the bar, toward the bathroom hallway, and you were too stunned to resist.
The second you were out of earshot from the main crowd, you yanked your arm free. "What the actual fuck is your problem?"
"My problem?" He laughed, and it wasn't a nice sound. "My problem is you throwing yourself at some random dickhead when you're supposed to be here with us."
"I wasn't throwing myself at anyone, you absolute asshole. I was having a conversation. You know, that thing normal people do?"
"Looked like more than a conversation to me."
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize I needed your permission to talk to people." Your voice was getting louder, going shrill. "And Steve's not fucking sick, so what's the real issue here? Mad I'm not paying attention to you?"
Bucky's jaw clenched and unclenched before he spat his next words. "You're such a fucking brat."
"And you're a mean drunk. As usual."
"I'm not drunk."
"What? Then why the hell am I not drinking?" The words came out with frustration that had been building. "This whole time I could've been getting shitfaced instead of playing babysitter to â"
"I'm not taking care of your ass," Bucky cut in. His chest was rising and falling too fast, the way his eyes kept dropping to your mouth and then snapping back up like he was fighting himself.
"Fuck off, Barnes."
You turned on your heel and headed for the bathroom, needing space, needing air, needing to be anywhere but near him and the confusing mess of anger and heat that seemed to tangle in your stomach whenever you fought.
The bathroom was one of those single-occupancy ones with a lock on the door and a mirror that had seen better days. It was blessedly empty. You braced your hands on the sink and took a breath, trying to calm the frantic beating of your heart.
The door flew open behind you. Bucky filled the frame, broad shoulders and wild eyes, and before you could tell him to get out, to leave you the fuck alone, he was inside with the lock clicking home behind him.
"What are you â"
His mouth crashed into yours, and every coherent thought evaporated. The kiss was mean, biting, aggressive, tasting like the anger that had been simmering between you for months, since the first time you met maybe. His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back so he could devour your mouth properly, and you heard yourself moan before you could stop it.
"Shut up," he growled against your lips. You wanted to argue, push him away and knee him in the balls for being such a presumptuous prick, but his other hand was sliding up your thigh, shoving your skirt up around your hips.
"You're such an asshole," you did manage to gasp out when he moved to your neck, teeth scraping over your jugular.
"Yeah?" His fingers found the edge of your underwear, you felt him smirking against your skin. "Is that why you're soaked?"
God, you wished he was wrong, but your pussy had apparently missed the memo about hating him, embarrassingly wet and dripping down your thighs already. His thick fingers made filthy, wet squelching sounds as they slid through your slick folds, spreading your juices everywhere. "Bucky â"
"That's right. Say my name." He pushed two fingers inside you without warning, and your knees nearly buckled. "Let everyone in this shitty club know who's making you feel this good."
You bit down on your lip, trying to stay quiet out of pure spite, but he crooked his fingers just right and a whimper escaped before you could stop it. He was good at this, unfairly good. His thumb found your clit while his fingers worked inside you, and you could feel yourself getting close already, wound too tight from months of unresolved tension.
"Look at you," he murmured, wonder creeping into his voice even as his words stayed cruel. "So fucking desperate. How long have you been thinking about this, huh? How long have you been getting yourself off to the thought of me?"
"Fuck you," you spat. Spat might've been an exaggeration for it came out breathy and weak.
"Oh, I'm gonna fuck you, baby. Gonna fuck you so hard you forget that asshole's name. Forget your own name."
He pulled his fingers out. Before you could protest the loss, he was spinning you around and bending you over the sink. Your palms slapped against the porcelain, as you felt him behind, the hard length of his cock pressing against your ass through his jeans. The sound of his belt buckle alone made you wetter.
"You want this?" Voice rough, he tugged your hair to make you meet his eyes in the mirror. "Tell me you want this."
"Yes." It came out as a hiss. "Now stop talking and fuck me already."
"Needy little thing." Bucky shoved his thick cock inside you in one brutal thrust, stretching your open around his girth until you were gasping and clawing at the sink. Nothing could have prepared you for the stretch. He was big, bigger than you'd let yourself imagine in the privacy of your own room. The burn of it mixed with pleasure, had you gasping. "Tight," he gritted out, pupils blown so wide and face slack with pleasure as he gripped your hips, and thrusted into your weeping cunt. "Jesus Christ, you're squeezing me so fucking tight." Brutal, punishing strokes had you scrambling for purchase on the sink. Each thrust pushed you forward, and you had to brace yourself to keep from smacking into the mirror, heavy balls slapping against your clit with every snap.
"This what you wanted?" he panted, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other slid up to wrap around your throat. "Wanted me to ruin this greedy little cunt?"
"Yes â fuck â yes â"
"Who's making you feel good? Say it."
"You â Bucky â oh my god â" The bathroom filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, the wet slide of his cock pistoning in and out of you, and your moans that you couldn't control anymore. He felt incredible, impossibly good
"That's it, fuck." His grip on your throat tightened just enough to make your head spin. "Take it."
You could feel your orgasm building, coiling tight in your belly like a spring wound too far. His cock was dragging against your walls, thick and perfect, so much you were babbling now, words falling out of your mouth, uncontrolled. "Please â please â I need â"
"You need to cum?" His laugh was mean. "Look at you, begging so pretty for me. Such a good girl when you're getting fucked stupid." The hand on your hip slid around to your clit, pressing down hard, circling the swollen bundle of nerves in time with his thrusts. That was all it took. You came with a broken cry, clamping down around him so hard you felt him stagger.
"Fuck â fuck â" He pounded into you through it, chasing his own release, getting sloppy, losing his rhythm. "Gonna fill this pussy up. Gonna make you drip with my cum."
True to his word, he buried himself deep and came with a groan that you felt vibrate through your whole body. You could feel him pulsing inside you, spilling hot and thick, triggering another smaller aftershock that left you trembling. His forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, cock still buried inside you.
Reality started creeping back in. The uncomfortable reality that you'd just fucked Bucky Barnes in a club bathroom, smeared makeup and all. He pulled out slowly, his cum immediately starting to leak out of you in a thick, creamy trail down your thigh. You felt him watching it, possessive. "This is never happening again," you said, trying to inject some steel into your voice even though your legs felt like jelly.
Through the smudged mirror, you could see his expression, something like disappointment or hurt taking over his features, but it was gone so fast you couldn't be sure. "Yeah. Never again."
When you turned to face him, his face was carefully blank. Expecting a fight or at least some sarcastic comment, you stared at him, but he just looked at you with those blue eyes that gave nothing away. "Seriously? You agree?"
He shrugged, already tucking himself back into his jeans with an insulting efficiency. "You said it, not me. But yeah, probably a bad idea."
It shouldn't have stung. You were the one who said it first. But how quickly he agreed, how easily he dismissed what had just happened, made your chest feel tight.Â
Of course he agreed. He hated you just as much as you hated him. This was just... what? Hate sex? Getting it out of your systems? It didn't mean anything. "Right. Bad idea," you echoed, trying to fix your skirt with shaking hands.
He watched you struggle with your appearance for a moment, then reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so at odds with everything that had just happened that you froze. "You good?" his voice was soft.
"Fine."
"Okay." He unlocked the door but paused with his hand on the handle. "Wait like five minutes before you come out. Don't want anyone getting ideas."
Now, heâs sitting right in front of you, hands flying over his phone, not one look to your face.
Nat's grip on your wrist is unrelenting, dragging you down the hallway toward Steve and Bucky's dorm like you're a toddler being hauled to the dentist.
"I don't know why I have to be here," you complain, but she's not listening. She never listens when she's on a mission. And tonight's mission involves you third-wheeling while she and Steve do whatever disgustingly domestic couple activity they have planned.
"You've been holed up in your room for two days and it's getting weird," Nat says, not breaking stride. "Besides, we're just watching a movie. It's not a big deal."
It shouldn't be a big deal. You've done this a thousand times before. You've crashed at their place, sprawled across their furniture, stolen their snacks. But that was before. Before you knew what Bucky looked like when he came, how his cum felt like dripping down your thighs. Before everything got weird and complicated in ways you're desperately trying to un-complicate.Â
Steve opens the door, and you scan the room behind him automatically. The couch is empty. The kitchen is empty. No dark-haired asshole anywhere in sight. There's an annoying twist happening inside you.Â
"Class ran late," Steve says, slinging an arm around her shoulders. "He texted like twenty minutes ago. Should be back soon."
You settle onto the couch and try to figure out why you're irritated. There's a prickling sensation under your skin, this restless energy that has nowhere to go. It doesn't make sense. Usually when Bucky's not around, it's a relief. A chance to breathe without his smirking presence taking up all the oxygen in the room. Since when do you care if he's here or not?
Since never. You don't care. You're just... noticing. That's all.
Nat and Steve are doing that thing where they're technically watching the movie but mostly just existing in each other's space. It's sweet. It's nauseating. It's making you feel like a massive third wheel, which is exactly what you told Nat would happen.
An hour creeps by. The movie's some action thing with explosions you're not paying attention to. You're checking your phone every thirty seconds like a psycho, which is ridiculous because you don't even text him, the chat is nonexistent.Â
The door finally opens and Bucky looks like shit. Like he's been awake for seventy-two hours straight and spent most of that time getting hit by a truck. There are dark circles under his eyes, hair a mess. His usual sharp energy has been replaced by something dull and heavy.
"You good, man?" Steve asks, pausing the movie.
"Fine." Bucky's voice is rough. His eyes sweep the room and land on you for half a second before skittering away. "Long day. Gonna crash."
"There's pizza in the kitchen if you want â"
"Not hungry." He disappears into his room, door clicking shut with a finality. Steve and Nat exchange a look, shrug and go back to the movie. But you can't focus now, can't stop thinking about the way he couldn't quite look at you.
Before, he'd have said something. Some stupid comment designed to get under your skin, to start a fight, to make you snap at him. Before, he was always here, always present, finding new and creative ways to piss you off. Now he's not. It's wrong somehow. Off-balance.
You last another fifteen minutes before you can't take it anymore. "Bathroom," you mutter, standing abruptly.
The hallway to Bucky's room is short. The actual bathroom is to the left, and you don't care. You turn right and knock on his door before you can talk yourself out of it.
"Go away, Steve."
"It's not Steve."
Silence keeps you company before his voice comes. "What do you want?"
Without waiting for permission, you push the door open. Bucky's sitting on his bed, still fully dressed, looking up when you enter. His face slips for a fraction of a second, a raw, unguarded edge breaking through before he shuts it down like it never happened. "Can't you read a room? I said I was tired."
"You look like shit."
"Thanks. That why you're here? Give me a wellness check?" His voice comes out sharp, waking your frustration that was simmering beneath.Â
"No, I'm here because you've been acting weird and I want to know why."
He laughs, but it's not a nice sound. "I'm acting weird? That's rich coming from you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Forget it." He stands up, and you realize how small his room feels with both of you in it. "Seriously, go back to the movie. I'm not in the mood for whatever this is."
"Whatever this is? You're the one who's been avoiding me."
"I haven't been avoiding shit. I've had class and practice and a fucking life that doesn't revolve around you."
"Oh, so now I'm being self-centered? That's hilarious, Barnes, really. Because last I checked, you're the one who can't go five minutes without being a condescending asshole."
"And you can't go five minutes without starting a fight. What do you want from me? You said never again. I agreed. So what the fuck are you doing in my room?"
He's inside your bubble, closer, and you don't have a good answer. Don't have any answer that makes sense except for the truth, which is that you missed fighting with him. Missed the way he looks at you like you're the most infuriating person on the planet. Missed him, which is insane, stupid and absolutely cannot be true. "I don't know â I just... you weren't here and then you were and you looked like hell and I â"
"You what? Cared? Don't waste your energy. The only good thing about me is my dick, right?"
Oh. He's pissed about that. About how you treated him in the bathroom, one round of messy sex and immediately shutting down anything else.
"I didn't â"
"Yeah, you did." He's so close that you can smell him, the sweat of a hard day. "And you know what? You're right. That's all this is. All it's ever gonna be. So if you're here for round two, say it. But don't pretend it's anything else."
Your heartbeat stutters, starts hitting too fast, like itâs trying to climb out through your ribs. "Fuck you."
"That an offer?"
"You're such a prick."
"And you're a fucking brat who can't figure out what she wants." His hand comes up to grip your jaw, forcing you to look at him. "So let me make it simple for you. You want me to fuck you again? Is that what this little tantrum is about?"
Slapping him would make sense. Turning around, walking out, cutting him off completely. But your pussy is getting wet, he can probably see it in your eyes, the way you're leaning into him despite yourself. "That's not true." It sounds weak even to your own ears. "Your dick's not the only good thing about you."
His fingers press in harder, thumb digging into the skin just beneath your chin. "No? Then what else?"
"I don't know... your mouth?" It's a gamble. A stupid, reckless gamble that could blow up in your face. But his eyes darken, a dangerous smile curving his lips.
"My mouth," he repeats it syllable by syllable. "Wanna know what my mouth can do besides piss you off?"
Before you can answer, he's kissing you. More urgent, more hurried than the bathroom, but not any less filthier. His mouth moves over yours and then deeper, testing how far he can go before you pull away. The drag of his tongue lingers, presses, coaxes your mouth open wider until youâre reacting before you can think about it. A sound slips out, caught somewhere between your throat and his mouth, swallowed almost as soon as it happens. "Get on the bed."
"You can't â"
"I said get on the bed." The command goes straight to your cunt. "Unless you want Steve and Nat to hear me make you scream."
That gets you moving, climbing onto his bed, him immediately on trail, caging you in with his body. Hands slide up your thighs, pushing your skirt up. "These are cute," he says, fingers hooking into your underwear. Light pink with a little bow. "Be a shame to ruin them."
"Don't â"
He yanks them down your legs and dangles them in front of your face before shoving them into his pocket. "Too late."
"You're â"
His hand sliding between your thighs cuts you off, thick fingers spreading your soaked lips wide open, putting your dripping cunt on full display for him. He spits directly onto your exposed cunt, the warm, thick glob of saliva landing with a wet splat right on your swollen clit. He rubs it in, smearing the spit all over your slick folds until it mixes with your own juices and drips down your ass. Holding your pussy lips open even wider with both thumbs, his fingers dig into the soft flesh so nothing is hidden. He spits again, this time aiming straight into your twitching hole, watching the spit disappear inside you. "Look at this needy little pussy. Already soaked and I've barely touched her."
Humiliation and arousal both flood your system as he's inspecting you like you're something he owns, thumb dragging through your slick folds, smearing your juices everywhere before circling your swollen clit with just enough pressure to make you squirm and whine. "Bucky â"
"Shh. Let me look at what's mine."
His??Â
"It's notâ"
"Whose cum was dripping out of this cunt two days ago?" He slides two thick fingers inside you, pumping them slow and deep, a moan slipping out, teeth clamping tight to pull it back. "Who fucked you so good you could barely walk straight?"
"That doesn't mean â oh fuck â"
"It does." Broad, rough fingers pump into you faster, your slick juices coating his knuckles and dripping down to his palm. "Got my cum all in this greedy pussy and you loved it. Loved being full of me. Bet you've been thinking about it, haven't you? Getting yourself off to the memory of my dick splitting you open."
What's worse is that he's not wrong. You have been thinking about it. Every night since it happened, fingers between your legs, trying to recreate the feeling of him inside you. "You're delusional," you lie through your teeth, and he laughs like he's caught you in it.
"Am I?" His fingers curl inside your walls, hitting that sweet spot that makes your vision blur. "Then why are you clenching around my fingers like you're trying to keep me inside you? Why's this pussy begging for more?"
Bucky pulls his fingers out abruptly, a filthy wet sound echoing as a whimper slips past your lips in the wake of the loss. Bringing them to his mouth, maintaining eye contact the whole time, he licks them clean, sucking every drop of your slick off with a groan. "Taste so fuckin' good."
Without wasting another breath, he moves down your body, shoving your thighs apart roughly and settling between them, mouth sealing over your throbbing clit like he's starving for it. Nothing is gentle about this. Calloused fingers dig into your thighs, holding you spread obscenely wide while his tongue works your clit in ruthless, sloppy circles, sucking hard enough to make your back arch off the bed. "Oh my godâ"
"Let me hear how much you love my mouth. Thought it was only good for pissing you off?" The words against your cunt are muffled, but the vibration of it makes you writhe under him.Â
"Shut up and â fuck â keep doing that â"
He slides his tongue deep inside you, fucking your dripping hole with it in long, filthy strokes while his nose grinds against your clit. You forget how to breathe. Forget your own name. One of his hands leaves your thigh to push two fingers back inside you. The combination of his tongue and fingers has you climbing toward orgasm embarrassingly fast. "Such a messy girl," he says, pulling back to look at you. His chin is wet with your arousal, the sight of it making your pussy clench around his fingers. "Making a mess all over my face. Getting my sheets wet. Think they can hear you whimpering in here?"
"Bucky, please â"
"Please what? Use your words."
"Make me cum, you asshole â"
"Nope, ask nicely." A sharp smack lands straight to your swollen clit, the sting shooting straight up your spine, making your pussy clench hard around nothing.
"Please, Bucky. Make me cum." The words leave you in record speed, the need for release much more than the desire to keep your self-respect.Â
"Since you asked so nicely." His mouth goes back to your clit, sucking, while his fingers work inside you. You come with a strangled cry, thighs clamping around his head. The squeeze doesn't do anything to him, he continues his attack on your weeping hole, until you're pushing at his shoulders.
Looking entirely too pleased with himself, he pulls back to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. "Still think the only good thing about me is my dick?"
You're still trying to remember how to form words, whole body feeling like jelly. There's a suspicious wet spot spreading beneath you on his sheets. "You're still an asshole."
"Mhmm, but I just made you come so hard you nearly broke my jaw with your thighs. So, be nice." The finger which was buried inside your cunt, still slick with your release, taps your nose once.
He's hard, painfully so, you can see that. You almost say 'fuck me', beg him to put his dick in you and make you forget your own name again. But then reality creeps back in. Steve and Nat are just down the hall, more than that, you two are supposed to hate each other, and this was supposed to be never again.
"This can't keep happening." Sitting up, you try to fix your skirt even though your underwear is currently in his pocket.
"Right. This again."
If you didn't know him better, you'd think his face was neutral. Unfortunately for both of you, you do know him better. "I'm serious. This was â this was the last time."
"You said that two days ago."
"Well, I mean it now."
For a second too long, he stares at you, an expression you can't read this time. Hurt or anger or frustration or all three. "Fine," he finally says. "Last time. Got it."
"I'm serious, Barnes. We can't â I don't want â"
"I said fine." He stands up, adjusting himself in his jeans. "You should probably get back out there before they notice you've been gone for twenty minutes."
On shaky legs, you stand, very aware that you're not wearing underwear and that your hair probably looks like a disaster. At the door, you pause. "Buckyâ"
"It's fine. Really. We're good." His back is to you.Â
Nothing about this feels good at all. You slip out of his room and head to the actual bathroom, taking a minute to clean yourself up and try to put yourself back together. When you look in the mirror, your lips are swollen, eyes too bright, and you look like exactly what you are â someone who just got eaten out within an inch of her life.
This was the last time. It has to be. Even if some traitorous part of you is already wondering when the next never again will happen.
Bucky Barnes never ignores you. He might annoy you to death, but ignoring you was beyond him. That is, until now.Â
The coffee shop smells like burnt espresso. There's a crack in the table that keeps catching your pen, your notes are all haphazard, the result of you not paying enough attention in class. But none of that matters because Bucky is sitting across from you and acting like you don't exist.
Before, he'd make a show of it, intentionally looking past you, making little comments to Steve that were clearly designed to get a rise out of you. This is different. He's genuinely not paying attention. Eyes on his textbook, highlighter moving across the page in steady strokes, completely absorbed in whatever bullshit he's supposed to be learning.
It's infuriating.
Steve and Nat are comparing notes, discussing, you're supposed to be doing the same but you can't focus. Because Bucky's right there, close enough to touch, and he might as well be on another planet.
You stretch your leg out under the table, let your foot bump against his calf. Nothing. No reaction. He just shifts slightly and keeps reading.
Fine. Maybe that was too subtle.
You lean forward to grab your coffee, making sure to press your shoulder against his. He's warm, you can smell that soap he uses, the one that's been haunting you for days. He glances up, shifts to give you more room and goes back to his reading.Â
What the actual fuck.
"Can you pass me that?" you ask, pointing to his highlighter even though you have three of your own sitting right in front of you.
He hands it over without looking at you.
There's a pressure building in your chest, hot and uncomfortable, anger or something much worse. You click the highlighter open and close, open and close, the sound obnoxiously loud, out of place.
Bucky doesn't say anything. Again.Â
You highlight a random sentence in your notes. Then another. You're not even reading what you're marking. Neon yellow drags across the page while you watch him from the corner of your eye. But he's a statue. A really attractive statue that ate you out yesterday and is now acting like it never happened.
At this worst possible moment, you also remember what his mouth felt like between your legs, the filthy things he said, how he pocketed your underwear like some kind of trophy. Fuck him for being able to compartmentalize like this. Fuck him for sitting there looking all studious and put-together while you're falling apart.
'Accidentally', you knock your notebook off the table. With a soft thud, it lands on his foot. Bucky closes his eyes, takes a breath that looks like it's taking considerable effort, and leans down to pick it up. When he hands it back, his expression is carefully neutral.
"Thanks." The word is saccharine.Â
"Mhmm." That's it. That's all you get. Not even a proper word.
You last another five minutes before you physically can't take it anymore. You nudge his leg again, harder this time, and he finally looks at you. Exhaustion in his eyes makes an ugly twist in your gut.Â
"You done?" His words are simple. Calm, even. But they land like a slap, and suddenly you're furious. Furious at him for being so unaffected, at yourself for caring, at this entire fucked-up situation that you can't seem to escape.
"Yeah. I'm done."
It's been fifteen minutes and Bucky hasn't even acknowledged that you exist.Â
The bar is crowded, loud, and you're three drinks deep, feeling pleasantly buzzed. The tall, dark haired, decent smile guy, has been buying you drinks.
His name is Mike or something with an M. You're just nodding while you scan the room. You spotted Bucky the second you walked in, sitting at a high-top with some guys from his team, nursing a beer and looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else.
He hasn't looked at you once. Not when you walked in, not when M-name put his hand on your lower back, not when you threw your head back laughing at something that definitely wasn't that funny.
You don't care. Why would you care? He made it perfectly clear at the coffee shop that he's done with whatever game you two have been playing, agreeing oh-so readily that it was a mistake.
The alcohol makes this easier somehow, looser. That's how you let the guy pull you towards the mass of bodies near the speakers, when he says something about dancing. The music is too loud, bass thumping in your chest. His hands land on your hips, chest to chest. You press back against him, definitely more grinding than dancing.
Over his shoulder, you can see Bucky. Still at his table, still not looking.
Fuck him.
You roll your hips, let this random guy's hands wander, and pretend you're having the time of your life. The guy's mouth is at your neck, saying something you can't hear over the music, hands sliding too low but you don't stop him.
Three songs. That's how long you last before you can't take it anymore.
You extract yourself from his hands, with a smile and an excuse about needing another drink, and make a beeline for Bucky's table. His friends scatter like they can sense the incoming storm. Then it's just the two of you. "Having fun?" you ask.
Bucky takes a long pull from his beer. "Could ask you the same thing."
"I am, actually. Matt's a great dancer."
"It's Mark, actually. And that wasn't dancing."
You lean against the table, invading his space. "Oh, so you were watching? Thought you were too busy brooding over here to notice."
"Hard to miss when you're putting on a show."
"I'm not â" You cut yourself off, force a breath. "Why do you even care?"
"I don't." He clearly doesn't, what with you storming over here to make a point. But his knuckles are white around the bottle and there's a muscle jumping in his jaw that makes you look closer.
"Liar."
"Go back to your date." His voice is so cold it actually makes you flinch. "I'm sure he's missing you."
"What's your problem?" The words come out loud, but the music swallows most of it. "You've been acting like I don't exist. Like nothing happened."
"You said it couldn't happen again. I'm respecting that."
"By ignoring me completely? By acting like we're strangers?"
"What do you want from me?" He finally looks at you, a burn in his eyes. "You want me to what, pine after you? Beg you to change your mind? You made your choice. Multiple times, actually."
"You agreed!"
"What the fuck was I supposed to say? No, I won't respect your boundaries? Jesus Christ." He runs a hand through his hair. He looks tired, worn down. "Go dance with Mark. Go home with him. Do whatever you want. Just stop â"
"Stop what?"
"Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you want me to do something about it."
The bass of the music has nothing on your heart, you can feel it in your throat. You do want him to do something. To fight for this, whatever this is, to care as much as youâre suddenly realizing you do.
Reckless with alcohol and frustration, the words get past you. "Maybe I want you to â"
He sets his beer down with a force. "Well I'm not going to. So go find someone who will."
The dismissal stings, the casual way you're written off, like you're an inconvenience he's tired of dealing with. You're drunk enough that your filter is nonexistent, angry enough that you don't care about the consequences. "You know what? Fuck you, Barnes. I was trying to â"
"Trying to what? Start another fight so we can fuck about it later? I'm not playing that game anymore."
"I'm not â" But you are. You came over here specifically to get a rise out of him, to make him react. "God, you're such a â"
"Watch it," he warns, but you're too far gone to stop now.
"Or what? You'll ignore me harder? Give me the silent treatment? Real mature, Bucky. Really â" His hand shoots out and catches your nipple through your flimsy top, pinching hard enough to make you gasp. Right there in the middle of the bar, where anyone could see.
"Mind your manners," his words are quiet, only to your ears, but there's nothing quiet about the look in his eyes.
The pain mixing with pleasure makes your brain go numb. The shock of him touching you after days of ignoring, shoots straight to your cunt. The way he's looking at you like he wants to devour you whole definitely helps. "Or what?" The words come out breathy, challenging.
His other hand comes up to your mouth, calloused fingers pressing against your lips, pulling your lower lip down, even as you try not to give in. "You really wanna find out?"
When your mouth opens â to say what, you're not sure, â his fingers slip inside. The taste of salt and skin floods your senses. And because you're you, because you can't help yourself, you bite down. Hard enough to make a point.
Saliva smeared fingers pull out, only to hold your cheeks, smushed together. "That's it. We're leaving."
"'m â ngh â nâgoinâ any â wheh â"Â
Bucky doesn't let you finish your pathetic excuse of a sentence, he's pulling you through the crowd, fingers wrapped around your wrist in a grip that's just shy of painful. You could fight him, dig in your heels and make a scene. But you do what lost causes do best, follow him.Â
He drags you out a side door into an alley that smells like garbage and stale beer. The door slams shut behind you, muffling the music. It's just the two of you in the dim light from a flickering streetlamp.
"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" His voice is rough, angry, and he's backing you up against the brick wall.
"Takes one to know one."
"Can't go five minutes without running your mouth. Can't follow a single fucking boundary you set yourself. What am I supposed to do with you?"
His hand slides under your skirt, where you're already wet. You've been wet since he pinched your nipple in the bar, maybe since you saw him sitting there looking miserable.
"This what you wanted?" His hand yanks your soaked panties aside so his thick fingers can drag through your dripping folds. "Wanted me to lose my shit? To stop being nice?"
"You're never nice," you gasp as he pushes two fingers inside you.
"No, I'm not." He curls them viciously, battering that spongy spot inside you while his thumb grinds rough circles over your swollen clit. "I'm the guy who can't stay away from you even though I know I should. I'm the guy who gets hard every time you look at me like you hate me, who's so fucked up over you I can't think straight."
The confession should probably mean something, but you're too busy trying not to collapse as he fucks you with his fingers. Fast and rough, his thumb circling your clit, his other hand gripping your hip to hold you in place. "Bucky â please â"
"Please what? You want my cock?" He's grinding his rock-hard bulge against your thigh so you can feel every thick inch straining against his jeans. "Want me to fuck you against this wall where anyone could see?"
"Yes â"
"No." He emphasizes the word with a particularly brutal thrust of his fingers. "Bad girls don't get cock."
"That's not fair â"
"Life's not fair, darling'." His fingers are pistoning into you, three thick digits stretching your pussy open, the wet squelching sounds obscene in the quiet alley. "You cum on my fingers or not at all."
Whimpering, you're chasing your orgasm, feeling his hard length against your hip, but he's not giving you what you want. Won't give you what you need. "C'mon," he murmurs, almost gentle despite the way he's finger-fucking you. "Let me feel it. Let me feel this greedy pussy cum for me."
It crashes over you sudden and intense, your cunt clamping down hard around his fingers, gushing slick all over his hand as your legs shake. He works you through it, fingers gentling as you breathe hard against each other.
After the post orgasmic haze, you realise you you just let him finger you outside a bar. He just made you cum, now he's pulling his hand away and putting distance between you like he can't stand to be close anymore. "Bucky â"
"Go home." He won't look at you. "Go home and sleep it off."
"I'm not drunk."
"Then you've got no excuse for acting like this." His eyes finally meet yours, the look in them makes your chest ache. "We're done with this. Whatever this is, we're done." Walking away into the bar, he leaves you standing in the alley his fingerprints bruised into your skin.
The first thing you register is that your mouth tastes like something died in it. The second thing is that you're not in your bed. The third thing, the thing that makes your eyes snap open in pure panic, is that you're in his bed.
Bucky's bed. The same bed where he'd eaten you out two days ago, where you'd gripped his sheets and fallen apart on his tongue. The same room you'd stormed into and started a fight that ended with his hand between your legs. The mattress is firmer than yours, and there's this indent in the pillow that smells like him.
You sit up too fast and immediately regret it. The room spins, a pounding in your skull that suggests last night was a terrible series of decisions. You're wearing a t-shirt. Not yours though. Grey and soft from too many washes, hits mid-thigh, it's his.Â
Your jeans are folded on his desk chair. Your top, the black one with the low cut, is there too, along with your bra. Which means you're bare under his shirt, which means â
The door opens and Bucky walks in holding a bottle of ibuprofen and a mug of what smells like coffee. He's already dressed in a jeans and a Henley, that looks ridiculously hot on him. Hair is slightly damp like he just showered, looking way too put together for whatever the fuck happened last night.
"Did weâ" You can't even finish the sentence, mortification crawling up your throat. "Did we fuck?"
Bucky laughs, a sound you realise you've grown to miss these past few days. "We've fucked before," he says, setting the ibuprofen on the nightstand. "But no. Not last night."
The relief is immediate and confusing. "Then why am I wearing your shirt?"
"You don't remember?" His words are soft, so soft so as to not spook the skittish animal â you.Â
"No?"
Something flickers across his face as he sighs, too quick to read. Could be frustration or concern or maybe just exhaustion with your bullshit. He sits on the edge of the bed, which feels weirdly intimate considering you're barely dressed, and runs a hand through his hair. "After the alley, you went back to the bar. Did a few more shots with Nat. Then you puked in the bathroom, I had to change your clothes because you'd gotten it all over yourself."
Oh god. Oh god. You want to sink through the mattress, disappear into the floor and maybe cease existing entirely. He had to change you. He had to see you messy and puking, had to strip off your clothes and put you to bed like you're some kind of disaster he's responsible for. Your voice is small when you ask, "why didn't Nat help me? You didn't have to do that."
"Nat was in the exact same condition as you." He hands you the coffee, your fingers brushing his when you take it. "Steve took care of her."
The parallel. Steve and Nat. You and Bucky. Like you're couples, like this is normal, like taking care of each other when you're shitfaced drunk is just what you do. Except you and Bucky aren't anything. You're just two people who can't stop fucking each other in semi-public places and then insisting it'll never happen again.
Panic starts crawling up your spine. This is too intimate and domestic.
"You can shower before you go," Bucky says, standing up. "I'll get you some clothes to wear home. Your stuff from last night is probably beyond saving."
He's being nice. That's what's so disorienting about this whole thing. He's being genuinely nice to you, and you don't know how to process it. Where's the smirk? Where's the condescending remark? Where's the Bucky who makes you want to simultaneously punch him and jump his bones? This version, the one who brought you coffee and pills and is offering you his shower, is uncharted territory. "Thanks." The word feels awkward in your mouth.
Bucky nods, closing the door behind him with a soft click. You sit there, holding the coffee mug and trying to organize your thoughts into something that makes sense. The coffee is exactly how you take it, meaning he's been paying attention. This is somehow worse than you thought.
The shower helps. There's something grounding about standing under the hot water, washing off last night's mistakes with his soap and shampoo. You're now going to smell like him all day, which is just another thing to add to the list of problems you're actively ignoring.
When you come out, there's a stack of clothes on the bed. Sweatpants with a drawstring, another t-shirt, a pair of boxers. Which you're definitely not going to wear. A lie to keep yourself sane.
The walk home is a blur. You spend the rest of the day aggressively not thinking about any of it. His hands steady while he dressed you when you were too drunk to manage it, the coffee fixed exactly how you take it, the way he didn't just drop you off, even though he could've. You wouldn't blame him.Â
By evening, the guilt sets in. You need to return his clothes. That's what a decent human being would do. Definitely not because you want to see him, not because you can't stop replaying the morning in your head.
You fold the sweatpants and t-shirt neatly, walk to his dorm with a stomach full of nervous energy. The boxers you're keeping, because returning used underwear is a level of awkward you're not prepared to handle. That's what you tell yourself now, what you'll tell him if he asks.Â
He answers on the second knock, surprise in his eyes.
"Hey," you hold out the clothes. "Wanted to return these."
"Could've kept them." But he takes them. There's this moment where you're both just standing, not knowing what to say.
He looks good. He always looks good, but right now he's in joggers and an old t-shirt, barefoot and relaxed, something you rarely see in him. Your stupid brain is reminding you of all the ways you know what's under those clothes, all the ways he's made you fall apart.
Bucky does what you're not expecting, he leans in slowly, giving you time to see it coming, time to stop him if you want. Close enough that you can feel his breath before it happens.
No, not again. You turn your head at the last second, his mouth missing yours, catches your cheek instead, the contact soft and wrong all at once. He goes still, not sure of what he just touched. "We can't do this anymore." The words taste like ash on your tongue.
His expression is carefully blank as he pulls back. "Right."
"I'm serious, Bucky." You're talking fast, words tumbling out before you can stop them. "Last night was â this morning was â we need to stop. This whole thing, whatever it is, it needs to stop."
"Okay."
"No offense, you're a great lay â" God, could you sound more like an asshole? "â but this is getting too complicated. And I just think it's better if we â"
"I said okay." His voice is flat, face carefully set, not to give anything away. The problem is, you don't want him to just agree. You want him to fight you on it, to argue, to do literally anything other than just accept it. But he's standing there looking at you with those blue eyes that give nothing away, and you're realizing that maybe he's relieved. Maybe he's been looking for an exit and you just handed him one.
The insecurity, the pain in your chest, doesn't reflect on your words. "Okay. So we're good?"
"Yeah. We're good."
There's nothing left to say after that. Walking away feels wrong, even though it was you who'd suggested it.Â
The truth you're not ready to admit, the one that's been building since that first bathroom encounter is that Bucky's not really that much of an asshole. Or maybe he is, but you're starting to not find it annoying. You like the way he challenges you, pushes back, doesn't let you get away with your bullshit. You like the quiet moments too, the coffee this morning, the way he took care of you when you were a disaster, how he looks at you sometimes like you're more than just someone to fight with.
You can handle hating him. You can even handle wanting him. What you can't handle is this other thing, this softer thing that's taking root in your chest and making everything more complicated than it needs to be.
So yeah. It has to stop. It has to. Even if you're already missing him, and he's only been gone from your sight for thirty seconds.
The thing about trying not to think about someone is that the harder you try, the more they invade every corner of your brain like some kind of parasitic thought you can't evict. It's been three days since you handed back Bucky's clothes, since you told him it was over, did the mature, responsible thing and ended whatever fucked-up situationship you'd stumbled into.
It's also three days of failing spectacularly at not thinking about him.
You see him everywhere. In the guy at the coffee shop who orders black coffee, the way Bucky takes. In the dark-haired stranger at the crosswalk whose shoulders are just a little too broad. In every fucking corner you turn, there he is.Â
Except he's not. He's never actually there.
Fourth afternoon you end up at Steve's dorm. Not on purpose â well, maybe a little on purpose. Nat wanted to pick up some textbook Steve borrowed, and you tagged along. With a thin, embarrassing hope inside your ribs that thinks Bucky would be there on the couch like always, smirking at you over his laptop.
He's not.
Steve's alone, doing dishes in his hideous yellow rubber gloves, and he barely looks up when you walk in. "Bucky's at practice," he says, like you asked. Like it's written all over your face that you're looking for him.
"Cool," you aim for casual and land near manic. "I wasn't â I didn't ask."
Steve gives you a look that says he's not buying it, but he's nice enough not to call you out.
The next day, you hit the cafe where you do study group. Your regular table is empty. The corner booth where Bucky always sits, is occupied by some freshman with headphones the size of dinner plates. You order your latte and sit in the wrong seat. Everything feels off-kilter.
Your phone sits on the table in front of you. You've opened his contact approximately sixty-seven times in the last three days. His name just sitting there, never texted him, never called. The message thread between you is completely blank, just a white screen full of possibility and cowardice.
What would you even say? Hey, remember when I said we should stop? Yeah, about that. Or maybe: I think I made a mistake. Or the truth, which is something closer to: I can't stop thinking about you and it's making me crazy and I don't know what to do.
Your thumb hovers over his name. You close the app. Open it again. Close it.
Next night you end up at the bar. Same one where he fingered you in the alley, where you drank too much and ended up in his bed wearing his shirt. The bar is busy, some kind of hockey watch party that you don't care about. You scan the crowd automatically. Looking for dark hair and blue eyes.
He's not here either.
You end up doing a shot with some girls from your class. They're nice alright, but you're barely listening to what they're saying. An exam, about a professor's office hours. Your brain is white noise and static, all Bucky all the time, and you hate it. Hate that he's taken up residence in your head without paying rent, and that you can't seem to function like a normal person anymore.
The group chat is the worst part. Steve posts a meme about a professor. Nat responds with crying-laughing emojis. Bucky texts back with 'lmao'. Your thumb swipes his text, ready to reply, or react. But what use is it?Â
He's alive. He's fine. He's out there somewhere living his life like nothing happened, like you didn't happen, while you're spiraling in this pathetic tornado of your own making.
What do you say to someone you pushed away? What do you say when you're realising that maybe you made the biggest mistake of your life?
Next morning, Nat corners you in your dorm room.
She uses the key you gave her for emergencies. You're still in bed even though it's almost eleven, wrapped in your comforter like a burrito. She takes one look at you before sighing, sitting on the edge of your bed. "Okay. We're talking about it."
"Talking about what?"
"Don't play dumb. You've been weird. You're not eating, you're not sleeping â"
"I'm sleeping fine."
"â and you've been moping. So we're talking about it."
You could deny it, brush her off, change the subject, keep pretending everything's fine. But you're so tired of pretending, and it's Nat. Maybe if you say it out loud, it'll make more sense. "I slept with Bucky."
There's not an ounce of surprise in her face, she doesn't even blink. "I know."
"What? How â"
"Please. You two have been eye-fucking each other for months. It was only a matter of time. How many times?"
"Does it matter?"
"Humour me."
You count in your head. The bathroom at the club. His room when he ate you out. The alley. "Three. Ish."
"Ish?"
"It's complicated."
"It always is with you two. So what happened? Why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?"
You spill all of it. Nat listens without interrupting. By the time you're done, you feel wrung out and empty. "I told him it was too complicated. That we needed to stop. And he just... agreed. Like it was nothing. Like I was nothing."
"Did you want him to disagree?"
The question you don't know the answer to, or rather, gaslighting yourself into not knowing the answer. "I don't know. Maybe. Yes. I don't know."
"Babe." Nat reaches over and squeezes your hand. "Why did you tell him to stop?"
"It was getting messy. Because we were supposed to hate each other and instead we were â" The words gets caught in your throat.
"Instead you were what?"
"I don't know. Something else."
"Like what?"
You close your eyes, and try to find the words for this feeling that's been building in your chest for weeks. "He knows how I like my coffee. When I was drunk and disgusting, he took care of me. He gave me his clothes. He's an asshole but he's also... he's not. He's funny and smart when he's not trying to piss me off, and the way he looks at me sometimes â"
"You like him." Three words you were not ready to hear.Â
"No. I don't â we hate each other. We fight constantly. He drives me crazy."
"Yeah, because you like him." Nat says it gently, like she's explaining something obvious to a child. "You like him, and it scares you, so you pushed him away before he could hurt you."
"That's not â"
But it is. The realization hits you like cold water. You like Bucky Barnes. Not just his dick â though, that too â, but him. The way he challenges you, the way he sees through your bullshit, the way he makes you feel alive in a way nothing else does. You like him, and you sent him away. "Oh my god. I'm so stupid."
"Little bit, yeah."
"What do I do?"
"Tell him."
"I can't just â he agreed it was a mistake. He was probably relieved when I ended it. He hasn't tried to contact me once in three days, Nat. Not once."
"Because you told him it was over. What's he supposed to do, ignore your boundaries?"
She's right. Of course. You set the boundary, and he respected it, he even said so. Now you're mad at him for doing exactly what you asked.
Your phone is in your hand before you fully decide to grab it. You don't let yourself think this time, thinking is what got you into this mess. It rings, and rings, and rings.Â
After more ringing and more nothing, you're ready to give up, and he picks up. "What?" His voice is rough, annoyed, your courage almost failing you.
"I need to talk to you."
There's silence first, sigh second, and then, "I'm busy."
"It's important."
"I said I'm busy."
"Bucky, please."
Another pause, longer. You can hear noise in the background. Voices, music maybe. He's somewhere, anywhere but talking to you. "Fine," he finally says. "Library. Tomorrow. Two o'clock."
"Okay. Yeah. I'll be â"
He hangs up before you can finish.
Bucky is ten minutes late.
Not that you're counting.
Eleven minutes now.
You picked a table in the back corner, the one behind the stacks where people go to make out or cry during midterms. Private enough for this conversation, whatever this conversation is going to be. Your hands are shaking, like you're some kind of nervous wreck, which you are.
Twelve minutes.
Maybe he's not coming. Maybe this was his way of telling you to fuck off without actually saying the words. You pull out your phone, pull up his contact for the thousandth time, and that's when you see him.
He looks wrong. There's no better word to describe him right now. Bucky always carries himself like he owns whatever space he's in, loose, confident and just arrogant enough to be annoying. But right now he's tense, shoulders up near his ears, and he won't quite look at you as he drops into the chair across from you.
"Hey." Your voice comes out too soft.
"Hey." That's it. That's all you get. He's looking at the table, at his hands, at anything that isn't you. There's this wall between you that wasn't there before. Or maybe it was always there and you were busy being annoyed to fully notice it.
"Thanks for meeting me," you try again.
He shrugs.Â
This is going great. Really stellar. You've had more productive conversations with your houseplant.
"I wanted to talk about â about what happened. About what I said."
"It's fine." His voice is flat, bored almost. "You were right. It was getting complicated."
"No, I wasn't right. I was â" You take a breath, try to organize the thoughts that have been ping-ponging around your skull for four days. "I was scared. And I said things I didn't mean because I didn't know how to â"
"Don't." The word cuts through your rambling, sharp enough that you stop mid-sentence.
"Don't what?"
"Don't do this." He's finally looking at you now, his eyes cold in a way you've never seen. "Don't come here and try to rewrite what happened. You said you didn't want this. I respected that. We're done."
"But I do want â"
"Want what? To fuck again? Is that what this is?" He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "Because if you're just looking for a booty call, you could've just sent a text."
The casual cruelty of it makes you flinch, you try to hold yourself together. "That's not what I'm saying."
"Then what are you saying?"
Okay, here it is. The moment you've been building toward, the confession you practiced in your mirror this morning like some kind of lunatic. Your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest. "I like you." The words feel clumsy and inadequate. "I know I said it was just sex, and I know I pushed you away, but I was wrong. I like you, Bucky. I want to â I don't know what I want, but I want to try. To see if this could be something."
The silence that follows is excruciating. He's just staring at you, face completely blank, you can't read anything even if you try so hard.Â
"You're confused," he says finally.
"I'm not â"
"Yeah, you are. You're confusing good sex with feelings. It happens."
"Don't tell me what I'm feeling." There's an edge creeping into your voice now, frustration bleeding through. "I know the difference between â"
"Do you?" He leans forward, there's a meanness in his smile. "Because from where I'm sitting, this looks like buyer's remorse. You ended things, realized you miss getting fucked, and now you're trying to make it into something it's not."
"That's not fair."
"No? Then explain it to me. Explain how four days ago you couldn't get away from me fast enough, and now suddenly you're catching feelings."
"Because I was scared, okay? I was scared because it was starting to feel like more than just sex, and I didn't know how to handle that, so I â"
"So you ended it. Which was the right call."
You're getting angry now, the frustration boiling over. "Why are you like this?"
"Like what?"
"Like an asshole. Like you don't â" You take a breath. "You took care of me. When I was drunk and disgusting, you took care of me. You made my coffee the way I like it. You gave me your clothes. That wasn't nothing."
"That was basic human decency. Don't make it into more than it was."
"I'm not â"
"You are." He stands up, the sudden movement making you jerk back. "You're making up a story in your head where this was something it wasn't. We fucked. It was good. It's over. That's it."
"Bucky â"
"I don't like you that way." Each word lands on you like a physical blow, bruising your skin. "I liked fucking you. That's not the same thing."
Sitting feels wrong now, feels too vulnerable, too small compared to him, you stand too. "I don't believe you."
"I don't care what you believe."
"Then why did you take care of me? Why did you â"
"Because I'm not a complete monster. Leaving you to choke on your own vomit seemed like a dick move. Don't romanticize it."
You're too close now, in his space, you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. Under all that, thereâs a raw, painful part of him heâs trying to hide behind cruelty. "You're lying."
"I'm really not."
"Then why are you so angry?"
"I'm not angry. I'm annoyed. There's a difference."
Without giving yourself time to think it through, you reach for him. Your palm lands against his chest, warm through the fabric, fingers curling like you can hold him there, keep him from slipping out of this moment. It comes out of you all at once, that need to make him stay, to make him understand what this is doing to you. You push up on your toes, closing the distance, tugging him closer as you go for his mouth like it might fix something, like it might make this real in a way words havenât managed to.
He turns his face away, just a quiet shift, a small angle of his head at the last second. Your lips miss his mouth, drag across his cheek instead.
The contact is wrong. You feel it immediately, the way your mouth presses into skin that isnât answering, isnât meeting you halfway. Your hand is fisted in his shirt. You can feel the rise and fall of his breathing under your palm, steady, unchanged, like this isnât cracking anything open for him the way it is for you. The rejection is clean, absolute, leaving a sharp burn behind your eyes you canât blink away fast enough.
"I just wanted to fuck you. That's all this was. That's all it's ever going to be. So if you're looking for feelings, if you're looking for some kind of relationship, you're barking up the wrong tree."
"No â no â you're â" You choke on your own words, trying to get the word 'lying' out, but you cannot.Â
"I'm not. You're just too caught up in your own bullshit to see it. You want the truth? You're too much drama. Too much back and forth, too much hot and cold. I don't have the energy for it. The sex was good, great even, but dealing with you? With all your shit? Not worth it."
Each word is a knife, precise, designed to cut you, gut you, you feel yourself bleeding out right there in the library.
"Fuck you." Your voice cracks on the words.
"Yeah, that's about all you're good for."
Whether you want them or not, the tears flow. But you're not going to cry in front of him and give him the satisfaction of breaking you. You just won't. Grabbing your bag, you run. Past the stacks and the reference desk, you don't stop until you're outside in the cold air that bites at your wet cheeks.
What use is knowing you like him when he doesn't like you back? When he never did? When all those moments you thought meant something were just your imagination filling in blanks that were never there to begin with?
You were stupid to come here. Stupid to think he felt the same way, to think you were anything more than a convenient fuck.
He wasn't respecting your boundaries. He was relieved when you ended it. The anger, the coldness, the cruelty, that was all him, telling you the truth. That was him showing you exactly what you meant to him.
Nothing.
You meant absolutely nothing.
Heartbreak is supposed to be metaphorical. That's what you always thought, anyway. Just a turn of phrase people use to describe feeling sad. But it turns out your body doesn't know the difference between metaphorical and literal, and it's staging a full-scale revolt against the fact that Bucky Barnes doesn't want you.
Day one, you can't eat. Your roommate makes you toast. It sits on your desk going cold and hard while you stare at the ceiling. Your stomach feels like someone filled it with concrete, and the thought of putting anything in your mouth makes your throat close up.
Nat texts. You don't answer. She texts again. You turn your phone face down and watch the light bleeding around the edges when it buzzes.
Sleep doesn't come. You lie there in the dark, and your brain plays the library scene on repeat like some kind of sadistic highlight reel. Too much drama. Not worth it. That's about all you're good for. The words have teeth, and they're chewing through your chest cavity, making a home in the empty space where your self-respect used to be.
Day two, your head starts pounding. It's this dull, persistent ache that sits right behind your eyes and pulses in time with your heartbeat. You take two ibuprofen and they sit in your empty stomach like rocks. Everything hurts. Your muscles, your joints, your skin when the blanket touches it, everything. You tell yourself it's just tension. Just stress manifesting physically. Just your body being dramatic because apparently you are, according to Bucky, too much of everything.
The crying comes in waves. You know how in the movies, a single tear rolls down your cheek? Yeah, it's not that. This is ugly, snotty, hiccupping, making your eyes swell up so bad you can barely open them. You cry so hard you throw up, and then you cry about that. The whole thing is so pathetic you almost laugh.Â
Throat feels you swallowed glass. Every time you try to drink water it's a special kind of torture. You've got a fever. Skin too hot, too cold at the same time, thoughts getting fuzzy, everything feels like burning.Â
Nat comes by. You pretend you're asleep. She leaves soup outside your door that you don't touch.
You're not heartbroken, you tell yourself. You're just sick. Getting sick right after emotional trauma is just a coincidence. People get colds all the time. This has nothing to do with the fact that you put yourself out there and got eviscerated for your trouble, nothing to do with the fact that you cried your eyes out.Â
The room swims when you open your eyes. Everything's blurry and soft, like someone smeared Vaseline on your corneas. You try to blink, the ceiling fan is on, rotating slow because you're freezing even though you're pretty sure you're burning up. There's your hot water bottle on the nightstand, the one shaped like a box that Nat got you as a joke. There's your water glass. There's Bucky.
There's Bucky?Â
Sitting in your desk chair like he belongs there, you must be hallucinating, delirious with fever because there's no way he's actually here, in your room, looking at you with something that might be concern if you didn't know better.
You reach out without thinking, hand stretching toward him like you could touch him if you tried. Your fingers are shaking. Everything's shaking. "Hey," you mumble, voice sounding like someone beat you up for days. "You're not real."
He leans forward, and dream-Bucky looks tired. Worried. Nothing like the cold, cruel version from the library. "What do you want?" Dream-Bucky asks, his voice soft. Softer than he's ever used with you, softer than you knew he could be.
"Not fair," you slur, coherent sentences are beyond you right now. "S'not fair of you to haunt my dreams."
"It's not a dream, baby."
Baby. He's never called you that. Not even when he was inside you, not even in the heat of the moment. You almost laugh, but it comes out as a cough that rattles your chest.
"Sure isn't," you speak when the coughing stops. "Dream-Bucky would hate me too. Just like real Bucky. Can't even have nice hallucinations."
You think dream-Bucky says something else, but the words blur together and you're already sliding back under, into the dark where nothing hurts quite as bad.
Hours later â could be three, could be ten, time is meaningless when you're this sick â you surface again. The room is dimmer now. Your mouth tastes like death, and your whole body aches like you got repeatedly hit.
And dream-Bucky is still there.
Still in your desk chair, but now he's got his elbows on his knees, head in his hands, hasn't realised you're awake yet. It's nice watching him, even if it's just a dream. He looks tired. "Can't you just leave me alone? I don't want to dream of you."
Your voice brings him to your room again, head snapping up, relief plastered on his face. "You're not dreaming."
He reaches out, hand cupping your face, palm cool against your too-hot skin. Real. Definitely not a fever dream. "You've still got a temperature."
You jerk back from his touch like it burns. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"Nat told Steve you were sick â"
"Why the fuck do you care?"
Bucky flinches, like the words hit him physically. "Can we not do this right now?" he asks, tiredness in his voice prominent.
The audacity of this man, flinching like you hurt him and not the other way around. "Yeah, of course. Get out."
"I just want to help you. You're in no shape to take care of yourself."
"Better me than you. So get out." You try to sit up and the room tilts sideways.Â
"I'm sorry. Please let me help you." His words are pleading, an act, you think.Â
You're upright now, barely, using the wall for support. "Sorry for what? For saying I'm just a good fuck? For telling me I'm too much drama? For â"
"For everything. I'm sorry for everything." There's hurt in his eyes, but you're too angry to care about right now.Â
"I don't fucking care, Bucky. Get out."
His jaw sets in that stubborn way you recognize. "No. I'm not doing this push and pull again."
"Oh, that's great. Because I'm just pushing you. There's no pull whatsoever."
He stands up, takes a step toward you. "Please. Let me just take care of you, help you, and then I'll be gone if that's what you want."
"What are you gonna possibly do that I can't do myself?"
"I made broth." He gestures toward your desk where there's a thermos you didn't notice before. "I'll heat it up. It's supposed to help with the cold. I also got aspirin for the fever, and some throat lozenges, and â"
"Fine. Leave that here." You swing your legs over the side of the bed, trying to stand, the floor immediately rushes up to meet you.
Bucky catches you, though you wish he didn't. His hands are on your arms, steadying you, you're too dizzy to push him away. "Did I say you can touch me?" you snap when the world stops spinning.
"Please. I just didn't want you to fall."
The irony is not lost on you. Didn't want you to fall. The audacity of that statement when he's the one who made you fall in the first place â metaphorically, emotionally, completely. Now he's worried about the literal fall? Fuck him. Fuck him for every mixed signal, every cruel word, every moment he made you think you might mean something.
You're too weak to fight his hands on you, the touch burns, even if you're the one running hot now. "You know," you say, and you hate how shaky your voice sounds, "I can't really fuck you right now. Since â you know â I'm sick and all."
The embrace of his touch leaves you like you'd slapped him, hands dropping to his sides. "That's not â I didn't come here for that."
"No? Then why are you here?" You're shuffling toward the bathroom because you desperately need to pee and also need to get away from him. "Come to finish the job? Make sure I'm completely destroyed?"
"I came because I was worried about you."
"Well, don't be. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You can barely stand."
"Not your problem." You make it to the bathroom and shut the door in his face, leaning against it, legs shaking.
Through the door, you can hear him moving around. The sound of your microwave running. Cabinet doors opening and closing. He's still here, still in your space, you don't have the energy to keep fighting him.
You finally emerge, teeth brushed, face washed, feeling slightly more human. The smell hits you first, however slight they may be. Savory and warm that makes your stomach remember it exists. Bucky's set up your desk like a sick station: the bowl of broth with a spoon, aspirin, a fresh glass of water, those throat lozenges he mentioned. "Sit," he says, gesturing to your bed.
"I'm not a dog."
"Please sit down before you fall down."
You sit, mostly because standing is taking more effort than you have to give. He gently moves the bowl to sit in front of you.Â
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat something."
"I said I'm not â"
"When's the last time you ate?" His voice is gentle but firm, and it pisses you off how much he sounds like he actually cares. If you didn't know what he's capable of, you'd trust this act.Â
"Doesn't matter." Truth is, you can't remember. Day before yesterday, maybe? Time is soup.
"It matters. Drink the broth."
"You're not my mother."
"No, I'm the guy who made you soup at four in the morning because I've been losing my mind worrying about you. So please, for the love of god, just drink the fucking broth. "The words come out sharp, frustrated.Â
You don't point out that he has no right to lose his mind worrying about you, and take the bowl mostly to shut him up. It tastes even better than it smells, rich and salty with actual vegetables and herbs you can't identify. Your stomach wakes up properly, growling, and before you know it you're halfway through the bowl.
Bucky sits back in the desk chair, watching you with what looks like relief.
"Happy now?" you ask between bites, because you can't let him think this means anything.
"Getting there."
You want to throw the bowl at his head and scream at him for showing up here, for being nice to you, for confusing everything when you were just starting to build up the walls you need to survive this. You want to ask him why he said all those horrible things if he was just going to show up at your door with homemade soup like some kind of reformed asshole.
But you're so tired. Tired of fighting, of hurting, of not understanding what he wants from you.
After the soup, your body decides it's had enough excitement for one day. Bucky helps you back to bed, his hand on your elbow, steadying you even though you don't ask for it. The sheets are cool against your fever-warm skin, and you're asleep before you can tell him to leave.
When you wake up, the room is bright with morning light. Your head feels clearer, the fever-fog lifted enough that you can think in actual sentences instead of fragmented thoughts. The chair where Bucky sat is empty.
Of course it is. He came, he did his good deed, checked the 'take care of sick girl' box off his list, and now he's gone. Probably relieved to escape before you woke up and made things awkward again. The thermos is still on your desk, the bowl washed and sitting in your dish rack. The whole thing feels like something you might have dreamed except for the physical evidence that he was here.
You sit up slowly, testing your body's response. Better. Definitely better than yesterday. Your throat doesn't feel like shredded glass anymore, the headache has downgraded from horrible to a dull throb. Progress.
Thing is, you can still feel where his hand was on your face. The ghost of his touch like a brand, and you're pathetic enough to wish it was still there. To wish he was still here, sitting in that stupid chair, looking at you like you're worth worrying about.
You're reaching for your phone, to do what, you don't know, maybe check the time, maybe torture yourself by looking at his contact, when your door opens.
Bucky walks in carrying another bowl, and you just stare at him. He's wearing different clothes than last night, so he definitely left and came back, which means this is intentional. A choice he's making. "Sorry. I went to my dorm to make this. You didn't have enough ingredients here."
You continue staring. Your brain is trying to process the fact that he left to make you soup. That he came back. That he's here, in your room, in the morning light, and he doesn't look like he's planning to run.
He sets the soup on your desk and crosses the room quickly, crouching beside your bed. "Are you feeling better?"
Words seem beyond you right now. You're too busy cataloging the worry in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, how he looks at you like he's afraid you might shatter.
"Hey." His voice softens, warmth seeping through. "I'm gonna check for fever, okay? Is that alright?"
He's asking you permission to touch you. You want to trust this. The gentleness, the care, the softness he's showing you. But soft can turn sharp so quickly. You learned that in the library.
"People usually do that with a thermometer." Your voice is still rough but functional.
"I'm a college student. I don't own a thermometer." The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile, and you feel an answering pull in your own lips before you remember you're supposed to be mad at him, supposed to be protecting yourself.
When you nod, his hand comes to your forehead, gentle, soft. His palm is cool, and you fight the urge to lean into it. "Better. Still warm, but better."
The shower helps. Standing under hot water, letting it beat against your sore muscles, washing away two days of sick-sweat and misery. You take your time because the steam feels good, and also because you're half-convinced that when you come out, Bucky will be gone. This is a fever dream. An elaborate hallucination. He's not really here making you soup and checking your temperature and asking permission to touch you.
But when you open the bathroom door, wrapped in your towel, he's still there, still sitting in your chair. Very much real. You really should've brought a change of clothes inside.Â
His eyes drop to the floor immediately, color creeping up his neck. "Uh. Uhm. I'll go â I'll step out. While you â you know â change."
The awkwardness is almost funny. This is the same guy who's been inside you, seen you fall apart on his tongue, who's had his hands all over your body. Now he can't look at you in a towel?
"Dude, you've seen me naked before. You don't have to be this awkward."
The memories hit you both at the same time, you can see it in the way his jaw tightens. All the ways he's touched you, all the sounds you've made for him, all the times you've been bare and vulnerable.
Maybe it's defiance or maybe you're just tired of this dance, but you reach for the edge of your towel and start to unwrap it. Bucky crosses the room in three strides, hand catching yours. "No."
You're backed against the wall. He's close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, close enough to see the specks of gray in his blue eyes. "Yeah, sorry." The words tasted bitter in you head, tastes bitter when they come out too. "Forgot you can't keep it in your pants with me. That's all I'm good for, right?"
"Stop." His hand moves to your waist. His other hand catches both of yours, pins them gently above your head, no force in them. You could break free if you wanted. Except you don't want to.
"Bucky, what the fuck â"Â You twist against him, pushing at his hold, more stubborn than urgent, trying to get free more out of principle than actual desire to escape.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? I fucked up. Monumentally." His words are earnest, desperate.Â
Your heart is trying to break out of your ribcage. He's so close, and he smells like coffee and that stupid soap he uses. This is too much, confusing, reminiscent of all the times you've been in this position, pinned, wanting and completely at his mercy.
"I was horrible to you that day," he continues. "In the library. I haven't been able to sleep since I fucked up."
You stop squirming inside his touch. Stop breathing, maybe. Because he's looking at you like you matter, like hurting you actually hurt him. "Then why did you â You don't get to simply apologize and be done with this."
"You know you're confusing, right?" He sighs as he says it, almost a fond exasperation. His thumb is tracing circles on your waist through the towel, probably without him realizing.
"What?"
"Baby, you fucking confuse me. All the fucking time."
Baby again. He keeps saying it like it's natural, like it belongs in his mouth when he's talking to you.
You're still very aware that you're in a towel. That his hand is on your waist, warm through the terry cloth, your hands still above your head, however light his hold is. "You know, if you don't want to see me naked, maybe don't put me in this position. The towel's gonna slide off my tits any second now."
He drops your hands like they burned him, steps back, putting distance between you that feels wrong now that it's there. "Sorry," he mutters.
You want to tell him to stop apologizing. Or maybe apologize more. Or maybe come back and put his hands on you again because the absence of his touch feels like a loss. Your thoughts are tangled up in themselves, a mess of want, hurt, anger and confusion that you can't sort through.
"I liked you." The words burst out of him like he's been holding them in too long. "Fuck itâ I like you. I've liked you since the very start. Since Nat and Steve started dating. No, even before that."
Hope starts building in your chest, easing the pain, soothing the hurt, which is dangerous, which you can't afford right now.
"I saw you in class one day and I've liked you ever since." He's rambling now, words spilling out faster than he can organize them. You've never seen him like this. Bucky doesn't ramble. "That's how Steve got to know Nat, actually. Because Nat's your friend. I talked about you all the time to Steve and that's how Steve got to know Nat."
Wait.
"And then you're this firecracker who can't shut up, and we got off on the wrong foot â"
"What?" Your brain is trying to rewrite history, slot this new information into the narrative you've been carrying around forever.
"I didn't mean to pick a fight with you that day." He runs his hand through his hair, looking almost sheepish. "I didn't mean to pour coffee over your notes, I was â I was nervous. And we've been butting heads ever since, and it's my fault because I had this huge crush on you and I poured coffee all over your fucking notes. How dumb is that?"
The coffee incident. You remember it, the way your carefully highlighted notes had turned into a brown-stained disaster. You'd snapped at him, and he'd fired back instead of apologizing. That was the start of it. The first battle in a war you thought he wanted to fight. But he's saying it was an accident. An accident born from nerves, from liking you, from being so focused on trying to impress you that he'd fucked it up spectacularly.
You think about all the fights since then, all the barbed comments and intentional provocations. You'd convinced yourself he hated you when, this whole time, he was just trying to get your attention the only way he knew how.
"Ever since then, you've not let me know peace." He's pacing now, and you're still standing against the wall in your towel like an idiot. "I just wanted to get to know you, and then we started annoying each other, and I started liking it because it was kinda our thing. Our love language, you know?"
Love language. Like fighting with you was how he showed affection, like every argument was actually him trying to be close to you.Â
"And then we â uh â had sex that day," he continues, "and you told me it wasn't happening again. I was crushed. Then it happens again, and you say the same thing."
"You agreed," you point out, because that part still stings.
"What was I supposed to say? No, I love you so much, please don't break my heart? I thought if I could just have you in whatever way you'd let me, that would be enough. Even if it was killing me."
Love. He said love. Did he notice? His face doesn't change, like the word slipped out without him registering it, and you're standing here holding this piece of information in your chest, this fragile thing, while he's still walking back and forth like standing at one place could kill him.Â
"And then that night," he says, and his voice gets quieter. "The night you got drunk."
"What about it?"
"You told me you liked me."
Suddenly, the room starts spinning, like you're both drunk and hungover at the same time. "What?"
"We â uhh â I â I fingered you in that alley, and then we went inside, you got drunk, and you told me you liked me. Said you'd been thinking about me, that you couldn't stop thinking about me."
No, no, no. You don't remember that. You remember drinking, remember Bucky's hands on you in the alley, remember waking up in his bed. But confessing your feelings? That's a blank space in your memory. "I don't â I don't remember that."
"I know." He stops pacing, looks at you with what might be sadness. "The next morning, you didn't remember anything. Asked if we'd fucked like the idea horrified you. And I realized you had no idea what you'd said to me."
Oh god. Oh god, the morning after. You'd been so mortified, so convinced it was just another mistake, and he'd been hoping. He'd been carrying your drunken confession around like a promise, and you hadn't even known.
"I thought maybe â I don't know what I thought. That maybe on some level you meant it, even drunk. So I was hopeful. And then that evening, you came to return my clothes, and when I tried to â"
The way you'd turned your face, the way you'd said he was a great lay but it was too complicated. Fuck.Â
"You pulled away, said I was â I was â Like that's all I was to you."
The hurt in his voice is tangible, the way he couldn't even repeat your words, and you're realizing how many ways you've wounded each other without meaning to. Or maybe meaning to, because hurting him felt safer than being vulnerable.
"That fucking destroyed me," he admits. "I'd just heard you say you liked me, and then hours later you're reducing me to a dick. So when you showed up at the library saying you liked me, I â I panicked. I thought you were confused, or trying to spare my feelings, or that you'd just had some realization about missing the sex. I couldn't go through that again. Couldn't let myself hope and then watch you take it back."
It's all clicking into place now. The cruelty in the library wasn't because he didn't care. It was because he cared too much, because you'd hurt him first, even if you didn't know you were doing it.
"So you decided to hurt me first," you say.Â
The pain in his face is visible, pulling at your heartstrings even though he was the one that hurt you. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. That wasn't fair at all. I thought I was protecting myself, because I couldn't bear to be hurt like that again."
He's pacing like a caged animal now, three steps one way, pivot, three steps back. His hands are running through his hair, tugging at the ends, and he's still talking, apologizing, explaining, words tumbling out in this stream of consciousness that you can barely keep up with.
"Bucky," you call, but he's not listening.Â
"â and I just kept fucking it up, kept saying the wrong thing, kept pushing you away when all I wanted â"
"Bucky."Â
"â and in the library I was such a dick, I can't believe I said those things to you, I can't â"
You step into his path, hands on his chest, and physically push him backward until his the back of his knees hit your bed and he sits. The look of surprise on his face would be funny if this whole situation wasn't so fragile, so precarious, like one wrong move could shatter whatever's happening between you.
This position â him on your bed, you between his legs â feels intimate, maybe even more than those three times. His hands come to your hips automatically, looking up at you with eyes that are red-rimmed and devastated, pulling you closer, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing his face against your stomach. The hug is tight, almost desperate, you can feel him shaking. "I'm sorry." His voice is muffled against the towel. "Please don't leave me."
His words pry you open from the inside. This is Bucky Barnes, the guy who struts through life, who never asks for anything, who'd rather die than show weakness. And he's holding onto you like you're the only thing keeping him anchored, like the thought of you leaving is unbearable.
Your hands find his hair without conscious thought, fingers threading through the dark strands. You've had your hands in his hair before, have pulled it while he was between your legs, gripped it while he fucked you. But this is gentle, tender, you offering comfort instead of taking pleasure.
There's wetness seeping through your towel. At first you think it's just water from your shower-damp skin, but then you feel his shoulders hitch, feel the way he's breathing in these controlled inhales like he's trying not to fall apart completely.
He's crying.
Bucky is crying, face pressed against your stomach, arms locked around you like you might disappear.
The realization hits you at the same moment you feel wetness on your hand. Your hand that's still in his hair, your own tears dripping onto your fingers. When did you start crying? You didn't notice, too focused on him, on the way he's holding you, on the impossible fact that this is happening.
You're both crying. Two people who've spent months hurting each other, finally breaking down.
"You hurt me." The words need to be said, need to exist in the space between you, even if he's not ready to hear it again. "What you said in the library â it hurt me so much I got physically sick."
His arms tighten against you, pulling you closer. "I'm so fucking sorry." The words are desperate, broken. "I will never hurt you. Ever again. I said those things and I couldn't breathe afterward â hurting you hurt me too, baby. I'm so fucking sorry."
Baby. This time it doesn't make you bristle or question. "I thought you hated me," you whisper. "I thought I was nothing to you."
He pulls back enough to look up at you, face wrecked, tears tracking down his cheeks, eyes swollen. Beautiful, broken and completely open in a way you've never seen. "You're everything to me. You've been everything to me for so long, and I've been too scared to say it. Too scared you'd walk away."
One of his hands leaves your waist to cup your face, thumb brushing away your tears even as his own keep falling. The gentleness of it makes you want to sob. How many times has he touched your face? But never like this. Never with this kind of reverence.
"I'm not walking away. I'm right here." You mirror his movement, your hand on his cheek.Â
"You're right here," he repeats, like he can't quite believe it.
You're both a mess. Crying, shaking, holding onto each other, towel soaked through with tears. You're pretty sure you look like a disaster, and Bucky's face is blotchy, eyes red. But none of it matters.
None of it matters because he's looking at you like you hung the moon. "I love you." This time there's no mistaking it for a slip. "I'm in love with you. I don't even know how long. I love the way you argue with me. I love how you never back down. I love that you called me out on my bullshit from day one. I love â"
You kiss him. Soft, tentative almost, afraid of breaking whatever fragile thing is forming between you. His lips are salty with tears, so are yours, and you can feel him trembling as he kisses you back. He's pulling you closer while trying to be gentle about it. The towel is probably going to fall, but you can't bring yourself to care. This kiss feels like a promise. Like an apology, a confession and a beginning all wrapped into one.
Breathing hard, you pull back. His forehead drops to rest against your stomach again, his breath hot against your skin through the damp towel. "Say it back," he whispers. "Please. I need to hear you say it."
Maybe it's too soon, maybe you should make him work for it, make him prove he means all these pretty words he's saying. Maybe the smart thing would be to guard your heart a little longer, keep some walls up just in case.
But you're so tired of being smart, of protecting yourself, of pretending you don't feel what you feel. "I love you too." The words feel like jumping off a cliff. "I love you even though you're an idiot. I love you even though you hurt me. I love you even though â maybe because â you drive me completely insane."
His whole body sags with relief, like he was holding his breath waiting for your answer. "Thank god," he breathes.
No more pretending this is just physical when it's been emotional from the start.
He kisses your stomach through the towel, pulling you down onto the bed with him. You land in a tangle of limbs as he wraps himself around you like he's trying to merge your bodies into one.
He's quiet for a second, looking at you with those devastated blue eyes, "I'll never hurt you like that again." Unadorned, nothing poetic or flowery about the words.Â
You're a realist even now, even in this moment. "You can't promise that. People hurt each other. It happens."
His hand caresses your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Not like that. I'll never speak to you like that again, never make you feel like you're nothing to me. I promise. I promise, baby."
There's a desperate sincerity in his voice that makes you believe him. Or maybe you just want to believe him. Maybe it's the same thing. "Okay," you whisper.
"Okay?"
"I believe you."
His exhale is shaky, relieved, and he pulls you closer, the towel finally giving up its fight to stay in place and gaping open at the side.
"I'm gonna fuck this up sometimes," he says. "Probably a lot. I'm gonna say the wrong thing or do something stupid because I'm an idiot who doesn't know how to handle feelings."
"Yeah, probably. I'll fuck up too. I'll push you away when I get scared. I'll pick fights because it's easier than being vulnerable." You're tracing patterns on his chest through his shirt, random swirls and shapes that don't mean anything.Â
"So we're both disasters."
"Seems like it."
His laugh is quiet, almost surprised, like he didn't expect to be laughing right now. "At least we're disasters together."
Together.
Your fingers find the hem of his shirt, slip underneath to touch warm skin, the need to feel him solid beneath your hands, maybe to tell yourself this is real. "Tell me something."
"Anything."
"That first day. When you spilled coffee on my notes. What were you actually trying to do?"
He groans, the vibration of it you feel against your cheek. "I was trying to ask you out. Had this whole speech planned. Then I got nervous and forgot I was holding coffee and â yeah. Disaster from the start."
"What was the speech?"
"Absolutely not. That's going to my grave."
"C'mon."
"Nope. Some secrets stay buried. All you need to know is I'd been watching you for weeks like a creep. Knew your coffee order, knew what corner of the library you liked, knew your schedule."
"That's actually kind of creepy."
His hand slides into your hair, fingers gentle against your scalp. "I know. I'm not proud. But then you yelled at me about the coffee and you were so pissed and so pretty, and I just... kept trying to talk to you. Even if it meant fighting with you."
You think about all those fights. The debate that got so heated the TA had to separate you. The time you fought about nothing at all, just because you could, because it meant you got to be in each other's space.
"I liked fighting with you," you admit.
"I know. I could tell."
"It was the only time you paid attention to me."
"Baby, I was always paying attention to you." His voice gets more serious. "Every single second you were in a room, I knew exactly where you were, who you were talking to, if you were smiling. I was so far gone for you it was pathetic."
All this time you thought he barely noticed you except to annoy you, he was cataloguing your every movement.
"The club. That first night. You got so mad. Was it â was it about that guy?"
There's no shame in his words. "I wanted to punch him, wanted to drag you away and tell him you were mine even though I had no right. I was jealous, pissed off and I followed you to the bathroom to yell at you about it."
"And then we fucked instead."
"Best decision of my life. Fuck, it was incredible. But, after that I couldn't pretend anymore, couldn't pretend I just wanted to annoy you. I was addicted."
You lift your head to look at him, there's a softness in his expression that makes him look vulnerable.
"Every time you said it was the last time, I died a little," he continues. "But I kept coming back for more because having you for a moment was better than not having you at all."
The words hurt in the best way. You did the same thing, kept saying never again while knowing you'd end up right back in his orbit. "I'm sorry," you say.
"For what?"
"For pushing you away. For not seeing it sooner. For â For making you think you were nothing to me."
"Hey." He sits up, brings you with him so you're straddling his lap, towel falling away completely now but neither of you caring enough to correct it. His hands cup your face, making you look at him. "We both fucked up. We both hurt each other. But we're here now, right? We're figuring it out."
"Yeah. We're here."
His lips brush yours, and you think about all the ways you've kissed before. It's nothing like before, it's a kiss that means something beyond want, that says I'm sorry and I love you and I'm not going anywhere.
There's a specific kind of torture in wanting someone you think you can't have. You'd lived in it for months â watching Bucky, fighting with Bucky, fucking Bucky, all while convinced it meant nothing. Convinced you were nothing to him beyond a convenient release. The torture was in the wanting, in the knowing it could never be more, the way your heart skipped when he walked in a room even as you told yourself you hated him.
You'd gotten good at that torture, had made a home in it, learned to navigate the ache of unrequited feelings dressed up as animosity.
Now it's gone. This is having Bucky, knowing he wants you back.
He is lying next to you now, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. Your towel is somewhere on the floor. You're still sick, still running a fever, but he's here. He stayed.Â
He's going to keep staying, you realize. Through the sickness, fights and the moments when you both fuck up.Â
It won't be easy. You're both too stubborn, too quick to anger, too used to hurting each other to suddenly become soft and gentle all the time. There will be fights. Real ones, not the foreplay kind. And there will be days when you drive each other crazy, and there will probably be moments when you wonder if this was a mistake.
But then he'll make you coffee exactly how you like it. Or you'll catch him watching you like you're precious. Or you'll patch him up after a game, or you'll fight about something stupid and end up laughing instead of crying.
His fingers are tracing patterns on your bare shoulder and you think about how touch can mean so many different things. All the times he's touched you in anger, in desperation, in hunger. And now this. Gentle, aimless touching, just because he can, because you're his and he's yours.
"What are you thinking about?" he murmurs.
"How we got here."
"Long fucking journey."
"Worth it?"
"Every second of it."
The torture of wanting someone you can't have is finally over. The torture of having someone you could lose is just beginning.
But as Bucky presses a kiss to the top of your head, as his breathing evens out and his heartbeat steadies under your ear, you think maybe this is the kind of torture you can live with.
Maybe this is the kind of torture that's actually called love.
MY MASTERLIST!
EXTRAS. first time writing smth where both of them are this toxic, please go easy on me! thank you for reading!
Summary: Falling for a mysterious man has been exhilarating, until you discover his biggest secret and realize youâve been loving the most dangerous man in the city. But can you run from a monster in his own home when his eyes and ears are everywhere?
Word Count: 22.8k
Warnings: 18+ (mdni); smut (oral f receivingâbut just in the beginning so you could skip it if you want); lots and lots of panic/anxiety/paranoia (reader); moral shock; huge misunderstanding; fear of being trapped; secrecy in a relationship; discovery of hidden identity; unequal power dynamics (implicit); manipulation (perceived); weapons (guns); Bucky might be a little possessive, but we love it; references to violence and criminal activity; Bucky is soft only for you; Bucky is down bad
Authorâs Note: Oh my gosh, my first fic of the year, Iâm so proud!! Mob Bucky has had me in a chokehold yâall and Iâm so happy I finally get to share this. It took me what feels like an eternity. There is a second part to this coming up shortly. I fully planned on packing all of it into a oneshot but itâs gotten way out of hand and I donât think tumblr would even let me get it out in one go. I also didnât want to cut anything down because I already spent so much time trying to get everything the way I wanted it, and removing parts wouldâve sent me right back into editing hell, so here we are. The second part is already in progress and should be up in a few days once I finish it properly. I hope you enjoy! âĄ
Masterlist | part two
You surely are about to taste your own blood on your tongue any second now if you keep biting your lip so hard. But all you do is tighten your grip on those messy, dark hair your fingers are knotted into, and you canât fight the reflex to shift your hips away an inch so that the embarrassing sob that is growing in your throat wonât make it out.
Though you should have known that that would make him stop. His mouth pauses against your clit, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
His hands remain firmly at your thighs, thumbs soothing those slow and drowsy circles against your skin. But his eyes lift to yours, the usual bright blue of them gone dark and concentrated in the dimness of his bedroom. His gaze is fierce enough to make your breath hitch, but melted into its depths is that softness you know is there just for you.
With his gaze still on yours, he begins to kiss a languid path up your stomach, pausing just beneath your ribs and letting his eyes flutter when worshiping your breasts with his skilled tongue. Your mind and soul are soaring up to his high ceilings.
Your teeth are imprinted upon your bottom lip, and you hope you can continue keeping your breathing as even as possible, though youâre not managing all that well.
His hands move slowly across the skin of your hips, pinning you to the mattress. He doesnât use all his strength but enough for you to feel stuck in his hold.
He crawls further up your body with that deliberate drag that leaves you shivering and panting. He hovers over you and his bare chest brushes your heaving breasts.
His face is now inches from yours, his stubble grazing your cheek, smelling like vanilla and something like cardamom, and you breathe it in automatically. His pupils are blown as they sear into yours.
âStop that,â he orders, though his voice is a warm whisper. He reaches up, his thumb catching your bottom lip and tugging it out from between your teeth. He soothes the imprint. âDon't you hide those pretty sounds from me.â
âBucky, the guards,â you breathe out, your voice trembling, still weak from the way he used his tongue on you. Your face burns. The room feels enormous again, full of listening walls. âYour people. They will hear. They will thinkââ
Something flits across his expression. It seems to be something proud, even possessive. You could say it looks dangerous, but being the person that you are, and considering the sweet albeit intense person that he is, it turns you the hell on and makes you sigh.
âI don't care what they think. I want them to know.â He leans down, his lips hovering over yours, his breath hot and smelling of you. âI want every man on my payroll to hear the way you sound when Iâm the only thing on your mind. I want them to hear who Iâm answering to tonight. And every other night from now on.â
With a stunned shake of your head, you stare up at him, a huff of embarrassment trying to bubble up and fall out of your mouth but it fails because his mouth is on yours, kissing you aggressively before he dives back down, not waiting for you to argue. Youâre entirely overwhelmed, but damn, not in a bad way at all.
His hands lock you into place, and the way heâs eating you out has you flying straight to heaven with a one-way ticket. Heâs being greedy. Heâs using his tongue with a blunt, feverish sort of worship that makes your head hit his pillow with a thud.
Heâs a businessman, thatâs what he told you. But as his mouth works over you with all that bottled-up intensity he carries around all day, you feel the latent power he usually keeps veiled behind a tie. Heâs a man who takes what he wants, and right now, what he wants is to hear you break, and you might actually, because god is he good, so incredibly good, you could definitely get used to it. Maybe you already are, but whoâs to blame you for it.
The first real moan tears out of you, and you cringe internally at how loud and breathy it sounds, the way it vibrates in the cavernous room, landing in the farthest corners of the high ceilings.
Bucky grunts against you, and it sounds so purely satisfied, it even seems to rumble within your own body. You gasp, trying to suppress another moan, and he only presses harder, licking and sucking and slurping, and it makes you feel like youâre the only meal on his plate.
His thumbs dent the soft give of your hips to make sure youâre pinned the way he wants you, the way he has the best access to all of you. Itâs dizzying, it makes your gut lurch in the best possible way, and you feel like a queen and a ruin all at once. Heâs gentle, yeah, but it seems to be the gentle kind you would use on a porcelain heirloom right before testing its breaking point.
Your hands donât know what to do with themselves. Gripping the sheets or pillows, touching yourselfâit all doesnât feel like enough, so you go back to sliding your fingers into his hair and basically watch them disappear in it. You feel powerful and helpless, and oh god you should really keep those noises down or you wonât be able to look at his people anymore.
He is a mountain of a man, intimidating in ways you donât understand yet, full of secrets; and yet here he is, kneeling for you and eating you out as if thatâs all heâs been waiting for his whole life.
Damn, youâre a lucky girl.
He is drinking you in, his mouth molding to you with a suction that feels like heâs trying to draw your very soul to the surface.
It feels as though each individual bristle of his stubble is caressing your inner thigh, and it's abrasive and burning but also so damn good. It makes the gliding heat of his tongue feel so soft and vivid, and it pulls the tension right out of your bones.
He tracks you through his lashes, and youâre careful not to meet his eyes or that dark gaze of his would surely make you come already. But he doesnât stop documenting you and the way you react to him. He thrives on it, so very much that it doesnât seem to embarrass him in the slightest.
Then he dives past your entrance, his tongue finding that soft, sharp intake of your breath. And your spine bows upward out of pure blinding pleasure. The sound that leaves you is startled, too loud for your liking and so you try to clamp your hand over your lips.
He catches your wrist.
Heâs not harsh with it, but he brings your hand down to the mattress and pins it there decisively. His fingers lace through yours.
âWhatâd I say,â he warns, voice low, husky.
You swallow, your eyes are fluttering. âBuckyââ
âMake the noise,â he whispers as he kisses along your inner thigh, eyes on you. âAll of it.â
His free hand slowly wanders upward and it almost feels possessive how he ascends your heated skin. You glimpse that little hint of something feral, something prehistoric in the trail of his eyes. Youâve seen it before, and as always, it pulls you under completely. His ferocity isnât some thrashing kind of wild, honestly, he seems perfectly comfortable with his position, as though heâs already done the math but thereâs no clear solution and he just has to keep calculating. Has to keep going.
He lunges back and buries his face in your heat, his tongue flat and broad, applying a rhythmic pressure that whites out your vision and has you moaning without thought. Itâs thorough and hungry, his mouth drawing you in eagerly, and it feels like heâs trying to pull the very center of you into his throat.
âBuckyâ,â you gasp, your fingers tightly clamping around his, knuckles white.
He growls, and it rattles his entire chest, it vibrates against your sensitive skin. He uses his teethâjust a graze, a tiny, sharp nip that sends a scalding current straight to your core. Your hips jerk reflexively, his hands are pinning you open, and you are forced to take every unsparing lap of his tongue.
He shifts his weight, his nose dragging through your wetness as he focuses his attention on the very top of your nub. He works his tongue in a cadence so constant it sends the pressure straight to the back of your skull until the room dissolves behind your eyelids. It feels almost like a breaking point, but hell, you would throw yourself out of those high windows if he were to stop now.
Heâs fast and skilled and youâre made to take it.
âOpen up,â he commands against your skin, his voice muffled and wet although you couldnât possible open up more for him.
There is no more warning before he fills you with two fingers, sliding them deep inside you and stretching you while his thumb maintains that dizzying pressure, and the friction burns a hole through your focus. The two sensations fight for room in your head, effectively demolishing whatever was left of your pride and it makes you let out the highest moan. Youâre straining upward, seeking the release heâs dangling just out of reach.
He looks up at you, his face flushed, his breathing ragged against your thigh. A stray, damp shimmer glistens on the curve of his lower lip, and he licks it clean. You watch mesmerized and utterly overdrawn. His gaze is stripped of any pretense, itâs dark and appeased and entirely fixed on the way your face is breaking.
"That's it," he coos, watching your chest heave. "Scream for me, sweetheart. I'm not stopping until you do."
He dives back in, his tongue swirling deep inside you before curling back to hook against your clit, and suddenly there is no perspective on anything anymore, and the floors are walls and the walls are floors, andâ
And then his phone begins vibrating against the mahogany nightstand. Itâs a sharp and intrusive sound and itâs stripping the air of its heat.
Bucky doesnât seem to care, though. He doesnât so much as glance over at it. His gaze stays welded to yours, his pupils taking up the beautiful blue. His thumb continues trailing your heat, collecting your slick, and he turns to watch in amazement, as he licks a long stripe up your center, making you choke on your spit.
The vibration of his phone still ringing grates against the wood, loud enough to feel like a physical itch.
Bucky is a man who has built an empire on timing, yet he seems perfectly content to let the world outside the bedroom door spontaneously combust.
The phone dies.
He keeps sucking, you keep moaning.
Then, it begins again, more insistent this time. His phone is pulsing. It seems urgent.
You feel his jaw tighten against you. Feel the shift youâve come to recognize but never quite know what to do with. The air around him thickens by a single degree. The temperature of him changes, not in heat but in authority. Somewhere beyond these walls, the world is knocking its head against his patience.
âBucky,â you breathe, the word leaning on the dryness in your throat. Your chest is still heaving, your skin flushed a beautiful pink. You softly pull at his hair to make him look at you, a weak gesture that feels like trying to move a mountain. âYou should get that.â
His eyes meet yours. There are galaxies in them and something darker orbiting behind them. He leans in and presses a slow, devastating kiss to the inside of your thigh, all calm and relaxed while the phone continues vibrating angrily.
âIt can wait,â he decides, voice an octave lower and threaded with promise as he trails a line of punishingly soft kisses along your skin.
Another buzz, the sound now an impatient thrum that seems to vibrate the very legs of the bed. It feels like a summons, a reminder of the business that pays for the guards and the maids and the high ceilings.
He exhales through his nose and lets out a rumble of annoyance. His thumb strokes a calming line along your hip, as if reassuring you that his irritation belongs elsewhere. He looks like some wild animal being interrupted mid-meal.
âBuckyâ,â you start, carefully, your hand sliding to cup his face, feeling the heat of his skin, but he clicks his tongue to interrupt you.
âMy girl deserves to get off first,â he hums, not letting his lips off your skin, his stubble a deliberate, intoxicating scrape against your thigh.
And when his tongue drives home, flat and strong against that hyper-sensitized knot of nerves, it doesnât take long for that jolting pleasure to cloud your vision and bleach the dark corners of his bedroom into a searing, blinding white.
Your spine arches and snaps and leaves you suspended between the silk sheets and the cold air, held down only by his weight.
The embarrassing sob you were trying to hide earlier finally tears free, but it isnât a sob anymore. Itâs a melodic wail that echoes off the shadows-drenched ceiling. It climbs high and rings out with a clarity that makes the idea of guards and business feel like a fever dream from another life.
Your body is trying to crush his fingers in a desperate pulse that feels like a heart beating where it shouldn't.
And Bucky drinks it all in. He keeps his head down, jaw locked against you, refusing to let the moment end. That rough graze of his stubble is brutal but it keeps you somewhat in the room. He is taking the time with the mess he made, leaning into the way you are trembling, his mouth ensuring that every last bit of your control is gone.
By the time your vision starts to clear at the edges, and the room starts to solidify back into reality, you feel hollowed out, as if heâd reached inside and pulled the very soul of you to the surface. You slump into the mattress, your limbs too heavy to even twitch, your lungs burning with the effort of remembering how to breathe.
When you begin to squirm in his hold, Bucky finally pulls back, his expression bluntly victorious. He is breathing hard, his lips stained, his eyes trained on the way your ribs are still hitching with those dying tremors. His hand tightens at your hip.
Then he rises over you in one fast movement, bracing himself above you with his weight carefully balanced. You donât need any more physical proof that he wants you, considering how hard and ready you can feel him against your leg, with his control barely in check; and it makes your lungs seize up.
Wordlessly, he leans down to pull you into a slow kiss that goes so deep, your thoughts evaporate and your fingers tangle in his hair. He groans against your lips, breathing your name. You feel him twitch against you as he lets his hand slide back between your bodiesâwhen the door rattles with a knock.
Bucky stills with his forehead on yours, eyes still closed, jaw a block of ice. âBoss?â a slightly hesitant voice comes through the door.
His nose presses into the crook of your neck. For a long second, he just breathes you in, a deep, possessive inhalation as if he is trying to pull in all of your scent to survive the coming interruption.
With a low curse that is more a growl than a word, he rolls onto his side and promptly pulls you with him, tucking you into his chest. His body angles slightly toward the door, building an instinctive shield. His arms remain draped over you, his left hand splayed protectively across your back.
âWhat,â he calls, voice suddenly stripped of warmth. There is a pause on the other side.
âSorry, boss,â The voice is male. Sounding even more hesitant now. And definitely embarrassed. âBut, uhâ itâs important. You are needed.â
You want to let out a heavy sigh. But youâve seen this coming, really.
Bucky closes his eyes briefly and there is something pinched around them. Heâs not usually a short-tempered man, at least not with you, but right now he looks ready to snap at the door.
âIâm busy,â he replies flatly, and you believe his voice is only calm for your sake.
Another pause. The poor man outside is probably staring at the door waiting for it to shoot him.
âItâs Sam,â he explains carefully, seemingly afraid to say too much.
You know Sam. Or, you have heard Bucky mention Sam. Sam, the colleague. The one your boyfriend refers to with a mix of irritation and reluctant brotherhood. A pain in the ass, he told you with a half-smile. But loyal. Does good work. One of the few men he trusts to argue with him and live. You had laughed at the way he said it so seriously. He hadn't really laughed with you, but he kissed you stupid afterwards and so you no longer thought of it.
Bucky gives a long exhale.
âGive me five.â
âYes, sir.â
Hurried footsteps retreat down the corridor.
And Bucky doesnât make a single attempt to leave your side. He just peppers your neck with tiny kisses.
You try to turn to his face. âBucky, you should go.â
His eyes meet yours, and the stoicism buckles immediately. Back is the softness.
âYou come first,â he hums, and his thumb brushes your cheek. There is something apologetic in the gesture, though he hasnât done anything wrong.
You smile faintly and let a slow pout form on your lips. âI donât want to hold you back from work.â
âYouâre not,â he reassures you softly, leaning down to kiss you with a lack of the urgency he should probably be feeling right now.
But then heâs shifting away, sitting up on the edge of the bed, and the loss of his heat is a stinging chill. The chandelier light spills over his naked back, over the breadth of his shoulders. Your eyes glide down the tiny pink scars on his left shoulder with a sinking feeling in your stomachâthose scars are another mystery he hasnât let you into yet. But all you want to do is kiss them and hope to make it better, even if just a little.
You watch the way he runs a hand through his hair, reassembling himself piece by piece. By the time he stands, he has edges. He always seems different when heâs no longer touching you.
He pulls on a pair of dark trousers and doesnât bother with a shirt. The phone is in his hand now. He checks the screen, jaw grinding briefly before he glances back at you. And the hardness that stepped into his eyes softens again, dissolving the moment they meet your face. Itâs almost ridiculous, how quickly it happens. Like watching a knife remember it was once a piece of silver meant for candlelight.
Youâre still half-sunk into the bed, hair falling around your shoulders, limbs loose, and sheets wound around your naked body. Around you, it smells of cedar, expensive soap, and Bucky himself, which is somehow warmer than both.
âStay here,â he says gently. âIâll handle it.â
Handle it.
The words mean spreadsheets and contracts in your mind. Annoying colleagues. Late- night negotiations.
He walks back to his bed to press a tender kiss to your forehead.
You push yourself up slightly on your elbows, the blanket sliding down your side. And you definitely see the way his gaze drifts for an appreciative and unashamed moment before it returns to your eyes. There is a small smile tugging at his mouth, and itâs the one you always get to see when youâre the only audience.
âMake yourself at home while Iâm gone, yeah?â he whispers, nodding toward the massive wardrobe along the far wall, keeping his attention on you. âIf you get cold, grab a shirt of mine. Top shelf on the left.â
You smile at him, nodding softly.
His eyes move over you slowly, and there is something warmly adoring in them that makes your chest tighten in a strange, bright way. He reaches out to brush his fingers along your jaw. The touch is thorough, absentmindedly tender, soothing out something only he can see.
âIâm sorry, sweetheart,â he adds, voice rougher now. Reluctant. âDidnât plan on having to step out. Told Sam he better handle his own ass today. Shouldâve known better, though.â
âYouâre the boss, Bucky,â you ease lightly. âI assume dramatic interruptions are part of the brand.â
His mouth curves.
âUnfortunately.â
He kisses your forehead once more, lingering long enough to make your lashes flutter.
âIâll make it up to you,â he murmurs sweetly. âSoon as Iâm done with this.â His thumb traces your cheek. âIâm coming right back. Gonna give you my full attention.â His eyes darken slightly, voice dipping just enough to send a warm shiver through you. âCuddle you properly. Maybe take things a little further.â
Your stomach does a small, excited flip. âMaybe?âyou tease, leaning into his touch.
He presses his smirk against yours. âDefinitely.â
With that, he pulls back and straightens, that sovereign steel slipping back over him piece by piece. Itâs almost visible, the way he steps into whatever role the rest of his world knows him for. The man who answers phones about Sam and things that sound suspiciously more complicated than spreadsheets.
At the door, he glances back once more. Same softness, just for you. âLock it behind me, doll.â
The door opens. His phone lifts to his ear.
His voice changes instantly as he steps into the hallway.
âGet Wilson on the line,â he demands, tone clipped. âNow.â And then the door shuts.
Youâre left in the echo of him and his scent in the sheets, his warmth still imprinted on your skin.
You donât get up immediately to lock the door. He can get just a little too protective sometimes, so you donât deem it necessary to lock the door when heâs just out taking a call. And youâre sure his guards would be in much worse trouble if they were to enter and see you nakedly spread out in his bed.
So you flop back into the mattressâthat certainly was expensive too, due to the way it feelsâand stare at the ceiling for a moment.
Then you laugh, incredulously. A quiet little wheeze of disbelief escaping into the big room.
Because really. What on earth.
You roll onto your side, pulling the blanket with you, and glance around the bedroom again like maybe you hallucinated the last two hours. Or the last two months.
The place is obscene.
And not in a tacky-rich, or gold-fountain rich kind of way. This is the quiet kind of wealth. Everything is polished wood and deep colors and furniture that probably has a historical backstory longer than your rĂŠsumĂŠ.
Thereâs a fireplace bigger than your entire first apartment. A chandelier that looks like it was handcrafted by depressed angels.
And somewhere downstairs, there are actual maids.
Maids.
And guards.
Actual human beings whose job description probably includes phrases like protect the property and stand menacingly near large gates.
Meanwhile, you used to eat instant noodles on a couch that leaned slightly to the left like it had given up on life.
And somehowâhow the fuckâyou have ended up in the bed of a man who owns more suits than you own pairs of socks. A man who is tall and broad and so absurdly handsome, who steps into those razor-sharp tailored suits as though they were invented solely for him. Who wears that self-confident authority in his voice that makes the people around him straighten without realizing why.
And yet, he was on his knees for you just moments ago.
The thought sends heat creeping up your neck again. But in a giddy way.
You bury your face briefly into the pillow with a muffled groan. Because honestly, how did you pull that.
A man like Bucky should logically be dating a diplomat. Or a CEO. Or some terrifyingly poised woman who drinks champagne for breakfast and owns fifteen languages.
Instead, he found you.
You.
Who once tripped over a grocery store display and apologized to the oranges. And yet he looks at you like you hung the moon with questionable hardware.
You grin into the pillow.
Alsoâobjectively speakingâthe man is incredible in bed. Like, itâs crazy.
Biting your lip and staring up at the ceiling, you wonder if the chandelier is as baffled by your luck as you are. Itâs like winning the lottery without buying a ticket, and youâre silently pleading with the laws of probability to stay bent in your favor just a little while longer; at least until he realizes youâre a mere mortal and not the goddess heâs treating you as.
Itâs weird that a man like him noticed you. Weird that heâs so sharp with the world but so gentle with you. Weird that he lives in this fortress of wealth and power and still tells you to steal his shirts if youâre getting cold.
Your eyes drift toward the wardrobe.
Top shelf on the left, he said.
You imagine one of his massive shirts swallowing you as a whole, and snort softly.
Yeah.
You definitely pulled a mob-boss-looking, suit-wearing, ridiculously attentive gentleman who apparently worships the ground you lie naked on.
Weird. Very weird. But youâre not complaining. Youâre just mentally haggling with the universe, offering to never ask for another favor again if it just promises not to reclaim its prize or realize heâs a solid ten and youâre way out of his league.
He told you he runs a company.
You imagine glass walls and long tables and men in suits who nod too quickly while he stands in front of them all in his suit, looking all delicious and hot. You imagine paperwork, meetings, a name etched into metal on an office door. He never corrects you. He only smiles in that small way of hisâenigmatic, a little asymmetrical, a little careful, as if the smile is something he built from spare parts and polished until it gleamed.
Youâve been dating for a short time. And considering the mystery he surrounds himself with, you guess itâs going to take a while until you truly get to know him. Until he truly starts telling you how his day has been and what he has been up toâand what taking a call means in his business.
But he kisses as though heâs been starving in a snowstorm. As though warmth is an endangered species and your mouth is the last sanctuary. His hands are large and soothing, and they never wander without purpose. He touches and handles you like the first blossom of a century-plant, something that has spent a hundred years preparing to bloom for a single day. And he looks at you as if you are that miracle. As if you are the only soft thing in a life built of stone.
And so, you tell yourself, you can wait for him to be ready to talk.
You donât know what he does after midnight. You only know he sometimes steps onto the balcony to take calls. His voice changes there. It drops. He doesnât smooth over his words and instead lets the corners stay pointy. You just never catch his words. The only thing you can do is admire the way the city lights flicker behind him like theyâre afraid of him. Or in awe.
And when he comes back inside, he presses his forehead to yours as if heâs returning from war.
Contemplating, you lie there for a moment longer, staring at the ceiling. Then you sit up.
Itâs not cold, the room is perfectly climate-controlled in that rich-people way where seasons are merely decorative suggestions outside the window; but you suddenly want one of his shirts.
Not for warmth, but for him, for the smell of him, for the proof that this is all actually happening and you are actually here with him somewhere out there in this huge mansion, waiting to get his mouth back on you. For the possibility that his detergentâwhatever luxury forest-scented nonsense it probably isâmight trick your brain into thinking heâs still right there.
You glance toward the wardrobe.
Itâs enormous, who would have guessed. Cathedral enormous. Dark wood doors that probably cost more than your childhood bedroom set. It suggests that Bucky owns multiple versions of the same devastatingly expensive suit.
You slide out of bed and pad across the carpet, which is so soft it feels apologetic for touching your feet. Putting on your underwear for comfort, you make your way over to his wardrobe. The doors open without making a single sound.
You step inside and it feels like even the air is filtered for perfection. Itâs a humbling difference to your own apartment, where the dresser functions less like furniture and more like a high-stakes game of Tetris, with your favorite sweaters perpetually losing the battle against a jammed bottom drawer, and where finding a matching pair of socks requires the luck of a seasoned treasure hunter.
There are rows of shirts, jackets, trousers. Everything spaced just enough apart to breathe. Everything immaculate. A faint scent of sandalwood and something clean and expensive drifts forward to greet you.
You tilt your head up.
The shirt shelf is ambitious.
You stand on your toes but you donât reach anything. You reach higher, basically for nothing. Your fingers waggle uselessly in the air, far away from touching anything.
You sigh.
Because obviously, the man built like a six-foot-something war monument thinks a shelf near the ceiling is perfectly reasonable.
You walk out of the wardrobe and glance back toward the bed. Then toward the chair near the window.
His jacket is draped there. It looks like it belongs at the head of a mahogany table, brokering peace or declaring war with a single sharp lapel. And in between thereâs the shirt heâs tossed aside as soon as you both entered his room, with an untidiness that feels like a glitch in his otherwise perfect Matrix.
Itâs the shirt he didnât bother to put back on when leaving you here. You grin.
Well.
That works too. Perfectly, even.
You wander over, the carpet not letting any sound free. The chair sits near the tall windows, moonlight cascading across the floor in long silver rectangles. It looks graceful somehow. His jacket catches the light along its seams, and you shiver at the thought of how elegant and powerful it makes him look.
You reach for it, intending to lift it aside and claim the bunched shirt.
But the moment you grab the jacket, something feels off. Itâs heavy. Not normal-jacket heavy. Weighted. You frown faintly, adjusting your grip. You pick it up fully, wanting to fold it neatly, when something slips out of it.
Thereâs a short, dense thud against the floor. It makes you freeze.
The object lands on the dark carpet inches from your toe; a short, metallic punctuation mark in the silence. It drinks in the chandelierâs glow and spits it back out with a cold, silver arrogance. It ignites an unmistakable shimmer that makes the air in the room feel ten degrees colder.
Your brain takes a second to translate the shape.
Itâs a gun.
You stare at it.
The word sits adamantly on the floor of your mind and turns the room into a crime scene before anything has even happened. Itâs a sharp fracture in the timelineâthere is the version of you from five seconds ago, and the version of you staring at a hunk of lethal metal.
This thing is real. Very real. Not movie-real. Not plastic-prop-real. More like heavy-metal-object-that-could-alter-the-entire-direction-of-a Tuesday-real.
Your knees grow weak and you crouch down so very slowly. Who knows, maybe sudden movements can already trigger it. Youâve never seen a real gun. You never expected you would, not like this, at least. This feels pretty surreal.
The jacket still hangs half off the chair behind you. The shirt you wanted is crumpled innocently beneath it, but youâre not grabbing it.
Your attention remains on the gun. You donât touch it.
Itâs not like your heart is racing noticeably, but there is a new tightness in your chest and itâs making you feel as though your thoughts all have quietly stood up at once.
Because. Right. Of course.
You know Bucky runs a company.
You know heâs wealthy enough to own a mansion that probably requires a map and a tour guide.
You know he has guards. Actual guards. You knew all that.
But with this gun sitting there on the carpet, it feels like looking through a new lens that snaps the blurry facts you know of this man into a slightly different focus.
If itâs frightening, youâre not sure, but itâs definitely clarifying.
You sit back on your heels for a moment, staring at it. He carried this in his jacket pocket. Casually. Just around. Like a wallet. Or keys.
Your mind tries to rewind through the past weeks. The way he watches exits. The midnight phone calls. The men who seem oddly respectful around him. The commanding note in his voice when he tells someone to do something.
You bite your lip, a hectic internal editor trying to bridge the gap between the little you know about the man and the metal youâve found. You tell yourself not to panic, because panicking wonât give you any answers. And thereâs no need to panic, because heâs just a man with power, a man whoâs a boss and bosses tend to have people who donât like them.
Thatâs no reason to use a gun on anyone, but itâs probably just a formality. A piece of insurance stored away like a fire extinguisher you hope to never use. Maybe itâs not meant for violence at all, just for peace of mind.
Heâs protective. Youâve seen and felt it. Just last week, he was absolutely livid, after one of his guards stepped out of line with one of his maids, whoâs this sweet old woman who had been with his family since his fatherâs time. He was in such a blind tailspin over it, and your soothing touch was the only thing that was able to pull him back to earth.
He would build a wall around everyone he cares about just to keep the wind from blowing too hard. Perhaps this gun is just part of that wall, a safety he keeps close so he never has to feel helpless. It doesn't have to mean heâs dangerous. It just means heâs prepared. Itâs a precaution, a tool, a just in case that will likely collect dust until the end of time.
You try to settle the thought, but it feels like trying to pin a map against your chest in a storm; the harder you flatten your palms against the paper, the more wind tunnels through the gaps, ballooning the center and snatching the corners from your grip. If you manage to squash one section still, the air pockets behind the rest, turning the whole thing into a thrashing thing that fights to fold itself back up or fly away entirely. No matter what you do, no matter how much you lean into it, the wind will always be a second faster. The wind will always have the upper hand, hollowing out the space between your hands and the whole truth you are trying to read.
You just have to believe that the man who touches his girl so carefully is the same man who would only ever use that steel to keep the world at bay.
Your gaze lingers on it.
You donât know much about guns. Your knowledge is mostly assembled from movies, news articles, and the vague understanding that they belong firmly in the category of things you should probably treat with respect. And it definitely belongs to a world youâve never really stepped into before.
But apparently, Bucky lives there.
You glance toward the door he disappeared through. This is the guy who permitted you to steal his clothes, who pressed a kiss to your forehead with the softest lips. When he looks at you, itâs with that specific focus, that startled sort of wonder that always makes you feel so over-exposed, but also exponentially adored.
Your chest softens despite yourself. Still.
You eye the gun again, and one thing has become very clear in the last thirty seconds. You might be dating a man you know less about than you thought.
And that realization sits in the room with you now, waiting for you to act on it.
But you donât know how. You simply keep staring. The chandelier light kisses its metal edges until they gleam faintly, indifferent to the fact that your brain is currently eroding into a new shape.
You swallow, and even that sounds strange in the imposing space, like it wandered too far from home.
Leaving this thing on the floor feels wrong.
And if Bucky comes back and sees it there... You donât know why, but the thought makes your stomach tighten.
So you reach down, only now seeing that your hands are slightly wavering. Your fingers close around the grip, and the first thing you notice is the weight. Itâs heavier than it looks, solid in a way that makes your palm immediately aware that this object was designed with very serious intentions.
You lift it slowly. Nothing happens, obviously. The world doesnât explode. The chandelier doesnât shatter. The mansion continues breathing its wealthy breath around you.
But holding it still feels like stepping one inch deeper into a room you didnât know existed.
You turn it slightly, meaning only to orient it so you can slide it neatly back into the inside pocket of his jacket, but you spot an engraving, small letters carved into the dark handle.
JBB
Your brow furrows. You stare at them for a moment, tracing the edges with your eyes.
The metal around the letters looks softened. Not scratched exactly, but worn in the way objects get when theyâve lived in someoneâs hand for a long time. Like a favorite pen. Or a well-loved watch.
If guns can look old, this one does. Itâs not antique-old, but familiar-old.
You tilt your head. JBB. You try to assemble a name around the letters. The only name you know for the man currently pacing somewhere in this mansion making serious phone calls is Bucky.
Just Bucky.
You donât know his last name, you realize suddenly, and you donât like that.
You know his favorite whiskey. You know the exact shape of the scar on his shoulder. You know the way he presses his nose into your hair when he tries to calm himself down.
But his last name leaves a blank space in your mind. You glance down at the gun again.
JBB.
Maybe it belongs to someone else. Someone with a J. Jake? James? John? Jacob?
Maybe itâs a family thing. Maybe it belonged to his father. Maybe itâs one of those rich-man- heirloom objects that get passed down through generations alongside cufflinks and complicated legacies.
You exhale quietly.
That explanation sounds reasonable enough that you decide to borrow it for the moment.
Very carefully, and with explicit intent, you slide the gun back into the inside pocket of his jacket. The fabric settles around it like it knows exactly where itâs needed.
You smooth the lapel automatically.
There.
No evidence.
Your fingers linger on the jacket for a second longer than you want.
It still smells like him. Clean soap. Dried tobacco. Something stronger beneath it that you canât put a name to but always recognize immediately as Bucky.
You step back, and suddenly the room feels different. Not threatening, but it does feel larger still.
Because now your brain is busy counting the things you donât know.
You donât know his last name.
You donât really know what his company does.
You donât know why men knock on his bedroom door looking nervous.
You donât know why he carries a gun like itâs just another accessory.
You rub your arms lightly, because now there is a faint prickle of awareness crawling along your thoughts and it is spreading throughout your body.
Youâve been dating for six weeks. Is this long enough to demand answers? To justify interrogations? Gosh, youâre not sure. Youâre not sure about a lot of things right now, really. Youâve been floating through the beginning partâthe sweet, dizzy, honeymoon fog where the only facts that matter are the ones you feel.
But now thereâs a small string of sunlight sliding through the fog. A string of curiosity. You turn back toward the bed where your clothes lie in a small, careless pile.
Maybe youâre overthinking this.
Maybe.
Still.
You pull your shirt over your head, the fabric rustling softly in the quiet room. Your jeans follow, and then your fingers reach automatically for the necklace resting on the nightstand.
The pearls catch the light when you lift them. Bucky gave it to you two weeks ago.
Itâs delicate. Real pearls, because he just can. Everything about him seems to come with an expensive quality attached.
You remember the way he looked when he gave it to you. Almost shy, which was deeply unfair considering how the man is built.
Saw it and thought of you, heâd said. Think about you all the time, heâd added.
Which had melted approximately seventy percent of your internal structure. You fasten the necklace and touch it lightly now.
Gentleman.
Ridiculously good in bed.
Mysterious.
Possibly carrying engraved guns.
You sigh.
You feel a little guilty. Because what youâre about to do is technically snooping. And snooping is not great. Your mother would absolutely deliver a lecture about boundaries if she could see you right now.
You glance around the massive room again. The desk by the window. The bookshelves. The curated neatness of everything.
You bite your lip. Youâre not looking for secrets. Youâre just looking for context. A clue. A name.
Something that tells you who Bucky is when he isnât kissing your forehead and telling you to raid his closet.
Your feet move before your conscience can finish filing complaints.
Your steps make no sound as you move across the carpet, wandering deeper into the room and scanning the shelves and surfaces with a caution that canât suppress your intrigue.
You donât need all the answers. Just one or two. So you start with the obvious places.
Drawers.
It feels less intrusive somehow; opening something that was clearly meant to be opened. You move slowly, like a guest in a museum after hours, careful fingers, quiet breath, a mild sense that the walls might be watching.
The first drawer slides out with a wooden noise and even that sounds rich. Inside, there are watches. Several of them, lined neatly in velvet compartments. Dark metal, silver, leather straps. You donât know brands, but you know enough to guess that each one probably costs more than your car.
You close the drawer.
The next one holds cufflinks. Rows of them. Small polished things that look important and serious and entirely uninterested in your investigation.
And it only goes on this way. You open drawer after drawer, and there is nothing strange. Nothing suspicious. Just the belongings of a very wealthy man who liked things neat.
Your shoulders loosen a little. Maybe you overreacted. Maybe the gun is just a rich man's security thing. The guards downstairs carry them too, probably. It doesnât automatically mean anything bad.
You open another drawer.
Paperwork. Boring looking things. A passport tucked neatly inside a leather sleeve. You hesitate for half a second before closing it again.
That one definitely feels like crossing a line.
You step away from the wardrobe and wander toward the nightstand instead.
The wood gleams darkly under the chandelier.
You pull open the top drawer.
More ordinary things. Wallets. Sunglasses. A small tray of rings.
Further back in the drawer, you find a small stack of Polaroids. You fish them out, because you recognize the first picture. Itâs a picture of Bucky and you from a few weeks ago. You had found an old Polaroid camera and wanted to try it out, practically levering him into the frame while he grumbled about how he wasnât photogenic which was total bullshit in your eyes. But he isnât even looking at the camera in the photo. He is looking at you with a fond little half-smile.
Looking at a few others, you realize they are of you. All of them. One is a shot of your back as you walk toward a sunset, another is a blurred profile of you sleeping on his shoulder.
There is a warmth prickling at the back of your neck and you feel something slacken inside your stomach as you slowly lower the photos back where they were.
Nothing about all of this screams crime lord. Your nerves ease another notch.
You almost laugh at yourself. Your brain likes to get dramatic. Bucky is archiving your relationship, he is sweet and protective and tender and justâ
As you are about to pull your hand out, your fingers brush against something cold and metallic near the back of the drawer.
You pause.
Itâs partially hidden beneath a folded black cloth. Just the faint glint of a chain catching the light.
Curiosity taps gently on your shoulder.
You slide the cloth aside and notice the silver chain. Itâs thin and tangled loosely like itâs been dropped there without much thought.
You hook your finger under it and lift. Something heavier at the end slips free. Two small metal plates fall against each other with a quiet clink.
Dog tags.
You blink.
Thatâs not strange, exactly. Lots of people keep sentimental things. Maybe Bucky served in the military. That would even make him hotter, to be real. But it does feel a little hurtful that he didnât share this information with you.
You turn the tags over idly, expecting to see a name you donât recognize. However, though, you do recognize the name thatâs neatly spelled out on the metal plate. And it has the air in your lungs turn to stone, refusing to move a single inch.
James Buchanan Barnes.
Your stomach drops in such a harsh way, there is no ending to the fall. Your internal organs are unmoored and everything about you feels dizzy and weightless. Itâs like stepping down a staircase that isnât there. Youâre still gripping the metal, but the connection between your brain and your hands has been cut, and now your fingers feel distant and wooden, filled with a needling sensation you know comes right before they start to shake.
And they do shake.
A thin tremor at first, then worse, until the tags begin to chatter against each other. Each sharp nick of the steel feels so biting and loud, broadcasting the exact moment you are losing it.
Your mind flips through memory like rifling a deck of cards too fast.
News headlines.
Conversations overheard in cafĂŠs.
Podcasts about organized crime.
New Yorkâs most notorious mob boss.
The man whose name floats through the city like a ghost story told after midnight. James Buchanan Barnes.
JBB.
Heat rushes up the back of your neck while the rest of you goes ice-cold. It feels like standing in two climates at onceâyour skin clammy, your spine rigid, a cold sweat blooming between your shoulder blades.
Every breath you pull in is labored and metallic, coating your lungs in a film of disbelief that makes your chest ache. You can almost hear the gears of your reality grinding to a convulsive, screeching halt, stripping the teeth right off the life you thought you were living.
Your pulse is a furious SOS tapped out against the underside of your throat; a muddled, thrumming reminder that you are standing in the epicenter of a storm you didn't even know was brewing. You feel thin, translucent, like a sketch of a person that someone could erase with a single, hard look.
Your fingers tighten around the dog tags. No.
No no no.
Your brain scrambles to reject it. Because thatâs outrageous.
That manâthe one people call dangerous in all kinds of languages, the one whose operations stretch across half the city, the one who apparently runs things so carefully that no one has ever managed to pin a crime on himâ
That man is a myth.
A shadow.
A name in newspapers. No photos. No confirmed identity.
Just whispers.
James Buchanan Barnes.
JBB
You stare at the letters again. You recall the way his initials were engraved in the gun.
Your mind scrambles for explanationsâwrong tags, coincidence, someone else with the same nameâbut every attempt at reason breaks apart in your hands.
Bucky. James. Bucky. James.
James Bucky Barnes.
Your eyes drift slowly across the room.
The suits.
The mansion.
The guards.
The midnight phone calls.
The seriousness.
The gun.
Your hands are shaking tremendously. JBB.
James.
Buchanan.
Barnes.
Your mind repeats it over and over again. The math is suddenly very simple.
He kissed your forehead fifteen minutes ago. He told you to steal his shirt if you get cold. He gifted you present after present because he simply could. He spoke your name as if he had ingrained it on his tongue.
He is the most dangerous man in the city.
Something uncomfortably glaring and stinging climbs up the back of your neck, and itâs making you feel watched by a predator you once mistook for a protector.
Youâve heard the stories. Everyone has. Illegal shipments. Rival gangs disappearing overnight. Entire businesses quietly changing ownership after one meeting with Barnes.
And yet there is no evidence. Never evidence. Just the name. James Buchanan Barnes. The general public doesnât know what he looks like. There are no confirmed photographs. Just rumors.
But you know exactly what he looks like. You know the way his hair falls into his eyes when heâs tired. You know the scars on his body, know his reactions to your lips on them. You know the exact sound he makes when you laugh unexpectedly.
You are standing in the bedroom of the most notorious mob boss in New York. Wearing the pearl necklace he gave you.
Sleeping in his bed.
Dating him.
For fucks sake, heâs been inside you. You came on the most wanted dick in this city.
The walls of his seemingly huge room, so pristine and elegant, now seem to turn from a sanctuary into a beautifully curated cage.
You have been falling for the most dangerous man in the entire city and until two minutes ago, you had absolutely no idea.
Your hand moves to put the dog tags back in their place, but itâs like youâve switched to autopilot. Your fingers operate with a sense of detachment while your mind is still a mile behind, screaming.
You lower the chain back into the velvet-lined dark with a tremble you canât shake. You should crush it in your fist, should throw it at the ground and stomp around on it, should spit on it for what this man didâto the world, to youâbut all you can do is handle it with a carefulness that is usually reserved for unexploded ordnance.
The metal hits the bottom with a tiny clink. The sound is so small, yet it feels like a heavy iron gate slamming shut between who you were five minutes ago and who you are now.
You slide the drawer shut, the wood-on-wood glide sounding like a long, slow exhale of a secret thatâs finally been caught. You do it with agonizing slowness, as if by moving quietly enough, you can trick the universe into rewinding the last sixty seconds, or rather the last months so you could have avoided stumbling into his strong but deceiving arms.
And immediately, your brain begins doing what brains do best when frightenedâit rewrites the past with fresh ink.
Everything changes. Everything. You look around the bedroom again. But itâs not the same room anymore. Itâs not a beautiful space where you spent evenings laughing and tangled in sheets with a man who handled you like he was scared to hurt you.
Now itâs a room belonging to James Buchanan Barnes. Mob boss. Ruler of the underworld. The man people whisper about like saying his name too loudly might summon him like the devil.
Your stomach is curled into a hard stone, your fingers still numb. And suddenly every memory of the last few weeks starts recoding itself.
You remember the first gift he gave you. Not the pearls. The flowers. Three dozen white lilies delivered to your apartment door a day after your first date.
Youâd laughed at the absurdity of it, calling him to tell him that this is too much, way too much, but he had smirked over the phone, so soft and unabashed, only replying that you deserve it, that you deserve way more than that.
At the time it felt romantic. But now your mind shears the memory, leaving the colors bled and the angles wrong. You turn all the memories of him over in the light until the shadows fall differently, until they take on shapes that start to build a picture.
Maybe it wasnât romance. Maybe it was a strategy. Because thatâs what men like him do, right? They buy people. They build golden cages out of small, glittering gestures.
You rub your arms slowly.
Another memory surfaces. The restaurant. The one with the insane skyline view where the waiters treated him like visiting royalty.
Youâd joked about it. Do you secretly own this place?
Heâd smiled that slow, mysterious smile of his and simply offered you more wine. He had looked so pleased.
Tension coils behind your ribs, but your mind keeps going.
The necklace. The pearls. One month together and he gives you something that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe.
You had protested. Heâd looked almost offended. He pouted at you. He looked so adorably soft, so hopeful you would take this gift from him, that you thought it to be sweet.
Maybe a little over-the-top.
But that was just Bucky, is what you thought. A little intense. A little larger than life.
However, now the thought hatches, its spindly legs prickling against your focus.
He wasnât spoiling you, he was buying you. Buying your affection. Buying your trust. Buying your silence.
Heat floods your face. Shame webs across your heart in a dark lace of regret. You feel so embarrassed. It spreads across your whole chest and even stains the air around you.
Because you fell for it. You idiot fell for it.
Hook, line, and embarrassingly enthusiastic sinker.
You believed the soft way he looked at you. The way his voice dropped when he said your name. The way he kissed you like he had been wandering the desert and you were the first water heâd seen in years.
You believed the way he listened to you ramble about dumb things like your coworkers, your favorite movies, the stupid podcast you liked.
You believed the way he touched you. Gentle and devoted, and it all seemed so loving.
Your throat is tight, turned into parchment, the soft tissue shrinking and hardening until it feels ready to crack. Because all that might have been a performance. A simple performance to fool you.
Of course, he would know how to act. Of course, he would know how to charm someone. Men like that survive on manipulation.
But you donât understand why itâs you. Why you of all people? Youâre not wealthy. Not powerful. Not connected.
Which somehow makes it all the more humiliating because maybe thatâs exactly why. You imagine the possibilities, and each one feels worse than the last.
Maybe he needed someone clean. Someone with no ties to his world. Someone who could unknowingly hold something for him. Transport something. Sign something. Test something.
Maybe you were never a girlfriend, but a tool. A pawn. A convenient, smiling civilian. Someone harmless enough that no one would suspect anything.
Your hand flies to your mouth to stifle a sound that hasnât even formed, but you cannot lock out your mind, and a keener thought pushes through.
What if he didnât need you for anything practical at all? What if you were just entertainment?
A normal girl to play house with for a few weeks. A soft distraction between grating business meetings and dangerous deals.
Your eyes and cheeks burn at the thought that somewhere behind those soft eyes and tender hands, he might have been laughing at how easily you melted. How quickly you trusted him.
You feel sick. Your stomach heaves in a frantic attempt to purge the very air you breathe. It drags liquid heat up from your gut to your searing cheeks.
Your gaze drifts to the chair by the window. His jacket still hangs there. Inside it, the gun rests quietly.
Your stomach flips again.
Because suddenly it feels impossible that the man who carried that gun tonight was the same man who tucked the blanket around you earlier, who swiped his tongue against your pussy this deliciously and stopped you from hiding your reactions.
It was simply a power play, and god, are you a stupid girl.
You hear his voice in your head again. Stay here. Lock the door.
A shiver runs down your spine. Because now the words sound different. There is none of that protective and caring cadence. All you hear is a command. Containment. Showing you he is the one with the power, he is the one dealing the cards.
Oh, god. What have you gotten yourself into. This is definitely the worst thing yet.
You know you have to get the hell out of here. High-tail it. Let your panic lend wings to your feet to carry you the fuck out of the devilâs quarters.
You absolutely cannot still be in this room when he comes back. Pretending you didnât notice the gun was one thing. Pretending you didnât discover who he actually is, is another thing entirely.
The lie would be too large. It would sit between you like a loaded weapon much deeper and more fatal than that damned gun.
Your pulse is a vibrating scream inside your throat, your chest, your whole body, because what happens when he sees that you know?
What does a man like James Buchanan Barnes do with loose ends?
Fear and dread pin your lungs against your ribs and make the hairs on your arms stand up.
You donât want to find out. You grab your phone from the nightstand with shaking hands. Inside your mind, your thoughts are colliding and yelling at one another, memories reshaping themselves into something darker.
He was so worshipful. So attentive. So careful with you.
And it hurts. It hurts so fucking bad.
He really is the best actor youâve ever met.
You glance once more around the room. The bed. The wardrobe. The luxury of everything.
Then you head for the door. Because whatever this was, whatever he was, you need to be gone before James Buchanan Barnes comes back.
There is that low, now seemingly threatening rattle vibrating through the wood of the door. Somewhere down the long dark of the hallway, a mess of voices spills outâtoo muffled to catch the words, just a low drone. Then thereâs the sound of footsteps on the marble, over and over, like a pendulum, until it gets softened by the rugs.
Itâs eerie how this place just functions. No clanking, no friction. Just the invisible, midnight grinding of a house that knows exactly how to keep itself running while everyone else is dead to the world.
Bucky's house.
Noâyour mind corrects strictly.
James Buchanan Barnesâs house.
You inhale slowly, steadying yourself, and turn the handle.
The door gives a tiny, smug click, and you step out slowly, looking around to see nobody.
Ahead, the hallway just stretches out forever, all that dark, expensive wood shimmering under these wall lamps that just stare at you, glowing like something waiting for its turn to speak.
Itâs wide enough that you expect a massive echo, but the carpet is so thick it just eats your footsteps. Itâs unsettling. The whole place feels like itâs sucked in its gut, just holding its breath, waiting to see if youâll decide to jump through the floor-to-ceiling windows to your right in your desperation to leave this place.
The door closes behind you, and even though it doesnât really make a sound, you flinch so hard, your little jump through the window plan might be accidental.
Your heart begins to pound harder now that youâve left the safetyâno, the illusionâof the bedroom.
Because this house feels much larger and colder out here. Maybe you should have taken the gun with you. But you donât know how to use such a thing, because youâre a normal person, and normal people donât carry those things around like an innocent handbag.
You take a few unsure steps and it feels like youâve stepped backstage at a theater and suddenly realized the play you were enjoying might actually be a crime scene.
You know the way to the front door.
He walked you through the mansion when you first visited, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back, guiding you through endless rooms and hallways with an easy familiarity that felt charming at the time.
But you know better and realize he was just showing you the cage. But at least you were paying attention. Every turn, every hallway he bragged about is burned into your head. That charming tour just became the only map out of here.
Two hallways down. Past the staircase. Through the long gallery with the ample paintings.
Then the front entrance.
Simple.
Except for the fact that his mansion is apparently populated by a small army.
Maids. Guards. Staff who move through the house like quiet satellites orbiting the gravity of one man.
These were all signs you simply overlooked because heâs handsome. You bite the inside of your cheek out of frustration with yourself. How can one person be so fucking blind.
You start walking.
Your footsteps are soft, but your heartbeat is anything but.
A maid appears at the far end of the corridor just as you round the corner, and everything inside you locks up.
She pauses when she sees you, instantly throwing you a smile that genuinely looks pleasant. She recognizes you. You donât recognize her. Your stomach turns and turns until it is knotted too tight to even be able to move.
âMiss,â she starts politely. âArenât you feeling well?â
You force a smile that you hope doesnât look like itâs made entirely of nerves and the urge to run down this hall, disappearing out of sight.
âHi,â you say, keeping your voice light, a little apologetic. âSorryâ I just... I think I need some fresh air. I have a bit of a headache.â
The lie comes out smoother than you expected. Maybe panic is a good acting coach.
The maidâs expression softens immediately. She even looks a little too concerned for you for whatever reason.
âOf course,â she says sweetly, and you actually feel bad for lying to her. Does she know who sheâs working for? Does she know who you are supposed to be for the man who is her boss? Maybe you could ask her. Maybe she would shoot you for it, who knows. Maybe everyone in this godforsaken building owns a gun, ready to use it. âWould you like me to call the bossââ
âNo,â you interrupt quickly, then soften the urgency with a small laugh. âNo, itâs fine. Heâs busy with work, right? I donât want to bother him.â
You hate how natural the sentence sounds. How easily you can say work when you now know that word hides a thousand darker things.
The maid nods, but she does seem a little hesitant. âOf course.â Thankfully, she leaves it at that.
With the wish for you to feel better soon, and an awkward thank you from your side, you continue walking.
One corridor.
Then another.
Your mind keeps racing ahead of your body, building plans like emergency scaffolding.
It all suddenly looks so terrifyingly menacing. Especially in the dark. It feels so much like a trap. The lights are down and the shadows feel like theyâre actually reaching for you. Thereâs this dreadful, suffocating weight pressing out from the walls, like the house itself is holding a grudge. Your skin is crawling, and the air feels too thick to actually get into your lungs. Itâs stale, as though itâs been sitting in a basement for a hundred years, and now the building has finally stopped pretending to be a home and turned into a giant cave with only dead ends so you will never have a way out and will end up as a rotting corpse in some forgotten corner.
The dark walls feel like they are crowding your shoulders. Those deep red carpets are laid out just a little too perfectly, too insistent on keeping you in the center of the floor. Walking down those corridors feels like being threaded through a needle.
And itâs not that the place is ever actually quiet, itâs just that every sound here is on a leash. There is the clink of glass coming from somewhere deep in the gut of the mansion. The dry, dusty thud of footsteps on rugs that are probably more worth than your life in the eyes of the mob boss. Voices that stay low and thick, never quite hitting the walls. Itâs too disciplined. Itâs a silence thatâs been trained to keep its mouth shut.
He probably wonât notice you slinking out of his home. However, what he will definitely notice, is that you will never see him again, or answer his texts or calls. So that will be a problem.
The man owns a gun, and whatever else he can kill people with. So you canât go home, is what you think as you descend the wide staircase. When you get out of here, you canât flee to your apartment.
Because he knows where you live. He picked you up there. Dropped you off there. Walked you to your door like the perfect gentleman.
You almost laugh at the bitter irony.
The most dangerous man in the city knows your address. He played the perfect gentleman just to find out where and how you live.
Which means going home would be like walking back into a trap youâve just barely escaped.
But you know just who is badass enough to help you out of this situation. Natasha.
Natasha lives across town. Natasha answers calls at ungodly hours. Natasha once helped you move apartments at two in the morning with nothing but her wry commentary and a borrowed truck.
You could stay with her. For a few days, weeks, maybe even longer. You know she wonât mind. Sheâs just that kind of friend.
You could figure things out from there.
Your hand tightens slightly around your phone as you reach the bottom of the stairs.
Youâll text her once youâre outside.
Not before.
Because paranoia is part of your bloodstream now, and who knows who might glance at your screen, who might casually mention later that they saw you messaging someone.
So you keep walking until the entrance hall opens before you like the lobby of a five-star hotel. Itâs extensive, with vast floors and tall ceilings and capacious doors at the far end like the exit to another world, a world you want so desperately to be a part of again.
You wipe your clammy hands on your thighs and try to mentally prepare yourself for this last step.
You cross the obsidian floor toward the doors with what you hope resembles casual determination.
Not too fast. Fast looks guilty. Not too slow. Slow looks hesitant.
You aim for something in betweenâthe walk of a woman with a mild headache and absolutely no catastrophic revelations fluttering around inside her skull.
God, everything about the place seems so much darker now. The darkness even slinks upward into the walls, which are paneled in matte-finished ebony that drinks the light before it can reach the corners. There is no glow, not the one you imagined when you first walked in here, hand in hand with a man you thought you could fall so deeply for and would be safe with. But everything now feels iterative and cold and to feel safe means to leave and never return.
The guards notice you immediately.
Two of them stand beside the colossal front doors, tall shapes in dark suits, shoulders squared in that particular way men stand when their job description includes the possibility of violence. Theyâve always been polite to you before. Quietly respectful. The way staff are supposed to be with someone important to the man who owns the house. You only now know the direction this importance takes.
They both straighten slightly when you approach.
âMaâam,â the left one says with a deep voice that gives nothing away.
You offer another careful smile, layering it with just enough exhaustion to make your earlier excuse believable.
âIâm heading out,â you say, keeping your tone breezy, like this is the most normal thing in the world to do in the middle of the night after spending hours in their bossâs bed. âI have a headache, and donât want to interrupt Bucky while heâs working.â
Your voice nearly stumbles over the name.
Bucky.
The harmless version.
The one that belongs to the man who kissed you like you mattered. Not the one attached to James Buchanan Barnes.
The guard on the left side of the door glances at the other one. Itâs subtle, but you see it. A quick trade of communication.
Then he looks back at you.
âBoss aware youâre leaving, maâam?â
The way he uses the word boss makes bile rise up your throat. You are actually getting a headache.
You force yourself to keep smiling.
âOh, heâs busy,â you say lightly, waving a hand as if this entire situation is mildly inconvenient but otherwise harmless. âI would feel bad for bothering him while heâs working. And I could use some fresh air and a little rest. So I thought I would just head home.â
Neither guard moves. The doors remain closed.
You swallow tightly, and it feels like thereâs a stone coming down your throat along with it, which makes your limbs feel heavier.
âI will call him,â the second guard offers, already reaching toward the small device clipped at his belt.
âNo,â you blurt too quickly.
Both men look at you again, and your pulse tumbles when you feel a subtle shift sliding into place, into the invisible perimeter around this house, the machinery of control that keeps things exactly where James Buchanan Barnes wants them.
Your throat feels dry. Your voice tries to find a hiding place inside the hallway of your throat. You pull yourself together as best you can. âThatâs really not necessary,â you add, softer this time, trying to patch over the crack you just made in your own story. âItâs just a headache. I donât want him to be distracted by that. You can just let him know I left once he is done.â
The first guard studies you more closely now. He doesnât seem suspicious exactly, but he does seem cautious.
And suddenly the hallway behind you feels very long. Too long. Because if they call him, and he walks in here while youâre standing at the door trying to escape his mansionâ
Your thoughts spiral into vile possibilities faster than you can control them.
What does a mob boss do to a girl like you when he realizes she has discovered his identity? Certainly no good things.
Your heart pounds so loudly, itâs a single roar all around your skull. You feel hot, so hot, you could burst into flames.
The second guard lifts the radio slightly, eyes on you. âSirââ
âBaby?â
The voice comes from behind you and it sounds so soft. Confused.
Your insides startle into a panic so bright, you turn blind for a second.
Your entire body freezes up.
Baby.
A freezing shiver breaks loose at the base of your skull and slides all the way down to your heels.
Baby.
The word traces the line of your back, making every hair stand up.
Baby.
You know you have to react in other ways than fear to your so-called boyfriend, so you turn around slowly, trying to unpin your strained expression.
Heâs standing halfway across the hall.
Except, now he looks like a stranger.
While he was gone and taking that business phone call, he had changed into one of his perfectly tailored suits. The charcoal wool is stiff and sits snugly, and it would have ignited a heated flutter in your lower belly just an hour earlier, but now it just makes him look malevolent. He looks terrifying in his elegance. So symmetrical, your lungs are wheezing out of sheer fright.
The sweat on your skin, once warm from him, has now turned into a layer of ice. You look at him and think that no, this man doesnât love you. All you have been to him is a soft room he stepped into to wash off the smell of whatever he does in that suit.
The business he talked about isnât spreadsheets and meetings. Itâs the way the two guards behind you have gone absolutely still, like dogs waiting for a whistle.
He looks dangerous. You have never associated Bucky with direct danger, only with protecting you from danger. But this is not a boyfriendâs posture, itâs a kingâs. Even that softly confused frown he is giving you doesnât make him seem less threatening. Itâs just the look of a man who owns everything he sees and knows what to do with it.
Bucky.
Except now your brain whispers the other name.
James.
Every inch of that expensive tailoring screams that he could have you erased before his morning coffee, and he wouldnât even get a crease in his trousers.
While you were falling in love, he was just managing a distraction.
Your heart is breaking all over again.
âWhat are you doing down here?â His voice sounds the same as always, and yet it doesnât.
The guards immediately straighten although he is talking to you, though you wish he wouldnât.
âSir,â one of them starts, but Bucky lifts a hand slightly without even looking at them, silencing whatever explanation they were about to offer.
His eyes are on you. Only you. Concern tightens his face almost immediately.
There is a cold needle threading through your nerves. You feel like a deer that has been eating out of a hunterâs hand, only just now noticing the rifle leaning against the tree.
âIââ Your voice nearly betrays you, cracking halfway through the first syllable. Act. You have to act. You drag in a breath and force your shoulders to loosen, shoving your face into something resembling mild embarrassment rather than existential terror. âI wasnât feeling well,â you lie, carefully smoothing your tone. âI didnât want to interrupt you. It seemed pretty important.â You look toward the door, turning your body slightly with it in a gesture of longing. âSo I planned on just heading home.â
His brows only pull further together, his expression turning deeper, and it doesnât make this better at all. âYouâre the only important thing, sweetheart. You know that.â His voice is low, but how does he manage to make it sound this gentle? Even soft.
Oh god, heâs coming closer. Of course, heâs coming closer, heâs your boyfriend, pretending to be your boyfriend, pretending to be worried, because his girl allegedly has a headache and wants to leave when he promised earlier to continue pleasing her in bed and asked her to stay and lock the door behind him because he doesnât expect her to leave in the middle of the night.
But that doesnât make it any easier for you to handle, doesnât make your body react less in the horrifying way that this scary man is moving toward you, and he doesnât know you know what kind of scary he is.
You feel your body fight against itself. You want to swirl around, run, bolt, fly through the door outside into the night, never to be seen again. Or at least not by him and his people. But you canât. You have to stay, you have to remain planted to the floor. Even taking one step back would be a fatal mistake.
And suddenly heâs right there with all his tallness and built, and he still looks warm, but so much more intimidating.
You feel your insides shrink into themselves, your heart slipping into a corner somewhere deep.
The sheer scale of him in that suit makes your stomach drop. He is not a man, he is an entire system of brutality hidden behind a charming smile and gold cufflinks.
You shiver at the fact that your boyfriend could end a life with a nod of his head, and then come home and press his face into your neck as if his hands were clean.
âYouâre not feeling well?â His voice drops into a frequency that is meant to be gentle and soothing, but for you, it just sounds like the rumble of an engine. The furrow in his brow grows shadows on his forehead. His eyes shift between yours so fast and piercing, with such a concentrated focus, scanning for the source of your pain as if he could kill it for you.
His hand comes up instinctively, the same way it always does when heâs worried about you, or when heâs not. Itâs just normal for him to touch you. But watching his hand move toward you this time makes your back stiffen and a ring of alarm sounds out in your skull, shrill and poignant.
His fingers brush your cheek.
Your skin crawls of its own accord, and you flinch. You force your reaction to be small, but you canât suppress it entirely. Your brain blanks, and your heart strikes high.
His hand stills, and so does your heart as it feels like.
Bucky notices everything. You guess it comes in handy with being the most wanted crime boss in the city.
His eyes sharpen slightly, and his concern turns more piercing. He looks at his hand still hovering awkwardly, then at you. His eyes are distraught, hinting at something deeper that just broke in two. And he looks so deeply puzzled.
âHey,â he lets out, and it sounds a little raspy. You scramble.
âIâm sorry,â you breathe quickly, forcing a small laugh that sounds thin even to your own ears. âIâm just a little dizzy, I think.â
He studies you for a long moment.
The guards are silent now and you feel them watching from behind your back.
The house feels too quiet, too attentive, too alert.
Jamesâ hand lowers slowly, though his gaze doesnât leave your face.
âYouâre pale,â he acknowledges, his voice grainy. He sounds like he is holding his breath.
You shrug weakly. âYeah, well. Not my best look.â
Heâs not smiling, and you start sweating. How did you never notice just how scary this man looks.
Heâs thinking. You can see it. Pieces moving behind that stormy gaze. Your heart hammers harder.
Please donât see it.
Please donât see that you know.
He exhales slowly, then reaches for your hand, and he doesnât do it possessively, nor roughly, just tenderly closing his fingers around yours.
âCome with me,â he says quietly, and it could sound like a plea if he werenât the man that he is.
Your skin is a furnace. You might explode. You force a shaky breath, praying he doesnât hear the way your heart is trying to kick its way out of your ribs.
âBucky, I really justââ
âI know,â he cuts in softly, but there is something thick and hunted in the way he talks. âJust a minute.â
He looms over you with his whole presence and those intensely fevered eyes and he sucks the oxygen clean out of your lungs.
He nods toward the hallway behind him.
âMy office is right there. Weâll sit down for a second, make sure youâre okay. And if you think Iâd let you go home alone with a headache you can think again, doll.â
Doll.
God, you really have been stupid. Doll.
This is not a sweet endearment. This is literal. You are a thing made of porcelain that he is scared of droppingâor since a man like him isnât scared of anythingâyouâre a thing he realized he can break.
Your pulse spikes.
Office.
Private.
Closed door.
Every alarm bell in your body begins ringing at once.
In his office, the rules of the outside worldâthe rules where you are safeâdonât apply. Itâs where the blood gets mopped up.
But the guards are watching. The exit is behind them.
They arenât moving a muscle and stand there like gargoyles, guarding your only hope for escape.
And BuckyâJamesâis standing right in front of you, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles.
âYouâre shaking,â he murmurs, concern weaving through his quiet tone.
Well, youâre shaking because you can feel the callouses on his hands, the strength in his grip that suggests he could snap your wrist without his expression changing. He knows you are vibrating with nerves, but he has misdiagnosed the fever.
You force yourself to breathe. To smile. To pretend. Just like he has all these weeks. Just like he does now.
âJust the headache,â you whisper, and itâs tasting like bile.
He studies you for another long second, and for a moment you think he might see the truth. You think the mask is going to be ripped away right here in the hallway.
Then he squeezes your hand gently. âCome on, sweetheart.â
He turns you away from the door that would bring you to safety, moving his hand to the small of your back, and it is the gentlest thing in the world. But that somehow makes it so harrowing, because there is nothing rough in the gesture, nothing that could be called force by anyone watching, nothing but warmth and assurance, leading you into the heart of his house with the grace of a protector, and yet your whole body reads it like a sentence being handed down.
You are now thoroughly trapped, you realize while swallowing down the rising tide of bile. It feels like a master painter adding the final, darkening stroke to a portrait you can no longer step out of.
But there is nothing you can do. You let him steer you away from the door because what else are you supposed to do? Rip away, run, scream? That seems impossible in a house that breathes his name through every vent and doorway. A house where even the air seems employed by him.
The mansion appears to lengthen as you walk through it, as if corridors are being pulled like taffy just to spite you, just to show you how laughably far the front door already is, how absurd it was to think you could simply walk out with a polite excuse and a swallowed scream in your throat, hoping nobody heard it rattling behind your teeth, pretending you were still a girl who had a choice in where she slept tonight.
You try to pay attention. You try to mark the route the way people do in movies when theyâre kidnapped or hunted or trying not to fall off the edge of the earthâleft at the long console with the black granite top, right at the staggering painting in the gilded frame, straight past the alcove with the antique lamp and the white flowers that smell expensive and funereal at once.
But panic is a vandal and it is paralyzing and it comes in and smashes every useful thought with a chair.
Your heart is beating too hard, your blood too loud, your mind too busy manufacturing horrors to do something practical like remember turns. Foyer, hall, archway, staircase, another hall. Noâwas it staircase first? Was the office past the library, or past that room with the dark green walls?
Oh god, this is horrible. You're really starting to feel lost and this might be a catastrophic blow to your faith.
You try to pin each detail to the inside of your skull, but they slide off slick as fish, and every second spent trying to memorize the geography of this place only makes you more conscious of the fact that you are being walked farther and farther from the only exit you knew.
Why would he take you this far? The question lets sweat collect at the base of your neck. Why not the room just off the main hall? Why not one of the closer offices? Why not let you leave if you are only dizzy, only pale, only under the weather the way you claimed?
Does he suspect something? Has he already seen it, the wrongness in your face, the recoil you were too slow to hide, the way your voice came out laced too tight? And worse than that, more awful than suspicion because it drips with intentionâwas there always going to be a moment like this? Had he always been walking you here in one way or another, from the first date, from the first gift, from the first time he looked at you as if you were worth the chase?
Maybe this is what men like him do. Maybe he had a plan long before you ever had a clue. Maybe there has never been a single unarranged second between you, and you were just too lovesick and dazzled to notice the rails under your feet.
His hand stays at your back the entire time, broad and warm, but it makes you want to shove him away from you. When you hesitate, the pressure spikes just enough to remind you which way the door isn't. He is leading you forward and it would have felt gentle, but it doesnât. No longer.
His thumb-strokes across your back donât feel comforting at all and more like he is smoothing out a wrinkle in his own sleeve or the way he might polish a piece of silver he has decided to keep.
You suppress a chilling shiver he surely would have felt.
When you glance at him, because some abhorrent part of you still does, still wants to; you find concern in his face and it nearly brings you to the floor. You canât glimpse any coldness, no strategic thinking whatsoever. At least not the kind you expected to see. His eyes arenât narrowed and sharpened with discovery, there is no clipped impatience, no telltale crack in the mask.
He looks at you the way he has always looked at you when something seemed off, with his little frown and that determination, as if your problems are things he would like to drag outside and beat to death with his bare hands.
His gaze moves over your face with the same intimate concentration that once made your stomach warm for all the right reasons. It does not help. It makes everything worse.
Because if this is performance, then he is monstrous at it. If this is an act, heâs lived in the skin of it for a lifetime.
A lie shouldnât feel this solid, shouldnât have a thumb that knows exactly where your tension hides.
If he is acting, then he deserves a stage and an audience and perhaps a crown.
You can barely stand it, this collision between what you know and what he appears to be. A man canât look at you like that and still be the most feared name in the city. Except apparently he can. Apparently, men can be two things at once. Apparently, the universe is vulgar enough to make both true.
You pass a maid coming the other wayâa small, neat woman in a crisp uniform. She is carrying folded lines in her arms, and Bucky acknowledges her with nothing more than a curt nod, and she responds with a warm little smile aimed at you and the faintest dip of her headâsomething halfway between greeting and curtsey, so practiced it is almost invisible, but not invisible enough, not to you, not now.
It makes your breath hitch, how he doesnât swell with importance, or doesnât put on a show of his control.
Heâs so comfortable in his power that he doesn't even need to show it off; he just steers you onward, knowing nobody will do a single thing to stop him.
And your stomach lurches so suddenly it feels as if your bones have missed a step. Because there it is. There, in one small exchange, is the whole persona of him. He is not loud or cartoony with his power, he just has it. Itâs real. It doesnât need to announce itself because everyone in its radius already knows where to bend.
The maidâs smile is kind, almost affectionate, and that somehow shames you more, because it suggests this has been obvious to everyone but you.
They all know what he is. The guards know. The staff knows. The men at the gate, the drivers, the strangers in tailored suits who always nod to him with instant stillness in their spinesâthey all know.
And you, meanwhile, had been floating around this house in your pretty little ignorance, accepting tea on silver trays, accepting jewelry in velvet boxes, accepting his mouth and his hands and his delicious attention as if you had simply stumbled into the arms of an intense, rich man with old-fashioned manners and a dangerous face completely by accident.
You would like to face palm yourself, but this is a bad moment.
Natasha will definitely do it for you once you get out of here and manage to escape to her apartment.
You had looked at the signs and called them charm. You had looked at vigilance and called it romance. You had looked at fear arranged into etiquette and thought that wow, he really runs this company proficiently.
The embarrassment of it blooms hot under your skin, nearly as painful as the fear. You have been blind. Worseâwillingly blind. Blind not by accident but by appetite, by wanting. Love, or whatever this early ferocious thing is, has wrapped a hand-woven scarf around your eyes and led you smiling into a cathedral built from warning signs and decorated with red flags.
And the humiliating part, the part that makes you feel like you could peel yourself out of your own skin from sheer mortification, is that you had even congratulated yourself for being so unbothered by his world.
Look at you, cool girl extraordinaire, dating the beautiful, mysterious executive in his deluxe mansion, pretending not to notice the guards and the driver and the way everyone waited half a beat too long for his approval before moving.
You had thought you were being mature. Sophisticated. Unruffled. Meanwhile, you were essentially a decorative houseplant with a pulse, sitting in the sun of his attention and calling it insight. It would almost be funny if it werenât your life currently doing a slow and terrible cartwheel off a cliff.
How could you have ever believed that a guy like him would be interested in that naive, silly girl that you are.
Honestly, if you survive this ordeal, you will end up in some corner of your small, meager apartment, bawling your eyes out, and keep living that unlucky life of yours.
He glances at you again as you walk on that burgundy red carpet deeper into the hole that is another hallway, and his hand presses a little more firmly between your shoulder blades. Itâs protective rather than possessive to anyone looking in from the outside, but the gesture sends another flare of panic through you anyway.
You wonder if he can feel the fear on you, if it comes off your skin. You wonder if men like him are trained by experience to smell a lie the way dogs smell storms. You wonder whether he is leading you to comfort or containment. Every room you pass seems too opulent to be real with those chandeliers like frozen explosions, rugs plush enough to kill the sound of literally anything, the dark wood twinkling creepily under low gold light, paintings in heavy frames, looming over everything, looking down their painted noses at anyone not born into the frame.
The place no longer looks luxurious so much as fortified. You see the thickness of doors now. The depth of corridors. The strategic sightlines. The subtle placement of people. This house is not merely beautiful. It is defensible. It is a kingdom in disguise.
And you had been letting yourself be loved in it. You stupid girl had let him come way, way too close to you.
But itâs what makes every step hurt more than it should. Because despite everything, despite the gun and the initials and the name on the tags and the avalanche of terror crushing common sense into powder, there is still some small perfidious corner of you that keeps stumbling over the memory of how gentle he was, how attentive, how he watched your face as if your feelings were weather and he meant to learn every season.
You hate that part of yourself right now, and that it even exists in the first place after everything you found out about the man and what knowing him entails.
You want cleaner fear, simpler fear, fear without ache in it. But your fear is contaminated by affection. By memory. By the wrenching possibility that whatever else he is, whatever blood has dried invisibly on his hands, the softness heâs shown you may have been real. And if that is real, then the rest is not easier to understand. It is harder. Infinitely harder. It means the monster did not wear a mask. It means the monster kissed your forehead and tucked blankets around your legs and remembered how you take your coffee. But your brain canât follow all of that.
Another turn. Another corridor. Another room you cannot catalogue fast enough.
You try again to memorize the path, because panic may be a vandal but desperation is stubborn.
The wall here is paneled more deeply. There is a bronze wolf on a pedestal. A narrow window at the end of the hall. A runner rug patterned in deep red, almost the color of old cherries, almost the color of dried blood if your mind is in the mood to be cruel, which it surely is.
Your thoughts keep darting ahead of you and slam themselves against every worst-case future they can find. If he knows you know, what does that mean? If he does not know you know, what then? Which is safer? Is there a safer version of this at all?
You imagine phones taken gently from your hand. Doors locked with apologetic clicks. Promises made in that low warm voice while your life narrows to the width of his will.
The terrible thing is that none of your imaginings need to be loud to be horrifying. A man like him does not need spectacles. He has infrastructure.
By the time he slows in front of a set of double doors farther inside the mansion than you have ever been allowed, or invited, to go; your nerves are so frayed they feel almost luminous, every sound oppressive, every movement enlarged.
He looks down at you, his face still threaded with worry, and sweeps his hand from your back to your elbow in a gesture so careful it would be beautiful in any other universe. In this one it only makes your chest tighten until breathing feels like work. He leans slightly closer, and his voice drops, intimate as a hand at your throat, though there is nothing harsh in it.
âWhatâre you thinking about, baby,â he asks quietly, searching your face.
Well, youâre thinking about the front door.
Itâs where you left your mind.
Or maybe it was lost in his room already. Maybe it stayed with the gun on his carpet.
And the other, the more rational part of your mind, the one that told you this couldnât have been true anyway, because you are you and he is him, lingers in every news story you ever half listened to.
You are inside the tormenting, glittering realization that you have not just fallen for a dangerous man, but for the dangerous man, and that all the softness you took as sanctuary may have only been the most exquisite blindfold ever tied.
âNothing, Bucky,â you reply weakly, trying to ease, but your voice is shaking just that tiny bit, and judging by the uncomfortable twist of his mouth, he caught it.
Youâre too lost in your stupidity that youâre hardly present when he opens his wooden office door and ushers you inside, again with the most tender movements.
The office is warmer than the hall, quieter too, and it makes goosebumps rise on your arms and the hairs stand tall at the back of your neck because this room is built to keep any sound inside and secrets fat and sleeping in the walls. Everywhere you look there is dark wood and low amber light and books lined up in stern, handsome rows as if knowledge itself has been drafted into his service.
You feel the world shrink from cathedral to chamber, from public performance to something confined, more dangerous, more indiscreet, because now there are no guards, no maids, no witnesses to help keep either of you inside your assigned role.
There is only him, only you, only that soft snick of the door as he shuts it behind him; and that small, tidy sound feels like itâs happening inside your own chest. You watch his hand leave the brass knob, and the logic in your head just gives up. Thereâs only a hysterical, messy scramble of thoughts, all of them howling at once and all of them useless.
He turns back to you immediately, all his attention gathering around you with that familiar chilling completeness, and before you can decide whether to stand very still or bolt like a startled animal with nowhere sensible to run, he is guiding you toward the couch near the fireplace with one hand steady at your waist and the other brushing over your arm, then your back again. Heâs never forcing or gripping hard, but heâs just not letting go of you and it makes you want to jump against the wall in hopes itâll crack and youâll land on the other side because his touch is making you more and more nervous.
He treats you as if he thinks you might faint at any second.
It is infuriating, that gentleness. It feels like a kind of torture thatâs impossible to fight because your skin has a longer memory than your head. Your body still knows him first as safety. It still recognizes the heat of his palm and the strength of him, the way he moves as though youâre the center of the room.
And now every instinct is splitting at the seams. All you want to do is run, you want him away from you, you want to be far gone from all of this, you want to scream and scream some more, but the other half of you is remembering how carefully he tucked a blanket over your legs last week when you fell asleep during a movie or the way he has checked you for bruises after literally making love to you with that distressed frown upon his face, scared heâs been too rough with you.
The collision makes you dizzy enough that, absurdly, he may not be wrong. You might actually faint. Just from the sheer vertigo of finding out that the man who kissed you so devotedly has a name the whole city says with a tremble in their voices.
âSit down for me,â he coaxes, and his voice is low, soft, carrying none of the steel you used to hear when he dealt with his men, and that contrast nearly makes your skin crawl.
You lower yourself onto the couch because your knees are not reliable enough to argue with him. The room seems to have acquired a faint sway, because the blood in your veins feels thin and feverish, and he stays right there, close enough that his thigh nearly brushes yours before he drops into a crouch in front of you.
The sight of this dangerous man folding all that height and breadth down to your level, gaze lifted to your face with plain concern would have melted you an hour ago.
But all it does now is frighten you some more. It feels too intimate, too earnest, too much like care, and care from a man like him is no simple thing. It is not a ribbon. It is a chain in softer clothing.
You swallow hard and that alone almost makes you flinch.
His eyes move over you with increasing worry, taking inventory in little silent increments. Your face is pale, you feel the damp shine of stress at your temples, you canât keep your fingers still in your lap, and you canât quite tame the uneven hitch in your breath.
He reaches up and lays the back of his hand against your forehead, then your cheek, his brows knitting tighter, and his mouth presses into a serious line. âYouâre sweating,â he murmurs, more to himself than to you, as if he would like to issue orders to your body until it starts behaving properly.
His thumb grazes the curve of your jaw, feather-light, and you have to stop yourself from jerking away too sharply. You have to refrain yourself from slapping his hand away.
He notices even the version of restraint. You guessed, he does. A man like him has to. A man like him would. But it does worsen your situation.
A chill spreads along the base of your neck.
His eyes sharpen, not with suspicion exactly, but with apprehension deepening into something more searching, more troubled. âTalk to me, baby,â he pleads, softer still. âDid something happen? Did I do something?â
You stare at him.
For a moment the question does not make sense, your mind too busy running in circles with sirens in its hair, but you notice the shadow in his face, the hunch, the way his gaze jumps to your mouth, your throat, your posture curled too tight, and it seems bizarre because he honestly looks as though he might dread he pushed you too far, touched you too much, misread your body, took a liberty you werenât ready for.
The absurdity of that nearly splits your head open because earlier when heâgod, when he had his criminal tongue on your pussyâhe acted so attentive, he seemed genuinely careful and devastatingly patient, and yet now, knowing what you know, even that lightness now hardens into a new breed of atrocity.
Because if this is him being careful, if this is him holding himself in check, then what does rough look like in a man built the way he is, in a man whose name can make grown men go quiet? What shape does cruelty take when it belongs to someone with this much power and this little need to raise his voice?
âNo,â you answer too fast, the word skidding out of you. âNo, you didnâtâ nothing like that.â
Well, he did do something. A lot, really. Things that would put him in a cell never to be let out.
But he didnât do anything to you yet. Yet. He might, if you donât get your shit together.
His shoulders loosen by a fraction, but not enough. Not nearly enough. He still looks wound up. He still looks a little perturbed.
âAre you sure?â he asks, and there is something sincere in his voice, it is disorienting. âBecause, honey, you can tell me if I was too much. If I missed something. If Iââ He stops, swallows, and the hand at your cheek gentles further, as if he is trying to make himself seem safer. Funny. âI need to know. Need to know if there was ever a moment when you didnât feel good.â
Something is dipping in the air around you, and everything feels distorted. Your head is hazy and a complete maze, because how is he even doing it this well?
You pull back then, small at first, because having his hands on you for longer will surely drive you insane. You donât shove him off, or smack his hand away, you simply move out of his palms enough to break the line of his touch, but even that has him looking at you more closely.
You gather your hands together in your lap so he wonât see them tremble and shake your head with a smile that feels stapled on, brittle and thin, and one wrong breath away from snapping in half. âIâm okay,â you say, aiming for sheepish, for embarrassed, for normal. âI just need some sleep, I think. Thatâs all. Itâs probably stupid. Iâm probably just a little exhausted and overreacting.â
He doesnât buy it.
You can tell immediately, and you hate that you can tell, but you notice how his whole face changes in that subtle way his face does when he has decided something is amiss and he is not going to stop until he gets to the bottom of it.
He shifts closer, forearms braced loosely on his thighs, his attention absolute. âThen sleep here,â he deadpans. As if this is simply the answer to all the problems in the world. âYou donât need to go anywhere tonight. 'Specially when youâre not feeling well.â
Your stomach contracts into a hard, cold knot, and it feels like thereâs a displacement in your chest. Itâs the sensation of a staircase ending one step too soon and you didnât notice so now youâre hitting air instead of floor with a heart-shaking jolt. It is jarring. It is petrifying, because it means youâre not getting out of here that easily. You might not be getting out of here at all if he continues to look at you like that.
Sleep here.
Stay here.
In his house. In his reach. In the center of the web.
Your pulse stutters so hard it hurts.
âI should go home,â you try, and even to your own ears it sounds small, unconvincing, more instinct than argument.
His frown deepens, utterly baffled by your insistence in the face of what he clearly sees as a solvable problem. âWhy?â he asks quietly, and his voice sound a tad hoarse. âIf you feel bad, why would I let you leave?â
Your lungs canât seem to catch any air although itâs all around you.
Why would I let you
He didnât say why would you leave, no he said why would I let you.
Good god, you really have been a stupid girl. The signs were all in front of you, werenât they? They were literally speaking to you.
Heâs talking in a tender tone, making his voice all soft and gentle, even soothing and so concerned, but thatâs just the outside. You never paid attention to what lay underneath, hidden deep inside, because the outside was pretty and alluring enough. And maybe you are imagining it now, the gravelly implications in his tone, maybe your bodyâs just trying to see and hear things that arenât there, but perhaps it truly has been there all the time and you were too wrapped in him to notice it.
You stand up quickly.
And you shouldnât have done that because he will think what the hell youâre doing now, but your body decided and now your body is doing it.
The room sways, your vision going soft at the edges for one humiliating second, and his hands are on youâone at your elbow, one at your waist, and there is no shaking them off.
You flinch despite yourself and he stills as if you have struck him. You know he doesnât understand your reactions, how could he.
âHey,â he coos, his voice lowering even further, and there is definitely something thick in his voice. âEasy.â
âIâm fine,â you insist, too breathless, too papery, trying to peel his hands off you without making it look like peeling, which is impossible, because every move feels too fast or too urgent, every instinct either too frightened or too telling. âReally, Bucky, Iâm just tired. Iâm probably being ridiculous.â
His gaze searches yours with such intensity it feels almost physical. âYouâre trying to get away from me.â
The words are quiet, and although there is no anger in them, no threat at all, it has your mouth go dry.
âNo,â you answer, and it is not a good lie. âNo, Bucky. Of course not. My headâs just really hurting.â
Something in him clicks into a higher gearânot a lack of trust or anything like that, but a kind of piercing, automated focus. Something in his eyes snaps into high definition. All that soft, vague concern is gone, replaced by an attention so bright and infiltrating it feels like being pinned to a board under a microscope.
Carefully, he makes you sit back down on the couch and lands right beside you. You feel the heat of him pressing into your side, though he does give you a bit of space.
His hand comes to your upper arm, stroking once, and you hate your own pulse for noticing how familiar it feels despite it having lost its appeal. âLook at me,â he presses, and it almost sounds like an order. His voice seems serious enough to make you shiver in fear.
You look at him because you have to and refusing would be louder than screaming.
His eyes are so damn blue in this weirdly dim light, clear and intent and lined with such deep worry. Heâs definitely denser, his concern losing its fluff, but not its patience. There still is no trace of coldness, no roughness, nothing that is overly intimidating despite the man he is.
Just that same irksome softness, that same look like your distress is something he wants to fix with both hands, with all of himself if necessary.
It rattles you more than if he had come in hard and sharp and monstrous. A monster would be easier. A monster would let your fear stand up straight. But this man looking at you like your pain pains him is a labyrinth with no clean exits.
And it feels foreboding. It has you more on edge. Itâs the way the woods go quiet right before something heavy steps out of the brush; a sudden, absolute alignment of intent.
Maybe he knows you know and now heâs waiting for the right moment to pounce. You do your best to keep your fright behind your eyes.
âYou can sleep here tonight,â he offers again, gentler now, and it seems as though he believes repetition might soothe you into agreement. âIâll stay with you. Or I wonât, if you want space. Iâll get you water, food, whatever you need. But Iâm not sending you home like this.â
Not sending.
Again that wordless, soft-toned authority.
Again that sense that his care and his control are fused so tightly together they share a bloodstream.
You are running out of room inside your own face. Running out of expressions that can pass for normal. Running out of ways to keep the panic from drawing its blade.
So you do the only thing you can think of, the stupidest thing, the most desperate thingâyou lean in and kiss him.
Itâs short and small and only meant to reassure, to smooth over, to redirect. Your lips meet his and every cell in your body revolts.
And itâs not at all because he kisses badly, god no. Even startled, even worried, he receives you with immediate tenderness, one hand lifting to cradle your jaw, his mouth warm and careful and heartbreakingly familiar but also so, so foreign, a cold shiver seizes your back.
It is what makes nausea roll through you so suddenly you nearly choke on it. Because this is James Buchanan Barnes.
This is the name on the dog tags, the name on the news, the name people lower their voices around as if it might hear them and turn its head.
This is the most feared man in the city and his mouth is still the same mouth that kissed the corner of your smile with one of his own.
Your stomach turns so sharply you have to concentrate not to pull away in disgust too soon, not to betray yourself with the wrong kind of urgency.
You kiss him once, twice, tasting dread under the memory of want, and every instinct in you screams that you are pressing your lips to a loaded weapon and pretending it is a rose.
When you ease back, you make yourself smile.
It feels gargantuan, the effort of it.
âIâm okay,â you whisper, like that explains anything, like that proves you are only tired and not terrified, only overwhelmed and not trying to survive. âI promise. I can go home like this.â
His thumb brushes under your eye so lightly, and you run your tongue over your lip, trying to get that uncomfortable tingling to go away.
But he still looks unconvinced.
More than unconvinced, actually. Plagued. As if the kiss reassured him of your affection but not your state, and now that mismatch is bothering him in ways he canât make sense of.
His gaze lingers on your face, then your mouth, then your hands clenched too tightly in your lap. He takes one of them and turns it gently palm-up, his fingers closing around yours. You can feel how much bigger his hand is. You can feel how easily it encloses.
And all at once the room feels narrow as a throat, the walls leaning in, the lamplight too gold, the air too warm, and you are sitting inches from a man who could ruin your life before breakfast and is looking at you like the only thing he wants in this world is to make you feel safe.
âWhatâs going on, doll?â His voice could even be pleading, just a little bit. Itâs definitely croaky. âIâ I get the feelingââ
âI told you, Bucky. Itâs just a headache.â He sighs to that, but all you can think about is how completely his hand closes over the bones of your own. How easy it would be for those fingers to tighten from comfort into command, from tenderness into something unarguable.
His other palm is at your arm, and your body does this awful arithmetic without your permission, subtracting your strength from his and arriving, every single time, at the same answerânone.
There is none. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
You notice things you never let yourself notice before because before they were part of romance, of safety, of the warm relief of being cared for by someone larger and more grounded than you.
Now those same details come back rearranged into something atrocious. The width of his shoulders. The thickness of his thighs where they bracket the edge of the couch. The controlled way he moves, never wasted, never sloppy, suggesting he has long ago become intimate with force and no longer needs to flaunt it.
Even the gentleness feels frightening because it is so deliberate. You can feel, in every cautious touch, that he is handling you lightly not because he must, but because he chooses to. And choice is a nightmarish thing when done by a man like him. Choice means there are other versions of him. Choice means there are rooms in him you have never seen. Choice means the tenderness is not the whole house, only one lit window.
You sit very still because being still feels safer than moving, and panic has made your limbs feel both too heavy and too ready to misfire. While he studies your face with that immensely worried crease between his brows, your thoughts keep slipping sideways into grotesque little visions of what would happen if he decided to stop being soft.
Not even dramatic visions. That would almost be easier. Nothing so loud as being thrown or shouted at. Your fear is smarter than that now. It imagines quieter things. A wrist caught before you can pull away. A door closed with no visible hurry. Your name said in that low voice while every route out of the room gently, politely disappears.
You hate yourself for thinking it, hate the way your pulse kicks harder with each new image, hate most of all that his touch remains careful through all of it, remains incessantly kind, so that your fear begins to feel almost counterfeit in the face of what he is actually doing, and then the next thought corrects you suddenlyâno, not counterfeit. Instinct. Instinct finally dragging itself awake after weeks of sleeping with its face turned to his chest.
He must notice something fresh pass through you, some new tremor or tightening, because his jaw flexes and then he reaches into his pocket for his phone.
He is glancing at the screen and some shutter drops behind his eyes. It doesnât slam, it just falls shut, as simple as that. Just sliding into place as neatly as a blade returning to its sheath.
He lifts the phone, says a name you donât catch because your ears are too loud with your heartbeat, and when the person on the other end answers, his voice changes so completely that a chill runs over your skin.
âBring cold towels to my office. And painkillers. Water too.â That is all.
Simple words. Ordinary words.
But the voice that carries them is stripped clean of softness, and that is what makes your blood curdle. There is no gentle edge worn smooth for your benefit. It is a voice pared down to function, to expectation, to command. Not loud, not theatrical, not cruel in any obvious way, it is just cold the way a simple black stone is cold. Cold the way a locked gate is cold.
There is no room in it for hesitation, no room in it for mishearing, no suggestion that obedience is a favor rather than the natural order of things. Whoever is on the other end responds immediately, and he ends the call without another word, already moving to set the phone aside, already turning back toward you, and your whole body has gone thin with dread because all you can think, stupidly, helplessly, is this is how he speaks when he is not pretending to be gentle.
And if this is his ordinary command voice, then what would he sound like if he knew? If he looked at you and saw recognition staring back, saw the name James Buchanan Barnes fully formed in your eyes, saw that you had found the gun and the initials and the tags and had welded them all together into the truth? Would his voice sharpen? Flatten further?
Would he say your name with that same smooth authority and turn it into a thing that could pin you in place?
The thought is a beaded sweat of ice trailing down the ladder of your back.
You try not to react. You fail a little. He sees the shiver, he sees, because he is James Buchanan Barnes for goodness sake, and immediately his focus softens again as he leans a fraction closer, anguish returning to his face as if the colder version of him never existed at all.
The door catches your eye over his shoulder.
It is simply there. Closed, but not locked, at least not that you can see. Dark wood, brass handle, a square of possibility in a room rapidly losing oxygen.
And once you look at it, you cannot stop.
Your gaze keeps darting back like something hooked. You begin to map the distance with desperate measurements.
If you stood up nowâno, not stood, launchedâif you shoved him hard enough to buy yourself one puzzled second, maybe two, could you make it? Out the office, into the hall, left or rightâGod, which one had you come from?âand then what? Down one corridor, past another, through that impassable warren of pragmatic but pristine floors and expensive silence and armed loyalty, praying that your body would remember what your mind failed to memorize?
You picture it anyway. You canât help it. You picture yourself bolting, slipping on gleaming floors, turning wrong and wrong again, heart exploding in your throat while the mansion multiplies around you like a bad dream, each hallway birthing three more, each staircase leading not to freedom but to another floor full of his money and his people and his reach.
Still, the image wonât leave you. It grows instead, takes on velocity. You imagine the first breath of motion, the clean scary choice of it. The couch under you unweighting. The door handle cold in your palm. The sudden crash of everything becoming honest.
You donât have a lot of choices here. So maybe fate would take pity on you. Maybe panic would become a compass. Maybe your body would remember a route your mind cannot hold. Maybe the front hall would be merciful and simply appear in front of you, all that dark wood and those massive doors and the guards too startled to stop you before you ripped yourself out into the night. It is preposterous. It is probably impossible. It becomes, nevertheless, the brightest thought in the room. Bright enough to burn.
You are too poised on the edge of movement now, too taut, every nerve drawn tight as wire.
âBaby,â Bucky starts, a little alarmed, and he shifts closer again, one hand lifting instinctively, probably to touch your face, your shoulder, your wrist, some place he thinks he can soothe.
But the sight of that hand coming toward you almost does it. Almost tips you over from imagining escape into choosing it. You can feel your muscles gathering without permission, your body preparing itself in secret, a rabbit under the hawkâs shadow. Run, run, run. For one crazed second you are already halfway gone in your mindâup off the couch, around the table, through the door, donât think, just move, just run, run, runâ
And then his fingers brush your arm, so lightly, so soft, but it breaks something inside you because you want his sweet touch, you want him to hold you, to soothe you, to love you, but you donât want it to be James Buchanan Barnes, you want it to be Bucky, but heâs no longer Bucky, he wonât ever be anymore, and so you simply react.
You jerk, shoving his hand away before you can stop yourself, not enough to really hurt, but enough that the gesture hangs in the air between you like a shattered glass note.
Your breath is now gone entirely.
There are a few beats where simply nothing happens.
Then his hand drops back.
You stare at him, your own hand hovering stupidly in midair as if all you have to do is snip your finger to turn back the time.
And BuckyâJamesâjust looks at you. For a small moment, he simply looks startled, like a deer in the headlights of your rejection. He looks so tremendously confused, his face totally unglued, but then his eyes shift gears, shift into alarm, shift into a concern so much deeper than before. It seems as if your recoil has unhinged him. As if it has frightened him for an entirely different reason than the one clawing its way through your chest. As if it has confirmed something heâs only lived in a nightmare before.
His features warp into something resembling desperation, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide and asking, and it is nauseating to watchâthe way heâs already cobbling together a version of reality where he isnât the monster youâre trying to run from.
He is misinterpreting your panic and it makes you sick.
He isn't thinking She knows what I am. His mind is sprinting in the exact opposite direction to protect itself.
He thinks the headache is actually a migraine that has you reacting strangely, or itâs a panic attack, or some hidden trauma he didnât know about, and he is already frantically building a scenario where he gets to fix it. His mouth stays slightly open, his breath hitching as if heâs about to choke on his own breath. He looks around the empty office with this desperate, wild squint, his eyes darting to the corners of the room as if he expects to find a physical monster standing thereâsomething he can actually put a bullet in to make you stop shaking.
âAlright,â he lets out, and his voice is completely broken, a rough, dry scrape that sounds like it is tearing his throat.
He doesnât lunge for you or do something big. Instead, he actually hitches his weight backward, trying to make himself smaller, which is harrowing because he is still twice your size and wearing a suit that could be sprinkled with blood in under an hour. His hands stay out in front of him, palms up, fingers twitching with this jittery, helpless energy. He is looking at you with this forlorn begging in his widened eyes, practically pleading with them for you to blame it on the lights, or the noise, or anything else in the worldâbecause the alternative is that he is the thing making you look at him like heâs an executioner.
You might be running out of time to pretend.
âIâm sorry, Bucky, Iâ Iâm so sorry, I donâtââ You donât even know what explanation you are going to give him now, only that you are suddenly full of the clumsy need to fill the room with words before the room fills with something worse, and so your mouth opens on instinct, on panic, on the miserable little scraps of sanity still fluttering inside you. You hear yourself stammer out some thin, transparent nonsense about feeling strange, about maybe being overwhelmed, about maybe needing air, maybe needing to go home, maybe nothing, because every excuse sounds flimsy the second it leaves you, and every sentence makes your spirit mulch and dissolve into a gray slurry that wonât hold a shape.
And Bucky is still so close and still so beautiful and still so racked with his brows pinched into a severe, pained knot. His eyes are full of shadows, and this is all so bad.
His softness somehow makes all of this worse, not better, because if he were cruel already, if he were cold already, if he gave you even one clean villainâs grin, one sharp look, one thread of honest menace, maybe your fear would have somewhere proper to sit.
But he only examines your features as though it truly physically aches him to see you like this, as though your panic has reached inside him and laid a dirty hand around his heart.
âDonât apologize, sweetheart,â he starts, and he says it so quietly, with so much care, still, but also with a mounting unease that is just about to reach its peak. âI just wanna know whatâs going on. Talk to me, baby. Please. Iââ he breaks off with a sigh, his jaw grinding. âIf somethingâs wrong, if somethingâs going on, then I gotta know.â
You swallow hard in hopes that anything might help soothe the sting behind your eyes. You donât believe him, not fully anymore, but some humiliating, hopelessly romantic part of you still recognizes the cadence of the man who kissed your forehead this morning, the man who tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with the most tender hands, the man who remembered how you take your tea and which side you prefer to sleep on and the fact that you hate when socks twist inside your shoes.
It is unimaginable, it is desolating how tenderness can survive in the same body as terror, how your heart can continue making a fool of itself even while your mind is setting the whole house on fire.
âBucky, really, Iâm just...â Your voice hitches, the words sticking like thistles in your throat. You look down at his hands and they are so huge and capable, currently flexing with an empty urge to hold you. You know those hands have held weapons. You know theyâve ended lives and carried blood. But right now they are trembling because you wonât let them touch you.
You can feel yourself growing sharper and shakier by the second, every nerve in you pulled too tight, every breath arriving shallow and unhelpful, and still he keeps speaking to you in that quiet and gentle tone, asking whether it was something earlier, whether he pushed too far, whether he missed something, where exactly it hurts. You canât tell him itâs your heart and not your head that is currently in shambles.
The concern in him seems real. That is the terrible part. It seems real enough to bruise. You shake your head too quickly. You try to smile and feel it crack before it even fully forms. You say you are just tired. You say you do not know. You say you are fine with the kind of desperate brightness you would use when standing on the edge of a roof insisting you are only admiring the view.
His gaze drops to the space you are slowly clearing between you, and his expression hardens. Gears are grinding behind his eyes and suddenly he looks like the man in the hallway, filled with command and so fucking terrifying, your pulse spikes to unhealthy numbers. He doesnât look at you, he turns his head to look in the direction of the closed door, his posture squared.
âDid someone say something to you?â He asks, his tone dropping into a low, scraping register that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. âIn the hall? Before I came out?â
You blink at him in disbelief. Does he think someone threatened you? Does he think one of his own men, or some interloper in his kingdom, stepped out of line with you? The fact that that would cause such an intense reaction in him makes you want to be catapulted straight out of here because this is genuinely just getting all too much. He seems about ready to tear his own house down to find the monster that scared you, completely unaware that he is the one wearing the monsterâs skin.
You are about to open your mouth to improvise your way to freedom, when there is a brisk knock on the oak door and it makes your entire body jerk.
Bucky turns toward the noise, but not before you catch the brief, hot flare of irritation that darkens his features. He rises with all his coiled grace and contained force, and for half a second you just stare at his back, seeing even that differently now. He really is a tall man. He is immense. Broad. Space seems to make room for him as he steps to the door. God, what the hell did you walk yourself into. The only thought that gives you a tiny bit of ease is that there surely have to be other girls out there who would have fallen for it all, looking at him.
He cracks the door open. A man stands in the corridor holding a tray balanced with a folded stack of damp, cold towels, a bottle of water, and a blister pack of painkillers. And itâs weird how this would have struck you as absurdly thoughtful just hours before but now it feels sinister. It is purely ominous. It is comfort orchestrated by absolute authority; a display of care that only exists because of total, unquestioning submission.
Bucky, or James, or the most wanted mob boss of all time; thanks him, quickly, absently, not unkind but distracted, his thoughts still hooked to you so visibly that even the man at the door registers the tension.
And that man glances inside just enough to catch sight of you on the couch, sitting there sweating, pale, rigid as a hunted thing.
A manic urge strikes you to scream for help. You want to yell at this stranger to run, to call the precinct, or to simply throw you over his shoulder and get you the hell out of this building. But the impulse dies in your throat. It would be entirely useless. Every single person under this roof operates on his frequency. This man wouldn't take a single order from you even if it would be more of a plea than anything else. All of these people in this damn building listen to his every word. He wouldnât do a thing to help you.
And before you can even let go of the fantasy, the man immediately drops his eyes again and leaves, because everyone in this house seems trained in the art of not seeing too much.
But you see too much now. That is the problem. That is the irreversible thing.
Because while Buckyâs back is turned, while he takes the tray and shuts the door with his shoulder and crosses toward the sideboard, your gaze begins to snag on the office around you with new eyes, and suddenly nothing is only furniture anymore.
Nothing is only decoration. All the wood in here is dark and expensive, perhaps even that is getting paid to stay silent, and there are details you would once have filed away as masculine and stylish.
But now everything is imposing. Everything reads as evidence.
Like that locked cabinet that is too reinforced to hold unimportant paperwork. There is a map pinned behind glass with inked markings that look less like commerce and more like a tactical grid. A stack of files sits bound with a suspicious kind of neatness. Then there is a heavy antique letter opener glinting on the desk like a civilized version of a threat.
Even the art on the walls seems changed, the frames too severe, the subjects too stern, everything in here curated by a man who does not simply possess things but controls them. He dictates outcomes. He governs people. His office is a single spider web woven from all this darkened wood and his suits, and you are the only thing inside it that is still vibrating, sending signals straight to the center where he stands, and it is making your skin grow cold in patches.
He is opening the water bottle for you.
That tiny, stupid gesture nearly does itâthe torturous way he makes this all so normal and so intimate when he says, âHere, baby,â without turning yet, as if this is still salvageable, as if you are merely unwell and he is merely worried and the world has not already split clean down the middle.
Something primitive detonates inside you, and perhaps if it were a conscious thought or a decision or just some other thing in a civilized sense, maybe you wouldnât do what you are doing, but your body is revolting before your mind can dress the fear in language, and youâre up.
Oh god, youâre up.
Youâre off the couch, youâre on your feet, and now thereâs no going back, now thereâs no sitting down because now you sprang up and now you will run. You will run because the suddenness of your own movement has chosen the path for you.
Without looking back, without another word, your feet move you to the door and they move so fast, the room is moving with you, your vision is filled with streaks. Your hand fumbles blindly before finding the door handle, wrenching it open, and then you are sprinting.
âYou love me, you say. You love me, you say. You love me, you say. Then why are you shaking?â
- Richard Siken
A/n: I know this is basically one single scene and I truly donât know how I managed to make it this long. I always add unnecessary details and emotional spirals wherever possible but I worry that I sit in the emotions for too long sometimes.
So please feel free to let me know if the emotional introspection and all those feelings got to be a little too much at any point because I know I tend to ramble and take a while getting to the point in my writing and itâs getting a little frustrating. Hearing what you guys think would be really helpful đŤśđť
And if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, please feel free to consider my ko-fi
PAIRING: the winter soldier x doctor!reader
SUMMARY: kidnapped by hydra and initially considered a mere âcog in a vast machineâ, you are forced to serve as the asset's personal medical caretaker. violent with everyone else, he calms only in your presence. fear, trauma, and reluctant attachment blur, leaving you safeâand terrifiedâunder his possessive, inescapable gaze.
WARNINGS: DUB-CON; non-canon; she/her pronouns for reader; doctor!reader (author knows nothing about medicine); reader was kidnapped; insults and condescending behavior towards reader (from original characters); angst; wounds & blood; trauma & violence; guilt; breeding program (doesn't involve reader); not depicted, only mentioned: non-con experimentation, captivity, coercive reproductive experimentation, non-con administration of chemical compound designed to suppress sexual inhibitions & resistance; unhealthy relationship (they basically bond over trauma); protective!bucky; dark!bucky (he is unstable); possessiveness & obsession; size difference (heâs beefy and taller than reader); smut; big dick bucky organization (đââď¸); unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); rough & primal sex; multiple orgasms; creampie (lots of cum :)); twisted ending.
WORD COUNT: 10.1k
A/N: unfortunately I couldn't finish the congressman!bucky x secretary!reader fanfic in time, so I humbly offer you another winter soldier one-shot, this time for my dark fics lovers <3. I'm so sorry for the unanswered inboxes and reblogs/comments but I'm offline until sunday for medical reasons. please, mind the warnings before reading! hope you'll enjoy đ¤
You had believed medicine was a discipline of precision and care, built to preserve life.Â
HYDRA stripped that belief from you within the first forty-eight hours of your abduction.
They never called it what it wasâkidnapping. No, they called it recruitment.
A late-night, sleep-deprived trip to the store for ice cream had cost you your freedom. At your awakening, you found yourself sitting in a white room with no windows, no wallet, no phone, and a man in a black uniform calmly explaining that your credentials were impressive, your skill set rare, and your cooperation expected. When you refused and demanded to leave, he wordlessly slid a thin file across the table. Inside were photos of your mother walking home from work, timestamps of months spent tailing her carefully highlighted in red.
You learned very quickly when to stop asking questions. To lower your head and listen. To do exactly as you were told. You were just trying to survive. And yet, guilt still clawed relentlessly at your chest as soon as your head touched that filthy excuse of a pillow they provided you with.
You had no idea who he had been before HYDRA took him, what parts of his life had been stolen, what memories erased, what humanity suppressed. If he could even still be called a man, or if he was nothing more than an experiment, forged and trapped within these walls. Still, beneath everything they had done to him, there was a person. And no human being deserves to be reduced to a lab experiment, trained to kill and denied any life of their own.
The truth is that here, forced into a role you never wanted, you are still part of it. Every dose you administer, every wound you clean, every monitoring protocol you followâeven if it is just to keep him from spiraling into uncontrollable violenceâyou are still contributing to HYDRAâs system, keeping the gears turning. You are an important cog, however unwilling, and the sole thought is enough to make you nauseous, tormenting you during those sleepless nights spent on an uncomfortable mattress inside your new, grey bedroom.
You are a witness, a caretaker, a facilitator. And in keeping him alive, you sustain the very machine that caged him. Your hands remain steady, but each measured movement is weighted with fear and reluctant responsibility.Â
The Winter Soldier is HYDRAâs greatest asset and its most closely monitored prisoner. Officially, you are not his handler. You donât issue commands or mission parameters, nor have the power to activate him or order for his mind to be wiped. That job belongs to othersâmen who speak in clipped phrases and avoid eye contact with what they have turned him into.
You monitor his vitals, track the effects of the serum, treat injuries sustained in the field, and document behavioral anomalies. You make sure he eats when they remember to feed him, that his body remains functional between cryo cycles and the scars donât fester.
You are also the only one allowed to touch him without restraints, but no one had planned for that.
At first, they tried rotating doctors. None lasted more than a week. Some requested reassignment after the first day; some broke down at the first violent outburst from the Soldier. One had a panic attack so severe she had to be sedated and removed from the facility entirely.Â
The memory of the first time HYDRA insisted on assigning a second doctor is still too vivid to forget. An older man with trembling hands and a voice that cracked at the smallest instruction. The moment heâd stepped past the threshold, the Soldier went rigid, his gaze snapping from you to the stranger, like a gun sight locking onto a target.
The doctor hadnât even touched him. Heâd reached for a stethoscope, but the Soldier had moved faster than you could shout.Â
Metal collided with bone.Â
The doctor went down screaming, clutching his shattered wrist.Â
Restraints were deployed seconds too late and sirens screamed as the Winter Soldier fought agents with silent, feral fury.
But you⌠well, he tolerates you.
Thatâs the word they use. Tolerates. As if thereâs anything neutral about his actions towards you.
The Soldier doesnât really speak. His responses are economical: a turn of the head, a shift of weight, the faint tightening of his jaw when something displeases him. You learned his language the way one learns a foreign alphabetâslowly, and constantly terrified of making a fatal mistake that could change everything. You learned the difference between stillness and readiness, between compliance and restraint. That when his shoulders went rigid and his metal hand flexed, you needed to step back and let him recalibrate.
The change didnât begin with trust, though. It began with fear.
The rest of the agents were afraid of him. They had every reason to be, frankly. In the weeks leading up to the incident, the Soldier had grown volatile in ways HYDRA could not easily quantify. Missions ended messier and recovery periods stretched. There were momentsâbrief, unsettling lapsesâwhere commands lagged and he hesitated just long enough for alarms to register before compliance snapped back into place.
HYDRA answered the way it always did: with punishment and pressure. And you saw the cost written across his body.
Until you finally stood your ground and intervened.
The Soldier had been awake for six minutes when the alarms went off.Â
You knew this because you were watching the numbers climb in real time: heart rate spiking dangerously fast, blood pressure surging high enough to trigger red warnings across the console. His respiration was shallow and uneven, each breath dragged through clenched teeth and dilated nostrils. The biometric sensors embedded in the containment room floor registered rapid, erratic movement.
Pacing.
That was already bad.
âWhy isnât he responding?â An agent snapped behind you.
You didnât answer immediately, your eyes still locked on the glass.
Inside the reinforced medical room, the Soldier moved like a caged animal. Back and forth, bare feet silent against the white floor, and metal arm rhythmically flexing and unclenching with a soft, mechanical hum. His head twitched even at the hiss of the vents, a low growl vibrating dangerously in his chest at the distant echo of boots in the corridor.
He was awake, but he wasnât present.
âSoldier.â His handler barked, activating the intercom. âStand down.â
No response.
At the next commandâlouder, sharperâhe stilled for half a second, long enough for hope to painfully tighten your chest. Then, he turned abruptly toward the glass, eyes wild and unfocused searching not for authority, but for threat.
His vitals spiked again.
âSedate him.â The handler ordered.
Your fingers curled hard around the edge of the console. âNo.â
The word came out harsher than you intended.
You forced yourself to breathe, to think clinically. âIf you sedate him now, youâll exacerbate his fever.â
âWhat do you suggest then, Doctor?â Your title was laced with mockery.
You decided to ignore the umpteenth jab at your competence, swallowing as your eyes nervously flicked back to the glass.
âI need to go in.â
The room went quiet.
âThat is not in accordance with the protocol.â He gritted out, earning himself a glare.
âIâm aware.â Your eyes didnât waver as they met his.Â
Inside the containment room, the Soldier struck the glass without warning, causing the whole room to flinch. The punch was not hard enough to crack it, yet the impact furiously reverberated through the observation wing. His metal hand connected again, producing a deep, resonant thud. His breathing was louder now, ragged, bordering on a growl.
His heart rate surged past one-sixty.
âDoctorââ
âIf I donât intervene now,â you said quietly, âYouâre going to have to deal with a full-scale breach in under two minutes.â
Although they hesitated, you didnât wait for their permission.
The moment the door to the observation wing slid open, something changedânot immediately, but the monitors noticed before anyone else did.
His heart rate dipped just a fraction. From one-sixty to one-fifty-six. His breathing hitched, then slowed, unevenly at first, as if his body had recognized a familiar presence that his mind still struggled to place.
You took a step into the containment room and the Soldier frozeâa machine stalling after a conflicting input.
His head slowly turned toward you, his gaze snapping to your face and holding, unblinking, as if everyone else had just disappeared.
His breathing was still edged with some unnamed strain, yet each inhale felt deeper than the last. Controlled in a way that seemed forced, like he was dragging himself back from the brim of madness by sheer instinct alone. The rigid line of his shoulders eased with it, almost imperceptibly, but your eyes noticed it at once.Â
The metal hand that had been clenched tight twitched, before fingers began uncurling one by one.
âVitals stabilizing.â Someone murmured over the comms.
You ignored them and simply took another careful step forward.
âItâs alright.â You whispered, low enough that it wouldnât carry past the barrier of reinforced glass. âYouâre safe.â
You had no idea how much those words mattered to him.
His blown pupils tracked you with unnerving precision, following each movement of your body as if pulled by an invisible thread. He didnât blink, nor looked away. It was the same way he watched you during examinations, through wound care, and in those long hours when you sat beside his cot and pretended not to notice how he would inconspicuously inch closer each time.
As if losing sight of you meant the world would pulverize below his feet.
You stopped far enough to not invade his personal space.
âGood.â You murmured, more to yourself than to him. âJust breathe with me.â
The monitors confirmed his compliance: heart rate down to one-thirty; blood pressure falling into safer ranges; temperature still elevated, but no longer climbing.
Behind the glass, the agents stared in silence.
âHe didnât respond to any of our commands.â One of them said under his breath.
You swallowed.
You knew it was only a matter of time before they would realize it.
You almost flinched when the Soldier took a deliberate step toward you, not aggressively. Every muscle in your body tightened anyway, instinct screaming at you to run and lock the door. But you didnât back away. You had learned, painfully, that sudden motion broke whatever fragile equilibrium existed between you two.
He stopped close enough that you could not ignore the faint sheen of sweat along his temples, your eyes instantly catching the subtle tremor in his flesh hand that only appeared when he was overstimulated.
His eyes never left your face, though.
Thatâs when you gently lifted a hand, palm open. âEasy.â
His focus narrowed on the movement, his left hand uncertainly mimicking you, until cold metal met warm skin. The contact was light, but his pulse spiked anyway. Then, just as quickly, it settled.
âHeart rate down another ten.â Someone whispered.
You felt sick. Not because of him, but because of what this meant in their eyes.
They had suspected it before. Documented it in cautious, clinical language: the subject exhibited reduced agitation in the presence of primary medical staff. There was notable improvement in compliance during examinations conducted by you.
But what they mistook for obedience was nothing more than fixation.
And as the Winter Soldier stood in front of youâcalm, silent, barely held together by your presenceâyou realized that whatever HYDRA had carved out of him, whatever they had taken away, they still couldnât reach that deeply broken part of his mind that had latched onto you and refused to let go.
Without you, he spiraled: violent, unresponsive, lost in a haze of half-awareness and threat assessment. With you, his body remembered how to regulate itself. His fury quieted and his attention settled.
âDoctor,â the handler called slowly. âYou may step back now.â
The Soldierâs head snapped up at the interfering noise.
His shoulders locked, palm pressing more insistently against yours. With his chest heaving quicker than normal, anyone could clearly see that his fragile control was splintering at the edges once again.
âIf I step back,â you mumbled, keeping yourself still. âHis vitals will spike again.â
No one answered.
Inside the containment room, the Soldier didnât break contact with your handâhe just leaned closer to meet your eyes, enough that you could feel the rough, warm drag of his breathing tickling your nose. His posture was protective without being hostile, his formidable body subtly angled between you and the rest of the agents.
A warning to everyone else. A barrier between what had become his fixed point in the fog and the avid tide trying to take it away from him.Â
âAlright.â The handler sneered at last. âMaintain position.â
You briefly closed your eyes, allowing yourself a slow sigh of relief. When your eyelids fluttered open again, the Soldier was still watching you, his breathing unconsciously syncing to yours.
From that moment on, nothing was ever the same again.
The containment wing is quiet, the silence settling in around the fact that youâre the only one left. Everyone soon learned that lingering would only lead to more troubles.
The reinforced glass wall stands between you and the Soldier once again, thick enough to stop a tank and threaded with sensors that track every shift of his weight, every minute fluctuation in his vitals. You sit alone at the console, tablet tucked against your ribs and eyes flicking between the readouts and the man behind the barrier. The room is all white and steel, with fluorescent lights loudly buzzing overhead like insects burrowed in your skull.Â
He is standing today, shoulders squared, head slightly bowed, gaze fixed on you with unnerving intensity. You canât hold it for long. Attention from him has always felt⌠dangerous. Like voluntarily stepping onto a frozen lake knowing it will inevitably crack beneath your feet.Â
You keep your eyes on the monitors instead, scrolling through vitals you donât like and couldnât fix fast enough.
Even without looking at the data, his posture tells you how bad the night was.Â
His heart rate is elevatedâsteady, yes, but highâand cortisol levels havenât returned back to baseline since he was last put under. Itâs clear that the serum is working overtime to compensate for something HYDRA refuses to name. Because the wound should have healed by nowâa ballistic injury to the right side of the abdomen, deep enough to cause significant pain but not to damage any vital organ. Under normal circumstances, the serum would have closed it within two days. You have seen him regenerate from worse, his torn muscles and shattered bones reforming with brutal efficiency. Despite that, this time the tissue remains angrily inflamed, the sutures pulling tight instead of dissolving.
An asset that doesnât heal is an asset that can fail.Â
So they caged him here, again.
âAt least vitals are holding for now.â You mutter to yourself.
He doesnât respond, but his head tilts as you speak, just slightly, as if orienting himself toward your voice. The monitors reflect the hitch in his breathing instantly, and that causes you to shift your weight uncomfortably, the chair creaking slightly under you.
His metal hand lifts, fingers flexing once against the glass, this time not striking it. Just touching, as if to claim the boundary. Your throat tightens at the sight, forcing yourself to move your eyes back on the medical charts.
You have been listed as essential personnel. Singular. The only one he allows near him. The only one he hasnât tried to kill until now. All because of that fateful night, three months ago. He hadnât calmed until you had shoved past the guards and coaxed him with your shaky voice and his palm against yours.Â
And HYDRA had taken note, as usual.
You keep staring at the same line for too long, until the numbers stop making sense and instead start looking more like indefinite shapesâmeaningless, looping back on themselves. You drag a hand down your face and lean closer to the console, scrolling back up on your tablet, then down again, as if repetition might magically manifest a solution.
The serum markers now look like theyâre fighting something.
Your fingers still, before you pull up a secondary panel to overlay two datasets, and your stomach drops.Â
Threaded through the Soldierâs bloodstream like a parasite is an unfamiliar compound, its elevated concentration persistent.
âThatâs not right.â You murmur.
Behind the glass, the Soldierâs spine straightens, eyes narrowing as if heâs felt the shift in your mood and decided he doesnât like it at all.Â
You glance up at him automatically. âWait a second,â youâre already pushing back your chair. âJustâwait.â
His brow furrows in displeasure.
You step toward the door, loudly knocking on the metallic surface until the agent stationed outside opens the small view hatch, only his eyes visible to you. âCall Dr. Keller,â you say quickly. âTell him itâs urgent.â
The guard hesitates for a mere second, before you hear him walk away.
In the meantime, behind you thereâs a dull thump that pulls your attention back to the man caged there.
Your head snaps towards him, just in time to see the Soldierâs metal hand rest against the glass, but his fingers are now spread wide, pressing. His jaw is clenched, blue eyes fixed on you because youâve drifted too far, out of his reach.
âIâm right here.â You cajole. âIâll be back soon.â
His answer comes in the form of his flesh hand curling slowly into a fist by his side.
Dr. Keller arrives a few minutes later.Â
Heâs older, silver-haired, immaculate in a way that suggests choice rather than coercion. His confident posture is that of a man who belongs here because he wants to.Â
Barely sparing the Asset a glance, he takes a small step into the room.
âWhat do you want?â He asks, already impatient.
You turn the tablet in his direction, yet he hardly looks at the screen. âThis compound,â your finger taps the value. âItâs interfering with the serum. It shouldnât be there at all. What is it?â
Keller squints at it, then his expression smooths in pure indifference.
âOh. That.â He comments bored. âItâs CX-17.â
Your heartbeat quickens, something in your chest curling just wrong at the name. âAnd what exactly is CX-17?â
His hesitation lasts long enough for it to be intentional. âA behavioral catalyst. Part of Project Genesis.â
You squint at him in confusion. âProject what?â
Keller exhales through his nose, eyes rolling. âYou werenât cleared for the full scope, obviously. But Iâm feeling generous today, since you clearly lack the intellectual capacity to reach any logical conclusion by yourself.â You grimace at his condescending tone.
âThe serum alone is limited. Replication has been unsuccessful and subjects donât survive long enough for meaningful results, so the Winter Soldier Program was suspended indefinitely.â
Your mouth dries. âWhat does that have to do with this compound?â
An annoyed huff falls from his lips. âThe Asset remains the only viable template, therefore natural compatibility was⌠explored.â
The last word lands wrong.
âWhat do you mean âexploredâ?âÂ
Kellerâs eyes briefly flick toward the glass, then back to you. âAttempts were made to encourage reproductive behavior. He resisted. Violently. So the directive was adjusted accordingly.â
âYou drugged him.â Horror dawns on your features, your voice nothing short of a whisper.
âWe enhanced instinctual drives and suppressed inhibitions.â Keller snaps. âCX-17 was designed to lower resistance. It was a necessary step to secure the future of HYDRA.â
âNo. You created an untested compound,â you start slowly, the words feeling like shards of glass on your tongue. âAnd pumped it into a body already under extreme physiological stress. And you didnât even think to mention it to me?â
âIt wasnât your concern.â
A sharp, disbelieving laugh escapes you. âI am his doctor.â Your voice rises. âYou weakened the serum and destabilized him, and you didnât even notice because you were too busy trying to turn him intoâinto a breeding machine!â
Kellerâs face darkens as he takes a step forward. âWatch your tone, you little, insolent bitch.â
Your eyes harden, far from intimated as your shoulders straighten. âHow dare youââ
A thunderous bang cuts you off.
The glass shudders as the Soldier slams his fist into it once. Twice. The sound is deafening up close. His breathing is irregular, shoulders rising and falling harshly as he regards you with eyes blown wideâfury, agitation, and something far less controlled flickering beneath it.
Your body instinctively faces him. âSoldierââ
Keller swears under his breath as he starts backing toward the door. âYou seriously think you matter to that mutt?â He spits venomously. âYouâre a variable, thatâs all. And when youâll stop being useful, heââ
Another blow. Harder enough for cracks to spiderweb the reinforced glass.
Keller pales. The sentence dies in his throat and with one last frown, he turns and quickly punches in the access codeâthe same one deliberately withheld from you, the person who knows this room and its equipment like the back of your handâshouting for the guards as the door closes with finality behind him.
What a pathetic worm.Â
Behind the glass, the Soldier roarsâraw and wordlessâslamming both of his fists against the barrier, rage finally breaking free of whatever flimsy control he had clung onto until now.
The monitor spikes, prompting you to run towards the console, throwing the tablet somewhere nearby.
âDonâtââ You gasp, but itâs too late. His heart rate surges again as his gaze locks onto the door behind you.Â
âNo!â You shout, but another blow strikes the glass. âHey! Stop. Look at me.â
He freezes mid-motion, eyes flying to your face.
You move closer to the glass, palm lifting slowly, deliberately, as if approaching a skittish wild animal that could either bolt or break.Â
âItâs me, see?â Your voice shakes, so you swallow around the lump of fear clogging your throat. âItâs only me in here.â
He wheezes once, as if his lungs forgot how to work properly, before his chest starts moving at a more normal pace. The fist lowers shakily, fingers uncurling as violence drains out in increments. At last, his forehead drops to rest against the glass with a tired, hollow thud.
Your palm meets the barrier, waiting for him to place his directly opposite to yours. âGood,â you whisper. âThatâs it.â The monitors follow your lead.
You let out a long exhale at that point. Your startled reflection stares back at you, overlaid with his impassive face, so impossibly close. The proximity inevitably drags your mind back to a few weeks ago.Â
It was past midnight when a handler shoved him inside the medical bay, scornfully laughing. âAll yours, Doctor. He didnât move fast enough.âÂ
The man left as fast as he came, the metal door locking behind him.
As your gaze returned to the still Soldier, you noticed a fresh, long cut sitting on his right forearm, the fabric of his tactical shirt ruined. Without thinking, your fingertips gently brushed the skin surrounding the wound, causing a shiver to run down his spine.
For the first time, his pupils dilated noticeably with something far from rage. You missed it entirely, too focused on retrieving some antiseptic, but he couldnât take his eyes off your lips and the concern in your furrowed eyebrows as you asked him to sit on the cot.Â
He inhaled deeply at the way your fingers tenderly wrapped around his wrist as you started to clean the cut, overtaken by a sudden, primal impulse that his programming couldnât contain. And then, as you were cutting some gauze, something small and almost absurd appeared from his gear: a crumpled, battered flower. Most of the petals were gone, leaving nothing more than the crumpled stem clutched carefully in his metal hand.
âOh.â Your eyes blinked in surprise at the sad daisy. Your weight shifted uncomfortably under his expectant blue eyes, hungrily waiting for your reaction.
âIs thisâŚâ You spoke meekly. âFor me?â A sharp, quick nod. âI uhm... tâthank you, Soldier.â You mumbled finally, gently taking the offered gift. âI⌠never got flowers.â A careless, mumbled afterthought, only meant for you.
The Soldier frowned as if you had just spoken in a foreign language, his brain not comprehending how a pretty woman like you had never received flowers. His fingers flexed where they rested uselessly on his thighs, visibly uncertain about his next move.
The corners of your lips lifted in a genuine, small smile, hands already reaching back for the gauze when the Soldier stood up with sharp precision, forcing you to look up at him with wide eyes as you tried to take a few steps back.
He was faster.
Towering over you as he leaned in, his lips caught yours in a clumsy, desperate kiss. His mouth moved frantically, taking advantage of your little, startled gasp to shove his eager tongue in your mouth as his hands impulsively reached for your waist, tugging you closer with possessive certainty. Like he needed to make sure you werenât just a lovely figment of his abused brain.Â
You froze completely, feeling your heart slam painfully against your ribs. And yet, your body gradually turned pliant in his tight hold.
The kiss became more insistent, charged with urgent need.Â
You should have stopped him. Should have taken a step back and made a run for the door to shout for his handler to take him away.
But instead, your eyelids fluttered close and your lips tried to keep up with his desperation, one hand cupping his jaw as your thumb brushed his cheekbone. All the caution and the fear dissolved with a stolen, fragile human gesture, sweet in his awkwardness.
You tried to avoid it, you forbade yourself from picturing his handsome features during those cold nights spent alone in your cell. And yet, the more you were forced to take care of the Soldier, the more you grew used to his silent, insistent presence and his constant watch over you during long, lonely hours.
And he, in turn, started to crave your gentleness and the way your pretty eyes would glance up at him with poorly concealed trepidation.
In that moment, the world narrowed to the feel of his rough hands palming your curves and the faint taste of copper on his tongue. The crushed stem rested between your palm and his chest. Something fragile held against something unsteady, caught in hands too tight to tell the difference between keeping and breaking.
Mine, his eyes screamed when you finally pulled away.
Ownership.
And God help youâyou let it happen.
The memory shatters as a shrill creak resounds sharply in the room. Your eyes fly to your left, where the Soldier had moved. His metal hand is wrapped around the reinforced handle of the door, plates whirring as he tests itâpulling, twisting, applying calculated force.Â
He wants out. He wants you.
âHey,â you bark, your pulse ringing in your ears as you rush toward the console. âNo, Soldier. Stop.â
His head turns just enough to meet your eyes. Then, his lips wrap around your name. Rough. Unused. The sound of it sends a chill down your spine.
âIâm here, Iâm fine.â You babble. âYou donât need to come out.â
You can see the moment hesitation crosses his mind in the way his grip weakens for a mere second, before all hell breaks loose.
The Soldier plants his feet too wide, like the floor might slide out from under him, and presses his metal hand to the seam of the door, holding. His fingers curl and uncurl a couple of times, as if deciding how much strength to use. His shoulders begin to shake then, jaw locking hard enough that you can hear his teeth grind through the glass. His breath stutters out of him in short, broken growls, fogging the reinforced pane in front of his face.
âPlease.â You beg, barely louder than a breath.
The word hits something already fractured.
His flesh hand slams flat against the door.
The impact booms through the room, a deep, concussive sound that rattles the console and thunders in your ribcage. The door doesnât give, not immediately, but the frame shrieks in protest.
He hits it again.
This time he doesnât pull back fully. He leans into it, forehead dropping to the steel, spine bowing as he pushes. The shaking gets worse, travels through him in violent tremors, like his body is overloading, like too much power is trying to flow through the limited space of his veins.
His right arm joins the metal one.
A low, involuntary snarl claws out of his throat, and then he pulls.
Something pops. A hinge shears halfway through with a sharp crack, the sound brief but catastrophic. The door tilts a fraction of an inch, enough that the frame bends, and bolts snap free one after another, pinging across the floor like shrapnel.Â
With one final, brutal surge, he rips the door free of its housing. It tears loose with a roar that dies abruptly when the slab of reinforced steel crashes to the floor, denting it. The alarms begin their wail, red lights strobing the room, yet he stands there unbothered, framed by ruin, with the broken door at his feet like a fallen shield. His chest rises and falls like heâs just surfaced from deep water, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides as his gaze finally flicks over you with quick efficiencyâhands, throat, faceâchecking. Cataloging.
If it was someone else, they would have completely missed the subtle way his eyes soften, like tension easing from a drawn wire.
The room is now open. And all that force, all that damage, was only ever aimed at getting to you.
Every instinct you haveâdoctor, captive, humanâscreams at you to run when the Soldier takes a step closer.
Your legs donât listen though, even if your mind supplies you with a thousand terrible endings per minute as he keeps moving stealthily. A predator relishing the sight of his wounded prey before finally indulging in his coveted feast.
At the very beginning, when his anger started pouring out wild and unrestrained, you thought that there would be a moment heâll turn on you as well. That you were foolish to believe you were different.
Maybe that day has finally come.
The Soldier stops right in front of you. You can see the conflict still raging behind the blue in his eyes, where anger stays coiled tight, barely leashed. He smells like metal, antiseptic and something burned.Â
His flesh hand lifts, hesitating, then falls back to his side like heâs afraid of what it might do.
âI need you.â He says hoarsely. A confession.
Your throat tightens. Slowly, you decide to nod. âI know,â you whisper. âIâm here.â
Thatâs all it takes.
He closes the distance, wrapping his muscled arms around your waist to pull you into his chest. Itâs sudden and fierce, but still controlledâtight without crushing, as if holding a fragile possession he doesnât trust himself to keep intact. His chin drops to your shoulder, breath hot and uneven against your neck.
Your hands hover uselessly for a heartbeat, before they uncertainly land on his back, delicately resting on his trembling shoulders. His body shudders at the contact. The storm inside his chest doesnât dissolve completely, but it quiets, contained by the simple fact of having you in his arms.
Your eyes reluctantly close, an attempt to control your still racing pulse. Fear has braided tightly with a warmer sensation stirring in your belly, you realize horrifically. Itâs not a secret that you have always been terrified of him, of what he could do if a wrong word dared to fall from your lips. And yet, here in his hold, standing in a room that resembles more a battlefield littered with steel and dust, you feel safe enough to breathe.
Once your cheek tentatively comes to rest against his chest, your focus narrows on his heartbeat.
Itâs still too fast.
The sirens finally cut out one by one, as if even the system knows better than to challenge the Soldier right now.
Your fingers on his back twitch, instinctively curling in the snug fabric of his tactical shirt, before relaxing again. Your body feels dividedâhalf screaming to pull away, half unwilling to test what might happen if you do.
His arms tighten, perceiving your sudden reluctance.
This is wrong, you think. This is all so wrong.
Project Genesis.
The letters keep pulsing behind your eyelids, nauseating in their simplicity. Creation. Beginning. Dr. Keller talked about it as if what they had done, what they had planned, was anything other than abuse dressed up in language that made men like him and Pierce feel important.
Your stomach twists violently.
You stood confused at this console for weeks... months. You obsessed over his vitals, adjusted dosages, charted reactions as you softly reassured him while the others kept barking orders. And all the while, something very specific had been running through his veins.
Something meant to break him.
âI didnât know.â The words slip out without permission, thin and useless. Your vision blurs at once, tears welling too fast for dignity. You squeeze your eyes shut, but they spill anyway, hot and uncontrollable, soaking the fabric of his shirt.
âI didnât know,â you sob. âI swear I didnâtâI would haveââ
Your voice collapses completely.
The weight of it crashes down on you all at once. Not just the revelation, but everything that came before it. Every order you followed, every time you told yourself this is the only way you could keep him alive. Every moment you chose caution over confrontation.
A stupid, complicit cowardâthatâs what you are.
Your shoulders begin to shake. Embarrassed, you attempt to hide yourself by curling inward, forehead pressing harder against his pec.
You should have pried more, should have seen it. Youâre a doctor, yet you blindly accepted whatever ineffective explanation they fed you.
âI let them do this to you,â you choke. âI let them use you. I was there. I was right there.â
Each sharp, stinging breath feels like a deserved punishment.
âIâm so sorry.â Your voice is feeble, almost inaudible. âIâm so, so sorry.â
The Soldier doesnât move. For a terrifying second, you think youâve gone too far, that your collapse has triggered some hidden, trauma response.
Until there is a subtle shift.Â
His chin lowers, resting awkwardly on the top of your head, as if not entirely sure heâs doing it right.
âStop.â The Soldier rasps out, lips briefly touching your temple.
You try, you really do, but the apologies keep flowing like a river in the middle of a storm, tangled and incoherent.
âI didnât mean toâGod, I didnâtâplease believe meââ
âNot your fault.â
The words are blunt, stripped of any softness, but they land like a hand braced against your back meant to steady you.
You shake your head violently against his chest. âIt is. It has to be. I was part of it, I was part of theââ
âNo.âÂ
No elaboration, no uncertainty.
A weak laugh emerges through the tears, not a single trace of humor in it.
âYou donât understand.â
His next exhale is sharp, tinged with barely contained frustration. One arm loosens enough around your waist for him to pull back, not to release you, but to face you without any obstacles that could make you doubt the meaning behind his words.
You never noticed how piercing his eyes are up close. Almost too aware.Â
âYou didnât hurt me. They did.â He continues solemnly. âYou fixed my wounds. You talked to me... You stayed.â
âThatâs not enough.â You sniffle, lips pressed tightly as they try to hold back an embarrassing sob.
âIt is.â He answers at once.
You break again at that. A sound tears out of your chest, raw and forlorn as you throw yourself back into his arms, your face finding its refuge against his chest as your fingers curl around his forearms like an anchor.
âIâm scared of you,â you admit, the truth tasting like blood. âAnd I hate myself for that too.â
His body stiffens almost imperceptibly.
âI know.â He whispers.
âI thought you would hurt me,â you continue, words spilling faster now that the seal has broken. âAt first. Every day, I kept waiting for it, waiting for the moment youâd decide I was like them.â
A broken chuckle bubbles up, humorless. âMaybe I am.â
His arms tense around you. âNever.â
His voice is rough at the edges. âYouâre different. Always were.â
Blinking up at him with your vision still swimming with tears, you swallow thickly. âHow can you be so sure of that?â
The Soldier hesitatesâa pause where language fails him, where concepts donât line up neatly because of the constant wipings.
âYou donât look at me like⌠weapon.â He mumbles carefully, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows as they furrow pensively. âYou donât raise your voice. You always ask.â
Your chin trembles dangerously.
âYou listen.â He adds. âAnd youâre kind.â He nods as if stating a fact. âAnd beautiful.â
The last word is quiet, almost uncertain.
It hits you like a physical blow to your ribs. You had not expected that, not now. The intimacy of it feels treacherous and precious all at once in such a fragile moment.
âI donât want to hurt anyone.â He confesses suddenly, tension creeping back into his shoulders. His grip tightens again, reflexively. âI didnât want to⌠they were asleep.â
The information feels like a bucket of icy water being dumped on your head.
âThey wanted me to touch them, andâand do...â The words come out shakily. You swallow thickly once you realize his eyes have never looked so haunted, staring somewhere past you, as if the memory had successfully sucked him back.Â
âI donât want that. IâI refused.â His jaw clenches. âI just want you.â
The words are desperate. Simple.Â
Around you, the red lights finally dim as well, until they go completely dark, the automated voice in the corridor announcing containment failure cut off mid-syllable, replaced by a heavy, unnatural silence that presses in on your ringing ears.
His arms lock around your waist, metal and flesh equally unyielding, anchoring you back against his torso as his wobbly chin hovers near the crown of your head. Every passing second, his grip tightens imperceptibly, until you are struggling to breath properly.
Thatâs when you feel it.
The hard press of something against your belly.
Your eyes widen abruptly.
In a last, desperate attempt to put at least a little distance between the two of you, you press your unsteady palm on his right pec, pushing just slightly. The Soldier instantly goes rigid, eyes flicking down to frown at the contact.
âYou need to let me go.â You breathe out shakily.
The words are careful, measured. The same way you spoke to him when you adjusted his restraints, or changed a dressing after a particular brutal mission.
âNo.â He replies. A single syllable that feels like a final verdict.
Your stomach drops.
âSomeoneâs going to come.â You swallow, your voice lacking conviction even to your own ears. âTheyâll want to secure the area, theyâll... punish you.â
He doesnât answer.
Minutes pass and the weight of his erection gets more insistent, just like his eyes on yours.
Finally, several footsteps echo somewhere far away, heavy and fast, causing you to perk up at the movement beyond the doorâboots, murmured voices, the faint hiss of radios. Relief flares in your chest so intensely it makes you dizzy.
âTheyâre here.â You whisper, teeth biting the inside of your cheek to maintain your calm front.
His hold tightens. Not enough to hurt, just to remind.
âStay.â
Then, the voices outside grow clearer.
â⌠Not worth it.â
â⌠You saw the damage on the glass...â
â⌠Calm now.â
Your breath hitches.
A familiar voice cuts through the thick metal door.
âHold position,â one of the handlers barks. âNo further advance.â
A pause.
âBut sirââ
âHeâs not agitated,â he grits out. âVitals stabilized the moment she stepped in. You go in there, you change the equation and we are all dead.â
Another voice speaks up, uneasy. âWhat about the Doctor?â
Silence.
âIf the Asset kills her,â the man states flatly. âThen sheâs no longer a stabilizing factor. That tells us everything we need to know.â
Your blood turns to ice.
The handler goes on, cruel in his indifference. âSheâs a variable, and variables are not meant to last.â
Your lips part but no sound comes out.
The Soldierâs grip shifts, pulling you impossibly closer, his body angling subtly between you and the door, as if protecting you from them.
âYouâre safe.â He says.
The way his lips gently close around the lie has you shivering.
Your eyes are imploring as you weakly try to convince him again.
âI need to leave.â
The Soldier exhales sharply from his nostrils.
âNo.âÂ
Both of your palms lie against his chest, pushing, testing. âI have toââ
His arms squeeze once again your waist, this time with enough strength to trap you against his firm body without hurting you.Â
Ownership without chaos.
âMine.â His voice repeats low, eyes glancing down at your lips with a glint dangerously close to panic. âDonât go.â
The back of your eyes sting with fresh tears.
This is the breaking point you hadnât let yourself imagine. The certainty of your fate seeps into your bones like coldâcruel and deepâas the minutes drag on and no one intervenes. No door opening, no voice calling your name. No order shouted to stand down.
HYDRA had made its decision.
They had weighed your life against his compliance and found you expendable.
At that point, the fight slowly drains out of you as the truth takes root in your heart, the way your body finally sags in surrender in his arms being interpreted by his fractured mind as acceptance.
âTheyâre not coming. They wonât help,â you mumble. âEven if you hurt me.â
You almost regret letting those words in the open when the small twinkle of hope dancing in his eyes dims abruptly. You try to hide in dejection, but the Soldier wonât allow that. Carefully, he places a shaky finger under your chin, tenderly lifting it until you are facing him again. His gaze searches yours with disturbing intensity, scanning for distress, for injury... for something he refuses to acknowledge.
âHurt?â
âNo.â You sigh tiredly. You peek at him through your lashes with your lips trembling in fear as your next words come out in a hushed whisper. âBut you could.â
Confusion dawns on his handsome face, like the concept doesnât fit with the way the world works in his head.
âI wonât.âÂ
Your gaze drifts past his shoulder to the sealed door, to the place where armed men stood listening and chose not to act. Where your life quietly stopped being worth the effort.
Your voice shakes. âThen⌠if I wanted to leave⌠would you let me?â
He doesnât answer right away. Both his hands leave a trail of goosebumps as they slide from your hips to your wrists, thumbs pressed into the soft skin there, grounding himself.
âNo.â He says with finality. Simple and honest.
His head leans down until his forehead finally meets yours. âI need you.â He repeats softly, as if that justified everything.
His breathing finally slows once he realizes you arenât trying to pull away anymore. Your body turns pliant in his hold, hopeless and devoid of any belligerency as your eyes flutter shut with exhaustion. Your nerves are stretched thin to the point of numbness, yet your mind keeps screaming at you that you should be terrified.
And you are, to a degree. Some part of you is acutely aware of the danger of being cuddled by a war criminal who could snap your spine with his pinky. The vivid sight of the door falling, the lethal efficiency of his movements, the violence he unleashed on anyone who wasnât you... they are still too fresh.
But wrapped up in that fear is a feeling you tried to push down for weeks. Something... you should be ashamed of.
Safety.
The Soldier has never hurt you. Not once. Not with his hands, nor with his voice. Even in his worst moments, he always stopped when you spoke, always turned back to the sound of your voice like you were his beacon in the middle of a sea-storm.
You had told yourself, at first, that it was conditioning. Then you tried to convince yourself it had to be pity. How could you not feel for a man stripped of his name, his memories, his choices? Used and discarded by the same people who had stolen your life without an ounce of guilt. It was natural, you reasoned, to feel compassion. To want to be gentle with someone so thoroughly brutalized.
That explanation held, for a while.
But pity didnât explain the way your breath caught when he stood too close. Or the way youâd begun to notice the lines of his muscles, the quiet intensity whenever his eyes met yours; the strange, restrained grace in the way he moved when he wasnât being weaponized.
Pity didnât explain the way your body had responded to the kiss in the medical bay without thought.
You swallow around the lump in your throat.
Isolation and trauma pushed a mind desperate to find meaningâor comfortâanywhere it could. You were kidnapped, imprisoned, stripped of agency. Of course you had latched onto the one person who didnât treat you like an object.
Of course youâd mistaken that for something deeper.
And yet.
You carefully lift your head, truly pausing to study his face. The Soldier is observing you again, always watching, expression unreadable but focused, memorizing the shape of your eyes, and the curve of your lips... as if expecting for his handler to come and shake him awake.
He is beautifulâin a stark, broken way.
That frightens you as well.
Your eyelids flutter close, a lonely tear slipping free despite your best efforts to calm yourself.
Maybe you should have fought harder, screamed for help while he was still trying to break the door. You should have tried to run while you still could. But the ugly, inescapable truth is that the sole idea of being dragged back into HYDRAâs hands is more terrifying than standing here with him.
He is a prisoner, and so are you. You are the same, in that way: both trapped, owned, and reduced to functions. The only difference is that he is dangerous enough to be feared, and you arenât worth even a spare glance. The Soldier is the only one who has ever made room for your humanity in this hell, even if he does it in the wrong way, for the wrong reasons, with a possessiveness that bleeds into obsession. That doesnât mean, however, that you want to pursue this feeling. You know deep down in your guts that this bond is too fragile, built on circumstances that can shift without warning. One day, something might break, and you could be on the wrong side of it.
Itâs only when his chest moves with a ragged breath that you notice the hard clench of his jaw. Your hand instantly reaches out to gently caress the tense muscle, yet your fingers still when the heat radiating off the solid wall of his chest becomes unbearably abnormal.
âWhatââ You whisper, the concern for him breaking through despite your despair. âWhat happened? Itâs okay, youâre okay.â
His long locks tickle your skin as he tucks his chin, nose leisurely nuzzling the skin of your cheek, then tracing its way down to the slope of your neck. He stops right where your pulse thunders, inhaling your smell with a hungry grunt.Â
Your body locks the moment his tongue takes a slow lick of your skin, a moan vibrating in his ribcage at your taste.
It canât beâ
His metal hand moves before you can elaborate. Big, cold fingers curl bruisingly around your wrists, a yelp falling from your lips as he pins them flat to his chest. His other hand stays heavy on the curve of your waist, flexing and digging into your skin as you squirm without success.
âSâSoldier.â Your voice breaks. âI thinkâyou need to let me go now andâand go backââ
You donât get the chance to finish, because he is pushing you back against the console, firmly enough to convey who has the upper hand. He towers over you, pining you with his weight against the edge that digs painfully into your back.Â
âI needââ He groans against your throat.Â
Your desperate attempt to free yourself dies as his tongue invades your mouth. Your fists weakly thump against his chest, but his flesh hand grips your chin with tight precision, forcing you to relax into the animalistic kiss that is more tongue and teeth than lips. His metal arm is unyielding around your torso, keeping you nice and still as his hips jerk forward, humping your covered mound in search of some kind of relief.
âPlease, help me, need you, only you please.â He quietly whines against your lips, a mess of spit connecting your lips as he pants in your open mouth.
âWaitââ Your fingers curl against the rough fabric of his shirt. âI donâtââ
You choke on your next words as his hand lands on your thigh, squeezing the flesh hard.Â
âWe stay quiet.â He commands roughly. âSo they donât hear andâthey canât use you like those women.â
Your gasp is horrified, eyes going wide at the implication. âNo!â You whisper-shout, petrified at the possibility of the agents potentially finding out and...Â
âPlease, please, donât make me do it!â Your vision soon turns blurry again, and your eyes are hurting so badly. You are so tired of crying. âI canâtââ
The Soldier pulls back just enough to look at you, his hazy eyes reminding you of the ocean abyss as they fall on your lips, lewdly tracing the bare length of your throat until they land on your cleavage, his mouth parted in awe. The possessive hand on your thigh has moved up in the meantime, squeezing the flesh of your ass, his hold turning harsher the more he loses himself in the soft swell of your breasts, until a pitiful whimper catches his attention.
âSoldier, please.â You sob out as tears earnestly fall down your cheeks, your chest caving in at the sight of him, too far gone to comprehend your words.
âIâll make it feel better, I swear. Justâplease, only want you, want you always.â
He fucks you silently, with a primal, desperate urge to possess you. His strength is barely restrained as you desperately cling onto his shoulders.Â
At first the Soldier can barely contain himself, narrowly missing your hole as his cock snuggles between your dripping folds. He pants into your mouth, forcing his lips on yours in a ravenous kiss as he indulges in the wet warmth that is your pussy. His hips frantically twitch against yours, dragging his length until itâs sufficiently coated in your slick.
Then, with a growl muffled against your mouth, he slides inside you with a harsh thrust.
You had fantasized about it before, in the darkâabout how big he would be, how deliciously his cock could stretch youâuntil you realized where your mind had wandered, and promptly rolled onto your other side with a loud huff. As if that could be enough to chase those filthy thoughts away. Still, your mind could never prepare you for the fat, veiny girth that breached you after fighting off the compound-induced flames of sexual desire burning bright inside him for who knows how many weeks. There is no warning before his flushed tip catches on your hole; no patience in the way he forces himself inside you.
Your scream is stifled by your hand, your nails digging into the hard flesh of his flesh shoulder as his own groans are hidden against the slope of your neck.
âMine.â He grunts in your ear, stubble rubbing your smooth skin raw. âMine, only mine.â He insists, eyes wild and hips thrusting frantically.
You can barely form a coherent word, each thrust giving you the impression that the Soldier is trying his hardest to carve the shape of his cock into your body, over and over again. Sliding in and out so fast and hard his balls slap filthily against your asscheeks, his fingers dig into your thighs, keeping them open for him to use you like his favorite toy.
âSay it.â You cry out a moan once his lips devour yours, your mind traitorously conjuring the image of that clumsy, grumpy man trying to express how much he wanted you back in the med bay.
Your back arches forward when he goes back to lavish your neck with scorching bites and fervent licks, your head limply falling back as his fingers gracelessly move on your clit, rubbing and flicking in a confused yet eager circling motion.
âSay it.â He snarls again.
âYours!â You sob. âFuck! Only yoursâonly you.â
The sheer intensity of your orgasm hits you out of nowhere, causing you to cling precariously onto his broad shoulders. Your body squirms and clenches around him yet the Soldier never slows down. He continues to rut into you furiously, the sounds of his cock slamming into your wet pussy, thrusting without restraint, are obscene. His delirious half-smile conveys a twisted sense of satisfaction at making you come on his cock, proud that he is the only one that will ever make you scream and cry out of pleasure. Because now your body would fucking know who it belongs to.Â
Your mouth opens in a soundless scream as the Soldier loses himself in this sick, distorted fantasy, pushing you more firmly against that damn panel.
You mewl and pant and sniffle against your shoulder, sweaty and on the brink of exhaustion, when the little sparks of pleasure still lingering behind soon transform into an uncontrollable fire, until your body is twitching, hit by an even more intense climax. Your pussy squeezes him so tight the Soldier chokes on his own saliva, but you canât stop spasming around his girth, sucking him deeper as your mind fractures.
You are left breathless, hands barely holding onto his back, and fuck, he needs to come now or you are going to pass out and you cannot allow that. Not when HYDRA could potentially be lingering outside, waiting for the perfect moment to swarm this place once the Soldier calms down.
Your mouth promptly finds his, your hands clutching his cheeks as you share a passionate, hot kiss that finally throws the Soldier over the edge, muffling his pitiful whines against your tongue.
His head spins when your hand shoots down, gently fondling his balls as you drag your lips down to suck on his neck, causing only more cum to spill out. A whimper falls from your lips as the thick fluid fills you unforgivingly, until it becomes too difficult to hold inside, pooling at the edges of your folds and dripping onto the once pristine floor. Your walls pulse with every throb of his cock as his thighs shake, warm ropes of cum still painting your insides relentlessly. A broken moan escapes him at the thought of finally leaving a part of himself in you.
By the time he has finished emptying himself in your pussy, your body is lying drained in his arms. The silence after stretches for a few more seconds, until the Soldier finally breaks it, his nose tracing the damp skin of your neck breathlessly.
âMine.â
They donât call it a reassignment.
They call it a logistical adjustment.
You find out while standing in a narrow administrative corridor that smells faintly of printed paper, from a handler who doesnât even bother looking you in the eyes.
âGiven recent containment failures,â she reads from a folder, voice clipped and disinterested. âIt has been determined that subject stability increases exponentially with your prolonged presence.â
Your fingers curl around the hem of your white coat. âIâm already his doctor. His only doctor.â
âYes.â She sighs annoyed. âBut you are not always with him.â
The meaning settles like a brick in your throat.
âYouâre moving me.â You state, horrified.Â
The handler finally glances up, eyes flat. âWe are relocating you.â
Your stomach drops.
âTo the same unit.â She continues. âSleeping quarters, monitoring station, medical accessâall integrated. You will remain within visual range of the Asset at all times unless otherwise authorized.â
You swallow. âAnd if I refuse?â
âYou wonât.â She doesnât even blink as her hand flips through the pages with boredom. âThe subject becomes unmanageable without you. This arrangement minimizes risk to personnel and infrastructure.â
âWhat about risk to me?â You grit out.
She gives you a faint, irked exhale. âIf the Asset harms you, Doctor, then your presence is no longer stabilizing. In that case, your loss will be⌠regrettable, but informative.â
You are escorted through corridors you had never been allowed to see before. Darker, silent. Past reinforced doors and biometric locks until you and the two agents reach a unit that feels less like a cell and more like a sealed habitat.
âHeâs already inside.â
The door opens and you step in with a shaky exhale.
The room is quite large and anonymous, with padded walls, embedded sensors and a bedâreinforced, stripped of anything that could be turned into a weapon.Â
The Soldier is standing in the center of the room, motionless, as if heâs been waiting. He turns the moment the door screeches, eyes immediately locking onto you.
Relief, raw and unmistakable, washes across his face.
âYouâre here.âÂ
âYes.â You whisper.
The door seals shut behind you with a sense of finality.
You flinch at the sound and that promptly gets him closer to you.
âSafe.â He nods.
You donât know if the word is meant for you, or for himself.
Your eyes tentatively wander around the cell, taking in the absence of exits and the quiet hum of surveillance under every surface.Â
They reduced you to a sedative with a pulse.
You set your bag on the floor slowly, knees shaking a little as you slightly bend down.
âThis doesnât meanâŚâ You start, but donât even know how to finish that thought.
The Soldier observes you with that same quiet devotion, head tilted sideways and jaw unclenched. His fingers catch your wrist when your hand trembles too hard to hide.
âStay.â
You sigh. âYes.âÂ
Understanding flickers, incomplete but earnest.
âMine.â
That word should have terrified you. Instead, it wraps around the deep and aching pit in your stomach.
Your free hand comes to rest on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. Up close, you can see the faint dark circles under his eyes, the scar along his cheek from his last mission that still hasnât properly healed, because that damn compound is still roaring high and bright in his veins to allow the serum to act to its full potential.
âThat doesnât mean I wonât be afraid.â You add, voice barely above a whisper.
The Soldier has never been gentle with the world, but he made sure to carve a warm, comfortable place for you to exist outside of that brutality. And somehow, that terrifies you more than his violence ever has.
His fingers gently squeeze your flesh, slowly bringing your wrist to his lips, as if uncertain of how you would react.
âMine.â He mumbles against your knuckles.
Thatâs the final truth you have to face. Not because you are naĂŻve, or foolish, but because in a place that has taken everything from you, he is the only one who has ever chosen you.
Even if that choice comes wrapped in possession. Even if it means you would never truly leave.
Your shoulders sag with a dejected sigh, finally allowing your forehead to rest against his shoulder as the Soldier engulfs you in his arms.Â
Two prisoners, standing in the aftermath of a shattered boundary.
Outside, HYDRA recalibrates, adjusts protocols, writes new rules that reduce your existence to an item in a report.
Here, the Winter Soldier reverently watches over the only thing that has ever quieted the static noise in his head.
And you, caught between fear and comfort, between horror and something dangerously close to affection, come to the dreadful realization that this is not a rescue story.
In which the government (Eva Stratt) shows up at your door and gives you no choice but to join the Petrova Taskforce. The reason? Ryland Grace recommended you, your old friend (or whatever you were) from college. And for some reason, you said yes.
or
the tether tying you to earth was always very thin, but now it seemed ready to snap.
word count: 10.7k (lol)
content warning: some (a lot of) inaccurate science (I hate to say it but I would not be on the Petrova Taskforce), some plot alterations for my convenience, cussing, slight (very slight) references to sex, mention of parental death, mention of needles and going under, miscommunication trope (yasss) and someone tell ryland grace to just say something!! ( as always, lmk if I missed anything)
a/n: wow this has been sitting with me for a while! this is like my passion project, I have been so excited to get this out and I hope you all enjoy it too! this is my first time writing for Ryland (and writing in a while so give me some grace...see what I did there?). excited to be back and hopefully writing some more!
ANYWAYS, I would happily write a part two of if the people want it! (or just rant in my inbox about headcanons)
If there was one thing you knew it was that Ryland Grace and you perfectly orbited each other, even when he was far off in San Francisco teaching the next generation of young scientists. It had been that way since you met him in college and it just never stopped. Part of you thought it was written in the stars that Ryland Grace and you were meant to do great things together.
Even after everything that happened with his research paper, even after your lab group dropped you post college from lack of funding, it was still the two of you. Science Partners, pen pals, best budsâŚ.among other ambiguous unstated things. You stayed in contact over the years, frequent calls, letters, the stupid punny e-cards he would email you on your birthday every year. There was a time, in college, when the two of you were together almost every day. And your excuse was always that we just work well together.
You knew Ryland Grace, you would say it was your next best subject. However, in this specific, very rare instance, you had no idea what the fuck Ryland Grace was even talking about.
Have you ever considered helping save the planet?
You must have reread the email a thousand times. Enough where your brain eventually shut off from confusion and your head met the keyboard in place of a pillow. Only when a loud thudding rattled through your dingy apartment did you finally realize that you had even fallen asleep. You blinked at the screen, lifting your head from your keyboard, the sun shining through the windows onto your desk. Reaching up, you peeled a small sticky note off your face, rubbing your eyes.
BANG, BANG, BANG. The sound rattled through your thin walls again and only on the second time did you realize it was coming from your front door. You paused for a second and glanced at your small digital clock, it was only six in the morning. Shooting up from your chair you made your way to the door, grabbing an umbrella on the way over, just in case.
You peered through the peep hole, only relaxing for a second when you saw a womanâŚthen her two, what you could assume were body guards, behind her. Right about now you would have called Ryland but he had been off the grid, that email being the first sign of life you had gotten in days.
Shit. Shit. Shit. What do you even do? You glanced back out, seeing them talking amongst themselves before knocking again, the woman calling your name through the door. Quickly turning to the mirror on the wall near the door, you let out a groan at what you saw. There was mascara smeared under your eyes from sleep and your hair stuck up in fifteen directions, all completed by the oversized t-shirt you had on reading âThis gal believes in aliensâ.Â
Fuck it!
You threw the umbrella to the side, brushed some hair out of your face and opened the door, casually leaning against the frame like everything was under control.
âHi,â you spoke up, voice rough from not sleep, quickly clearing your throat in response, arms crossed over yourself to hide the stupid shirt. âHiâŚuh is there anything I can do for you?â
The women did not look amused, only offering you a nod, slightly peaking into the small studio apartment behind you.Â
âYes, actually, you received an email,â she spoke, sharp, straight to the point. It wasnât a question really, more like a confirmed fact she was repeating. Her eyebrow quirked ever so slightly at your silence. âAm I wrong?â
You shook your head quickly.
âYes or no? It is really that simpleâ.
âYes, yes, sorryâŚâ you hesitated for a second, coming to the quick realization you had no idea who these people were. And yet, you were so scared to see what would happen if you lied. âYeah I got an emailâ.
âNot my decision. Dr. Grace thought however that it would be most efficient,â she continued. âHe has spoken very highly of you and from my own research, I can understand whyâ.
Dr. Grace? Ryland?Â
She gestured past you which you could only respond by moving to the side. Her presence commanded space and you respected it, or feared it, there was a lot to unpack. She stepped past you, turning to give a nod to the two men with her who remained outside.
âI am sorry,â you began, closing the door, turning to face her. âMaybe you got the wrong person-â
âThat is not possible,â she replied. âHe was very insistent that we must contact you in order to move forwardâ.
For what? Contact you for what?
You watched as the woman moved around the room like it was her space, picking up books and skimming through old pages of notes you had written. Then she turned to face a white board you had mounted messily in your kitchen, scribbled with notes and doodles that surrounded three big words: THE PETROVA LINE.
âSeems we are on the same page,â she mused, the first time you had heard any significant change in her tone.Â
The space and the stars and the idea of infinity above had kept you up late into the night as a child. Your parents should have expected your world was one far away from the grounds of Earth, that you would live your life with your head in the stars. Your father used to have to drag you inside from your backyard, you set up with a blanket and a small telescope that they had bought you for your birthday that year. Each night would end the same, your parents calling you to come inside and you asking for five more minutes, which turned into ten, which turned into hours. But your little sixth grade self could not fathom how school was more important than the world above, the possibilities of the stars.
And when you went to college to study that world it was the easiest decision of your life. Then the stars turned on you and you could not understand why.
The Petrova Line kept you up at night.
âYou studied the Tau Ceti System, yes?â
The name of the planet system sent a shockwave through you in a way you didnât even know was possible. Tau Ceti was your whole life, or it had been in a distant past, it was a system you believed to have more potential than people truly gave it credit for. Yes, you knew Tau Ceti, however you had let that ship sail a long time ago.Â
âYeah,â you spoke up, quieter than before. âYeah I did some work on Tau Cetiâ.
And you could not help the wave of disappointment that hit you at those words. You had been recruited to a lab group after college that was specifically dedicating funding to researching the Tau Ceti System, and when it fell through, so did all your plans. You had dropped every other offer for the one that, it was everything you had wanted. It was a risk, and it fell through. No one really prepares you for post college as an Astrobiologist, no one ever tells you that you will end up working as a waitress at the Extraterrestrial Eatery near your house. At least you got to wear a cool space suit there. Tau Ceti and your other research had been benched, pushed to the side for evenings when you had nothing else to do.
âPerfect. Now that is cleared up, grab anything that might be important and we can be on our wayâ.
The women turned to move past you back for the door and you felt like your feet were suddenly glued to the ground. You opened your mouth to speak, before closing it, then opening it again. Yet no sound seemed to come out.
âWhat is this?â she asked, turning back, gesturing to your face. âI do not need the fish impression right now, this is a serious matter, we do not have the timeâ.
You immediately shut your mouth, then took a breath.
âWho are you?â you finally cried out. âWhat is this? No one is telling me anything!â
You felt insane, like you were living in some simulation where everyone knew what was going on but you. Where were the cameras? When were they gonna jump out and say it was all some weird, honestly unnerving, prank?
âI am Eva Stratt, head of the Petrova Taskforceâ she began. âAnd you have been selected by Ryland Grace to help solve the Petrova Lineâ.
âI have work tomorrow,â you breathed out, a loss for words. The Petrova Taskforce, some of the world's most brilliant minds coming to youâŚa waitress at an alien restaurant. The email came back to you, the ominous words from Ryland, saving the world. This was news that a long time ago would have been everything you had ever wanted to hearâŚnow you felt like some imposter, out of place.
Why you? Why now? Why after years of beating around the bush did Ryland Grace need your help to solve one of humanity's greatest emergencies. Why was Ryland Grace solving one of humanity's greatest emergencies?
âThat will not be a problem,â Stratt countered. âWe have already contacted your place of work and put you on an indefinite time of leaveâ.
âYou canât just do that!â you fought back, even if you knew that was the least of your worries. It was all so much, all at once. Ryland and Tau Ceti and the Petrova Line and saving the fucking planet.Â
You remained still glued to the floor, grasping at straws, scared of saying yesâŚmaybe even more scared of saying no. You glanced around the room, the books, the hours of work, the pictures of Ryland and you scattered around the room from college. It had been years since you saw him and maybe that scared you too, seeing him again, reopening feelings you had sworn to bury too deep to ever reach again.Â
Your curiosity for the world remained, your love for space had never quite gone away, that would be impossible. It was just more of a hobby now, you looked less like someone with a PhD in Astrobiology and more like a crazed conspiracy theorist. You werenât the same scientist from college, bright eyed and ready to fly into space if she had to.
Dr. Stratt spoke your name from the silence, your eyes snapping back to meet hers, âthe sun is dying.â
The word settled heavy, lingering in the air between the two of you.Â
âDr. Grace is my last hope,â she continued, honest, blunt. âAnd you are hisâ.
And that was all it took as you nodded, a loss for words, moving in a sort of trance to gather your things.
-----------
If there was something you would be fine never doing again it was that fuck-ass fighter jet. But now, standing in front of the door to the conference room, you think you might rather go back and ride the jet a few more times to stall. You hadnât seen Ryland Grace in yearsâŚand now you were there, feet away from him and the idea overwhelmed you more than you thought it would.
The ride over had been a bumpy, hazy mess. Anyone you tried to ask about what was happening would ignore you as if you were a ghostâŚwhich only left you with more questions. By the time you landed on a boat your brain was too tired to even try to make sense of it all.
You had met Ryland in college. You both ended up in the same class, âThe History of Extraterrestrial Lifeâ...better known on campus as That One Alien Class. It filled both of your general education requirements, or at least thatâs what you told him was your reasoning. It had taken him weeks to get you to admit that you believed in Aliens and even longer to admit that the class really wasnât a joke to you.Â
The two of you were paired up for most of the semester, spending time whispering in class and making jokes about how deranged the content was. Even if it did open your eyes up to the whole Tau Ceti system.Â
You remember the last day of class so vividly. It was your final presentation and Ryland had taken it upon himself to get you these dumb matching shirts reading, âThis gal believes in aliensâ paired with âthis guy probably is an alienâ. It was stupid. And it was so perfect.
The thought made you smile, only for a second, before the nerves of it all settled back in.Â
There was too much there, floating, left unsaid. And it scared the shit out of you.Â
Before you could even fully prepare, the doors opened, your body moving in autopilot as Eva Stratt led you into the room. There you were, suddenly standing in front of what felt like a million eyes, all looking to you like you had answers. You had to remind yourself not to do the whole fish thing again as you just awkwardly gave a small wave, trying hard to keep your mouth shut. What am I doing?  You were a waitress at an alien themed restaurant, not a scientistâŚat least not anymore.Â
Stratt introduced you to the room, briefly detailing your credentials to be here. You had kept your gaze straight, scared to look in either direction, straight was safe, straight was easier. You had imagined what it would be like seeing him again, more times than you would ever like to admit, and this was nowhere close to what you thought it would ever be. In a room surrounded by some of the world's most important people.Â
âThis is Dr. (last name),â you hadnât been referred to as that in a whileâŚand you could not lie, it felt kinda good. âShe has researched the Tau Ceti system most of her career and will help us identify why exactly the Tau Ceti star is the only one not losing energyâ
Great. They really loved leaving out the important details. You knew the star, probably more than the back of your hand but there was still immense mystery to it.
âAnything you want to share, Doctor?â Stratt finished, turning the room over to you and you made the one mistake, moving your head. There, at the left end of the table was him, Dr. Grace. Not an email, not a letter or postcard, not a lingering memoryâŚno it was really him, looking at you. Every emotion you had ever felt about him hit you at once in a way that made you want to grab on to the nearest wall so as to not crumble to the ground. Ryland, your Ryland, the same one you remember, albeit a little older, a little more tired. Your heart stuttered for a moment, actually stuttered, like it too had forgotten how to function. And all you could do was muster a small wave. Nothing could have prepared you.Â
You had spent years pretending that he wasnât the sun of your own personal solar system. It turned out that was much easier when he was not standing feet away from you, his glasses practically falling off his face.
You swallowed, mouth running dry. And funny as it was, after all the years, after all the anticipation and wondering, your body eventually went back to the familiar state it always did when it saw him. You softened. Your heart beat steadied and your breathing returned to something much more normal.
Stratt cleared her throat, your eyes snapping back to hers.
âUmâŚTau Ceti is⌠pretty dang cool,â you finally choked out, the people around the room sharing looks between each other. â...Thank youâ.
Sporadic, unsure claps filled the room as you took a step back, ready to smash your head through the nearest wall. You did not lie, Tau Ceti was pretty freaking cool. But you were sure that was not what the Patrova Taskforce really needed to hear from you at that moment.Â
âThank you,â Stratt said, a slight shake of her head, before she gestured towards the empty chair in the one section of the room you had planned on avoiding for at least a little longer. You tried to ignore her before one of the men in suits began to guide you there himself.
Each step you took felt heavy, like your body was trying to stop you. But there was the other part, your heart racing in anticipation, in want. This was what you had wanted, your work hadnât been the same without him. You two brought out a fire in each other, seeing the best in the mess of crazy ideas the two of you brought to the table. The two of you.
As you walked down the table, a few of the other scientists took turns shaking your hand, welcoming you on board. Maybe your speech was not a total mess afterall. You hadnât even realized you had made it to the end of the table, his hand reaching yours before your brain could catch up.Â
âTau Ceti is pretty dang cool,â the familiar voice spoke. Your eyes immediately met his and you felt like the world had stopped for just a second. Every version of him you remembered and every version you didnât hit you all at once. Then you felt him squeeze your hand, his head slightly tilting. âEarth to alien girl?â
It was an odd feeling, seeing someone after so long. The memory of him was hazy until that very moment. You had tried so hard to remember the shade of his eyes and the way they kinda squinted up when he laughed. You had tried to commit those things to memory, tried to live through the pictures, but nothing compared seeing them in-person, in front of you.
You tried to form words, frozen in place, only coming back to reality as Stratt began to talk once more. You quickly sat down, pulling your hand from his and forcing your attention forward.
There were a few seconds where neither of you spoke, ignoring the weight of his eyes on you. You were supposed to be professionalsâŚsince when were you ever professionals? You were on a boat, with the world's best scientists, saving the planetâŚnext to your best friend. And somehow, that felt like the most overwhelming part. You were sure your brain would eventually catch up one day, the shock fading with every minute that passed.
Then he slightly shifted in his chair, âPretty dang cool?â he asked, just loud enough for you to hear, just like the two of you used to do in those alien class lectures. A smile grew on your face, one you tried to bite back.
âI panicked,â you whispered back, eyes still focused forward on Stratt, nodding along to words you werenât even hearing. You didnât have to look at him to know he was smiling too.
The silence again, the silence of years of pushing off visits and ignoring the hard questions. It made you twitch slightly, racking your mind for anything to ease it.
âSo, are you the one responsible for the U.S. government pretty much knocking down my door this morning?â you whispered from the quiet, a slight quirk of your brow, gaze still set forward.Â
âGuilty,â he said, seeing him lift his hands in mock surrender in the peripheral of your vision. You could almost roll your eyes at how predictable the response was, slightly nudging his foot with yours under the table. He let out a quiet, breathy laugh, one you wanted to be the reason for forever.
âI didnât think you would come,â he spoke again, his words softer this time, real.
Those were the words that broke your focus, your head turning to meet his gaze, really meeting his gaze, for the first time.
âKinda didnât have a choice,â you replied, half-joking, the other half completely honest, thinking back to the morning and the woman who was now commanding the room. Then you smiled, looking back at him, âBut I would have come regardlessâ.
Even if you still werenât exactly sure what all this was, what you had somehow signed up for. Even if it made you question who you were, why you were hereâŚwhat you were to him.
You looked down to your lap. You were among the greats because Ryland Grace said you should be. You were not quite sure yet if that was reassuring or terrifying.
âItâs gonna be like old times, huh?â he added, as if it would make it all easier. âYou know, you and me, figuring things out, putting the pieces togetherâ.
Fuck. That did not make it any easier.
The meeting breezed by in a blur, words flying all around you as you tried to catch up to speed with what exactly was happening. You could pick out Petrova Line, Astrophage, Tau Ceti, among several other things you werenât quite sure on.Â
And then it was quiet. Just you and him, alone, in a room that now felt much too big. You both started talking at the same time-
âSo-â
âHey-â
You stopped, laughed, apolgizedâŚtried again.
Then you did the exact same thing once more.
âOut of sync,â you joked, a quiet laugh, as the adrenaline wore off and gave way to a feeling you could not describe. You knew him but then again, it had been years. It was finding the balance between an old friend and a stranger.Â
âItâs been a little bit, huh?â he added, hands digging into the pocket of his jeans. You finally got a glimpse of his shirt, a science pun you were sure he was so excited to show his class of middle schoolers.Â
âYeah, just a little bit,â you added, feeling exposed now without the other people in the room, the slightest bit bitter that it had taken all this to see him again. But then again, who really was to blame for that? You looked down at the ground for a second, shuffling your feet against the floor, racking your brain for anything.
 âSoâŚsaving the sun?â
You barely got the words out before he stepped forward, closing the space between the two of you, pulling you into a hug. So tight, like you might disappear. You stood there for a second, air caught in your throat before you caved into the feeling. Your arms looped around him, head rested against his chest, as if this was something the two of you just did.
âI missed you,â he said, honest, real.
You stayed there, just together, quiet in the chaos of the day.
âI missed you too,â you finally let yourself say, quiet as if the whole world was listening and you wanted it to be just for him. âWhy me?â
He quickly pulled away, as if he was shocked into motion, a wild look on his face, you almost started laughing.
âWhat?â he gasped out, dramatic as ever.
âWhat do you mean âwhatâ?â you countered, slightly shoving him in the chest. âWhy am I here, dumbass?â
âHey, so first, we are not cursing anymore,â he scolded, his voice morphing into something you only imagine came from years of teaching. âSecond, you are the only person I know who would be crazy enough to show up hereâ.
He shrugged as if it all was nothing, that dumb smile on his face, as he began to move towards the door. âAnd you would kill me if I got to research Tau Ceti and you didnât get the inviteâ.
You wanted to interject, fight it, but you knew, deep down somewhere, that Ryland never stopped knowing you and you never quite stopped loving him.Â
âYou just gonna stand there?â he asked, already at the door, holding it open. âOr are we gonna do some science?â
It really was like no time had passed between college and nowâŚwell if you ignored the millions of dollars worth of equipment now at your complete disposal. Itâs funny, the way the body reverts back to old habits. The way Ryland and you moved in the lab was your own sort of rhythm, brains connected in a way that seemed almost superhuman. You needed to grab a tool, he dropped it on your desk before you could even move. He had a question, you were answering it as the question left his mouthâŚthen he would smile at you and roll his eyes and go back to his work. It should have felt different after all this timeâŚand it just didnât. It was dangerous. And it was so wonderful.
The Vat, or Stratts Vat as everyone began to call it, was a hodgepodge of every science you had ever dreamed of. You could talk to a biologist from across the world and then suddenly meet an engineer who happened to be from your hometown. For a while you pretended that this wasnât what you wanted, you ached to go back to what was safe and comfortable. But as you stood there, another day on the boat, you realized that maybe this is what you had been waiting for. You were researching again, being curious, all the things your younger self could have only dreamed of.Â
Your days were mostly spent with Ryland, the two of you poking at astrophage while you dug through old research papers you had on Tau Ceti. Your presentation was coming up, only revealed to you a few mornings ago by Dr. Stratt. She had come into the lab early, you had just woken up, believing it to be a perfect time to tell you that you would be addressing the taskforce with any details you had on the planet system. You sat there, swiveling back and forth in your chair, your sidekick on the other side of the room jumping up and down about a new development in Astrophage breeding.
âI wish I had your energy right now,â you groaned out, shuffling through your notes.
âTau Ceti not treating you well?â he asked, peaking his head around a shelving unit that slightly blocked your view. âDid you try taking it out to dinner first?â
All you could do was flip him the finger, scribbling notes at the same time. âYou think I havenât tried that yet?â
He let out a laugh, coming around to stand behind where you were sat working. You had been really trying, but there were some things that just needed to be seen to be understoodâŚand one of those was Tau Ceti. You had theories, tons of them, hopefully enough to be of help.
âShe is still my greatest mystery,â you admitted, turning your chair to face him.
âWell Rome was not built in one day,â he looked at you, a serious look on his face regardless of the word choice. âAnd Tau Ceti is not gonna be understood that quick either".
You let your head dramatically fall to rest on the desk, quietly groaning into the sleeves of your jacket. Then you felt Rylands hands on your head gently shaking it.
âHey,â he began, a laugh already escaping him, you mentally preparing yourself for whatever he would be saying next. âRemember they used to call you the brain!â
âUh, you used to call me the brain,â you retorted, lifting your head up and shoving his hands away. âand it was and still is stupidâ.
He grabbed your head once more, shaking it around, âCâmon use the brain, I know it is in there somewhereâ.
You turned to glare at him, his lopsided smile making it hard for you to be upset at anything. The energy settled down, the man leaning back against the desk across from you.
âDo you think this is all gonna work out?â you spoke up, looking back to your notes. âTau Ceti and the Astrophage and all of it?â
âI donât know,â he admitted, blunt and honest. âBut beats sitting around and waiting for it to solve itselfâŚar at least that it what I choose to tell myselfâ.
You just nodded, letting him fade back into his work as you faded back into yours. If Tau Ceti wasnât enough, the constant push and pull between Ryland and you was. You told yourself to keep it easy, to ignore it, all those dumb feelings squashed down from college that threatened to bubble over any second. You buried yourself in your work, that was easiest. But there would be nights where you would fall asleep at your desk and wake up to a blanket thrown over you. Or mornings when the mess you left in the lab were cleaned upâŚand there would be Ryland, a small wave and a smile, doing a âcheersâ with his coffee mug. You could not let yourself read into it, because then it would be all the much harder to eventually pull away.Â
The presentation day had come in a blur, you now standing once again in the front of that room, papers gripped so tightly in your hands. You were never good at the presenting part of it all. In the bustle of the room you were able to find him, him waving his hands above his head to get your attention. You smile, he shot over two giant thumbs up, and all you could muster was one half as enthusiastic one back. You turned to look through your notes when he caught your eye again, pointing at his head and mouthing âthe brainâ, which you could only roll your eyes in response, a quiet laugh fighting its way out of you.
âAlright everyone,â the powerful voice of Eva Stratt entered the room, coming to stand beside you in front of the projector screen. âAs you know, Dr. (LAST NAME), has been working hard gathering information on Tau Ceti, which will be our final destination for this tripâ.
Everyone around the room turned their full attention to you as the women gestured to you and took a seat. Deep breath.Â
Your heart was jumping in all sorts of directions, as you fidgeted with the clicker, trying to get the presentation to flip to the next slide.
âHi,â you began.
âTau Ceti, it is pretty dang cool!â Ryland called out from the back, heads turning to him, him once again shooting the thumbs up.
âUh, yesâŚas Dr. Grace put it, "Tau Ceti is really âdang coolâ,â some of the scientists laughed at that, the stress easing the littlest bit off your shoulder. You began clicking through slides, diagrams of the systems and the potential planets in its orbit. âThank you for your enthusiasmâ.
You took one last deep breath before diving right in, trusting yourself and the years of work you had put into this already.
âWhat makes Tau Ceti so interesting, while not an exact match, is that it has the potential to be the closest relative to our own solar system,â you began. âWhich means, there is a great likelihood of it supporting life or even already having life within it.â
âNow we know that the Tau Ceti sun is the only star to have not been impacted by the Astrophage, however what is harder to understand is exactly why,â you continued, switching to the next slide, getting into a rhythm. It was easy when it was your whole life's passion. âWhich is why our mission is going there, to better understand itâŚhowever I have some theories that could be useful to prepare our travelers for what exactly might be going onâ.
There was first, the idea that the spectral output on Tau Ceti did not match that of what Astrophage was looking to feed on. However the spectral output is very similar to the Sun so it would have to be significantly off to be a problem, which was unlikely. Along with this, there could be some sort of natural defense, like dust specific to that atmosphere. However, the most exciting idea was that of evolutionary pressureâŚanother lifeform that could be eating away at the Astrophage to keep it in balance. While so extremely far fetched, it was the one that made you the most excited to get the data back from the scientists on the Hail Mary. It could change everything that scientists know about that system.
âBut the honest answer is, we donât know until we get up there and bring back some samples,â you closed out. âNow we do have to be aware that this planet is around twelve lightyears away from usâ.Â
You were in a rhythm now, comfortable enough to really look up and around at the people in the room, several of them taking notes and nodding along. âWhich means we are kinda looking at it in the past. The light we are seeing right now left Tau Ceti twelve years ago. Which is incredible, but there is the risk that this system is already gone or changed and we wouldnât know until we get thereâ.
âHowever,â you flipped to your final slide. âThe data we are able to gather from here points to strong evidence that this system is very alive and this trip will not only open doors for Astrophage but open up a world to an entirely new solar system that could be inhabited by human lifeâ.
You clicked again, the slideshow coming to a close, âAnd, uh, yeah that is it from meâŚthanks guysâ.
The sound of applause filled the room and you finally felt like you could actually breathe again rather than having to remind yourself to. Your face hurt from smiling, looking around the room, taking it in. You imagined your younger self, sat with her big telescope and book of constellations in a chair in the back. She is smiling, the biggest smile you have ever seen. She knew all those late nights would eventually pay off. Even after your original Tau Ceti lab fell through, even when you couldnât find a job and ended up at an alien restaurant, even when your door got busted down by Eva StrattâŚall those days led to this moment, right now. You wished you could go back and tell the girl in college that it would be okay, that she was enough, that one day she would do big things. But eventually she would learn and that made it all the more worth it.
And there was him too. You found his eyes in an instant, it seemed to be the first thing your body did. It was an old habit, one you could not break, nor really wanted to. He was beaming, an ear to ear smile, waving at you like you had just accomplished something so incredible and not just given a presentation. You made your way towards him, your bodies drawn together like magnets. However with each step you took, you felt like you were being pushed further and further away as people began to come up and shake your hand or ask you questions. Further and further until he faded away in the back of the crowd, now a lone hand stuck up above the crowd trying to get your attention. A thumbs up and you knew everything was gonna be okay.
----------
You were sitting at the bar, hot off the mic with Ilyukhina, who had forced you up against your will. The slight buzz in your head was enough to make you cave, you were sure that was the whole reason Ilyukhnia had insisted on getting you a few drinks at the start of the night. All of it leading to a horrific and yet kinda beautiful version of âSpace Oddityâ by David Bowie âŚit felt fitting.
She had bought you a final drink as a thank you, one you were nursing now, looking around the room. Grace had stayed late in the lab, normally you were there too, but the others in the lab had started to joke that you hated fun and you were determined to prove them wrong. You were fun! Very Fun.
You hadnât been down to the bar before, didnât quite understand how people could celebrate knowing what was approaching. You werenât even on the ship and you could barely get your brain to settle at night enough to fall asleep. The room was full of people, singing, laughing, leaning into each other and finding comfort. It made you smile, maybe made this whole thing feel more real. It made the pit in your stomach worse.Â
Your eyes caught on DuBois, a drunk Shapiro leaning against his arm, the two of them laughing together, in their own world. Your gaze lingered, unable to pull away. The way they could laugh togethering knowing that DuBois would be gone, not set to return. They had people here, people they were leaving and for the first time that really hit you. You tugged your gaze away, looking back down to the bottle of beer in your hands, half emptyâŚit would stay that way. You couldnât help it though, like it was a piece of art, you found yourself looking back at the two of them. She looked at him with a quiet kind of intimacy, like the two of them could know what the other was thinking without speaking a single word. They moved in a perfect rhythm, a messy, beautiful rhythm. They werenât just leaving behind Earth, they were leaving behind their peopleâŚa chance at a normal life.
You were gonna be sick. Quickly you set your beer on the table and left the bar pushing through the groups of people singing until you were finally out onto the deck of the ship, cold wind smacking you in the face. You gasped for air, but no matter how much you took in, it still didnât feel like enough.
The ocean was dark ahead, it was like an abyss and as you looked up, you were met with the bright stars, their shine almost too bright with no other lights around to dim them. You felt so small, and in the grand scheme of things you were, and it both terrified you and brought you some peace.Â
Your grip was tight on the railing, it almost hurt. You needed to be stable, grounded, anything-
âHey,â a familiar voice approached from behind, your body tensing before slowly relaxing. You didnât have to turn back, just slightly nodded your head, an invitation.Â
âHey,â he repeated himself, this time softer, as he came around to your side, gripping onto the railing next to yours. âEarth to alien girl?â
âI thought you were working late?â you spoke up, anything to take your mind off earlier, get rid of the image of people who would never see each other again.Â
âThe lab gets kinda lame without a certain scientist analyzing everything I do,â he joked, but you could not get yourself to laugh. âI love your analyzingâŚthatâs uh, thatâs what I meantâ.
It was almost a compliment, a small smile crept on your face that quickly faded out as another gust of wind hit you, the waves crashing below you. The two of you sat there in silence for longer than you ever had before.
âYou okay?â he broke from the silence, turning his head to look at you.
You nodded, âJust coldâ.
He nodded back, unconvinced you could tell, as he began to reach for his jacket regardless. You did not fight him on it, you were cold, maybe it would help. The chunky fox cardigan draped over your shoulders as he absentmindedly buttoned the top to keep it from falling off of you. You mumbled a quiet âthank youâ, bundling into the thick yarn.Â
âSo are you gonna tell me what is really wrong?â he spoke again, him still standing in front of you, adjusting the sweater so it covered you. You met his eyes, his head slightly tilting.
âHave you seen Dubois and Shapiro?â you finally allowed yourself to speak your thoughts into the air.Â
He nodded, returning to stand next to you, leaning once again against the metal rails, "Yeah, they are definitely hooking upâ.
âNo,â You shook your head, âThereâs something more, you can see it in the way they look at each otherâ.
The silence met the two of you again, the waves below you getting louder and louder, them in their own conversation. You wondered if the waves too had problems like this, if they thought about the world and what they were meant to be. You felt nauseous, you chose to blame sea sickness. It hurt even more because maybe you wished he would look at you like that. You supposed that was your last tether to Earth, last tether from making you lose your mindâŚit seemed to be him.
âI just cannot imagine knowing the person that you loved was gonna be gone in a few days, just out in space, floatingâŚand you just never see them again. And you canât even do anything about itâ your voice slightly quivered, it was all too much. The several drinks in your system did little to ease your worry, you actually think it made it worse. âAfter I lostâŚafter my parents, I mean, it took so long to be okay with not getting a goodbye. But they, I mean Shapiro gets to say goodbye. How do you even say that kind of goodbye knowing they are out there and will die, alone?â
You hadnât realized how blurred your vision had gotten until you looked up, finding Rylandâs gaze, his eyes scanning your face. He had been there, in college, when your parents had passed, had sat up with you for weeks on end keeping you distracted, helping you stay on top of work when your world felt like it was ending.Â
He carefully reached to wrap his arm around your shoulder, pulling you close to his side, a silent kind of comfort, the kind you liked. You rested your head against his chest, melting into his touch, allowing him to be strong for you for a little. It made your head hurt, all of this and himâŚthere was always him.
You werenât sure how long it was before he spoke up again, you had counted at least twenty crashes of the waves against the boat. It seemed to be the only thing you could think about without falling apart.
âWhere do you see yourself after all this?â he asked, pulling you the little bit tighter against him. You were not in the headspace to dig into that, nor the question he was asking. Because where did you go? You were doing the thing you had worked your whole life for and then what? Back to the restaurant? Back to serving punny dishes named after planets and pretending you were fulfilled?Â
âProbably go home,â you began, your voice thin, a little shaky. âCanât keep the Extraterrestrial Eatery without their best server for too longâ.
It was supposed to be funny but it came out dejected. A quiet laugh escaped him at your words.
âThatâs not-â
âThatâs exactly what it is,â you cut him off, sharper than you meant it to be, gaze set down at your shoes, at the hem of his sweater, at anything that wouldnât make you think so much. âThatâs my life, Rylandâ.
Before this your life had been small, so minisculeâŚyour dreams seemed so far away. Now you were here, it was all right in front of you. You didnât even think you would ever get this close to studying Tau Ceti, all the resources right there for you to use.Â
âThisâŚall of this is everything I ever worked for,â you continued. âBeing here, doing things that actually matter, and then itâs just gonna be overâ.
The lab, Tau CetiâŚhim. You had grown so used to it, too comfortable and the feeling of it being torn away felt weird. But that was life, you would adjust, or you would try.
âIt doesnât have to be over,â he offered, trying to comfort the ache in your words. And it hit you, with a force that could have sent you overboard. Your head snapped up, looking at him, you opened your mouth to say something but stopped yourself.Â
âI gotta go,â you spoke, in a daze of sorts, his words replaying over and over in your head.
âHey, no. Come onâ he too stood up, no longer leaning against the railing. âTalk to me, I am here! We could go sing karaoke or something, be stupid, forget about itâ.
âYou hate karaoke,â you countered, already edging towards the stairs back down into the boat.
âMaybe I could like it?â
âI am gonna go to bed,â you turned back to him, lying through your teeth. You searched his face once more, took a mental picture of him standing right there, breeze blowing through his hair, glasses slightly tilted. He looked perfect.
âIt does not have to be over,â you repeated, more to yourself than to him, before ducking down into the stairs and back down the hall. You were sure he called your name but your body could not turn around. It could have been the alcohol in your system. Maybe you were losing your mind. Maybe it was a little bit of both, but your feet carried you right to Dr. Strattâs office.
You didnât even knock, pushing open the door, her head snapping up from the silence. Her eyes slightly narrowed, you standing there in the doorway, trying to catch your brain up to your movements.Â
âTake me instead,â you blurted out, desperate.Â
The woman did not react right away, just studied you, like she was weighing something you couldnât see.Â
âI have nothing keeping me hereâ.
At least, almost nothing. Â
âI have worked my whole life for this,â you continued, words spilling out of you before you could even really think them through. âTau Ceti is my everything and now I am here. And I can do it, I want to do itâ.
You swallowed, a shaky breath, so loud in such a quiet room.
âI need toâ.
You stood there, feeling so small in the doorway, waiting for something, anything that would confirm that you werenât making a mistake. Doctor Stratt just nodded her head, short and direct, like she always was.
âGo get some sleep Doctor,â and you just nodded back, your brain going completely silent for the first time that night.
--------
When the explosion happened a few days later, it was all the justification Eva Stratt needed. The day had been a mess, the loss of those doctors devastating, the power of Astrophage even more extraordinary . There was no time to even process though, as just as quickly as it had happened, Dr. Stratt had pulled you into a conference room. The plans moved fast, there was no time to delay with launch day approaching. You agreed as quickly as it was proposed, Ilyukhnia sending you small thumbs up from across the table.
The explanation was a blur. The coma, the four year trip, the three hours until you would have to be ready. Three hours before your life changed forever. That was all it took for everything to become real. But you nodded along. You had a duty now, not only to yourself but to Dubois and Shapiro and all of humanity. For Ryland Grace and his students, for the young girls out there dreaming of studying the stars. It would all be worth it, for them. It had to be.
You made your way back towards the lab, moving in a sort of hazy trance. You were allowed a few personal items to bring with you on the ship, most of the ones you wanted to bring were stored on the shelves of your desk. A picture of you and Ryland at a weird alien museum your class had gone to. A photo of you with your parents on move-in day at college. Your favorite book. A journal of your personal notes. And that stupid alien shirt.
You smiled, piling the items into a box you kept in the lab, when the door came rattling open.Â
Ryland Grace came stumbling into the lab practically lit on fire, out of breath, a million emotions on his face. You knew it before he even spoke the words.
âWhat are you doing?â he asked in a panic, searching your face, his eyes shooting in every direction, him taking steps closer to you.
âI donât-â
âNo, you arenât doing this,â his stopped you. âWhat are you doing? They canât just take you?â
âI volunteered,â you countered back, simple, straight to the pointâŚit would make it easier. You turned back to the box, finishing placing the items, scared what looking back at him would do. He was quiet behind you and that hurt the most. Maybe it hurt because of the quiet, maybe it hurt because he didn't have more to say.
âThis is it for me,â you said, still facing the box, busying yourself with organizing and reorganizing the objects, anything to keep from facing the truth. âI have studied Tau Ceti my whole life and now I am going to see it, I am going to help save this planetâ.
âYou donât know that,â he bit back. âI mean we can hope but you have no idea if this is even gonna work-â
âBeats the alternative,â you countered.
âAnd what's the alternative?â
That made you turn, you finally facing him. He looked so tired, a mix of confusion, anger, sadness⌠somehow all at once.Â
âThis,â you admitted. âGoing home to that apartment, living through pictures of a better time while I work that shitty job. Thatâs not living, that is not how I am going to live!â
âSo what, now you are just going off to die?â he was upset, you hadnât seen him like this in a while, not since his theory about water had not been received well in college.
âI am saving humanityâ.
âOh wow, yes, real courageous of you,â he retorted, shaking his head in disbelief.
âFuck you Ryland,â you said, quiet, cold. âYouâre the one who brought me hereâ.
His eyes snapped to yours, the two of you just looking at each other, breathing.
âAnd it was supposed to be a temporary thing,â he bit back. âEmpahsis on the whole temporary part of this all. I mean, just a couple of days ago you were saying how you couldnât imagine people having to say goodbye like this.âÂ
You didn't have the heart to tell him that you hadn't planned on saying goodbye to him at all. It was wrong, you knew that, selfish, but you couldnât get yourself to do it. He was your last tether to Earth and it was growing thinner and thinner.
âI have nothing here for me,â you spoke from the silence.
âYou have-â and then he stopped himself and your head once again snapped up to meet his eyes.
âSay it,â you spoke, quietly, pleading for him to say the one thing that could make you stay. âPlease Ry, just say itâ.
Everything hung there, floating in the air and he couldnât, his head just slightly shaking in disappointment. The tether snapped right there.Â
âOkay,â it was so breathy, barely even a word. You had no more fight left in you, no words left to say, nothing he could do that would change your mind. He was too stuck in his ways, too stubborn. You grabbed the box, looking at him once more, before you shoved your way past him and out the door of the office. It was quiet, too quiet down that hallway and when you looked back he was looking at you and you just gave him a smile, a small oneâŚI will learn to forgive you.
You felt no regret.
Not when Eva Stratt thanked you for your sacrifice. Not when the doctors came in and prepared the injection that would put you under. Not even when the needle pierced your skin. You only did, just for a second, when you heard your name. When his voice called through the room, faint but desperate. It was muffled, your vision growing thinner and thinner, fading at the edges. The voice just grew quieter and quieter. A hand gripped tightly onto yours, shaking you more and more until you felt nothing at all.
----------
The first thing you realize is that you cannot open your eyes, like they are glued shut. You squeeze them a couple times, blinking over and over until they finally force themselves open.
So bright!
You should have just kept them close. You blink a few more times.
Then you realize that you canât move, and not because your arms are stiffâŚno, there is a giant, what you could best describe as, plastic bag wrapped around you.
âEye movement detected,â you practically jump out of your skin at the sound disrupting the silence. The voice is clean, almost inhuman, as it once again repeats its previous statement.Â
You try to move your arms, nothing. Your legs, nothing. Your fingersâŚjust a little bit. The feeling of helplessness crashes all over you at once as you come to the slow realization that this was not just a bad case of sleep paralysis.Â
Before you could even begin to make sense of it, a giant robotic hand swept across your vision, reaching down to unzip the human sandwich bag you were being trapped in. Now was your change, you shifted your weight as much as you could side to side until you rolled and made contact with the hard floor. A groan escaped you, the only sound you could really get out.
What the actual fuck?
There are tubes, connected in places you didnât even know were possible. But nothing was as alarming as the realization that you had no idea where you wereâŚno idea who you were. You looked around in a panic, trying to worm around off the ground, the robot hand stopping you in your place, lifting you off the ground and placing you back onto the table. You left out a mix of muffled objections, the most you could musterâŚyour vocal chords were somehow still waking up. The computer acted before you could even protest, removing all the tubes, sensations you had never felt before and hoped to never feel again. At least, you assumed you had never felt them before.Â
You saw it as your chance, the robot hand busy putting the tubing away, you jumping off the table and immediately crumbling to the ground.Â
âFuck!â the sound surprised youâŚyou were making progress. Using the little strength and feeling in your limbs that you had, you scooted and crawled across the floor. Where was the door? Your head snapped back and forth, up and- There it was, on the ceiling, of course it was. The ladder connected to it seemed daunting but what choice did you have.
The robot spoke again, speaking a name, or you assumed it was, âdetected, aliveâ.
It must have been your name, huh, you didnât completely hate it. You continued to move across the floor, slow, scared that the robot arm might just yank you right back into the air.Â
âMovement detected in the dormitory," the robotic voice spoke once again, causing you to speed up. It was trying to blow your cover, ruin your plan. Who knew, there might be a whole army of robots up there ready to get you. With each scoot across the floor, the feeling in your limbs began to find itself again. By the time you reached the ladder you were able to somewhat pull yourself up, each step getting harder and harder. You were tired, even if it seemed you had just woken up from some coma-like situation. You reached the top, banging the door over and over until it eventually popped up.
Reaching the top, standing on solid ground again was a feeling you had a new respect for. Then you turned your headâŚand you came to the jarring realization that you werenât on solid ground at all. A giant window looking out into the great plane of starsâŚyou were in space. You took slow, cautious steps towards the window, scared that you might somehow get sucked out.Â
It was beautiful, you were at a loss of words for a reason other than your inability to talk.Â
âHoly shoot,â a voice spoke from behind you, you stumbled slightly turning around, throwing your hand up in defense. âYou are awakeâ.
âAm I?â you asked, genuinelyâŚyou wouldnât have been shocked if you had died and were now in some weird waiting room.Â
The look on the man's face was one of relief and that was enough to slowly allow your hands to fall back to your side. He seemed slightly more put together than you were, except for the glasses titled slightly on his faceâŚthough he made no move to readjust them. Maybe he was an alien and that was how they wore their glasses? Were you an alien too?
âWhere am I? What is this? WhatâŚâ you trailed off, once again catching a glimpse of the stars. The feeling was hard to explain, like you were floating in your own head, nothing there but faint blurry glimpses of something that you knew came before this. But no matter how hard you fought, you could not get yourself to decipher the memories. âI canât remember whatâŚâ
He nodded as you spoke, and you knew he understood. You couldnât understand, but your body softened slightly, your heart beat became steady and your breathing returned to something much more normal.Â
âI, uh, I woke up a couple days agoâŚin that room,â he tried to explain, looking as if he too was piecing it together in real time. âWhere do I even startâŚâ
You stood there, helpless, waiting for something.
âWe are in space,â you rolled your eyes at his words, pointing out at the window next to the two of you. âOh right, well, just clarifyingâ.
âAnything else genius?â you didnât mean to come across as on edge but you were confused and hungry and annoyed that your brain could not do what it was meant to do.
âWe arenât in our own solar system,â he spoke again, finally with some seriousness to his tone, you perking up and meeting his gaze. âWe are, according to the map in the control room, in the Tau Ceti system about twelve lightyears away from Earthâ.
He trailed off on the last word, giving you a second to absorbâŚbut you were not a sponge and your brain was rejecting all of it. It made no sense, it was insaneâŚbut so was the giant robotic arm that picked you up earlier.Â
âWe were sent here for a reason,â he finished. âI just am not sure what exactly that is yetâ.
He then paused, a long pause, like he was choosing his next words carefully, âwe were sent in a group of fourâ.
âOh,â you looked up at him, a feeling of relief washing over you, maybe they knew more, maybe they had been awake for longer. âWell, letâs just go pick their brains?â
âThey didnât make it,â he added, the words sitting heavy in the air.
You just nodded, unsure of what to say, scared of how it would all feel once your memories began to trickle back like his were.Â
Would they have been your friends? Would the grief hit you later? The words sat weird in your stomach, even weirder knowing that there was a time where you knew everyone on this ship, there was a time where you knew why you were there. People who were your friends and now it was just you and strangers, chosen by some sort of fate to survive.Â
âWhat happened to them?â
âWhat am I? Your magic eight ball,â he joked, a weak attempt at trying to lighten the moodâŚyou hated that it made you smile the way it did. âDonât fight it, I know it was funny.â
âOh wait, the memories are coming backâŚâ you pretended to think, before letting a blank look spread on your face. âYouâre an assholeâ.
He threw his arms in mock defense and you werenât sure why but it all felt so natural.
âI found some vodka earlier,â he offered up, a shitty solution, a temporary one for sure, but a solution nonetheless.
âWe brought vodka?â you paused. âAt least we know we had funâ.
He laughed and you laughed too, anything to keep you from thinking about what this all was, what this meant and how exactly you get back to Earth from twelve light years away.
The man, who you learned was named Ryland Grace, took you around the rooms he had already spent time exploring. The labsâŚso you were scientists? Then the controls, and the space suits and the shelves of equipment that you could not even begin to understand. He eventually showed you a small closet, one containing boxes labeled with four names, pulling the one with yours on it down.Â
In yours were some picturesâŚone of the two of you, so you were friends? Maybe? You should go with friends for now. Then a picture of two older individuals stood next to you, in front of the sign of a collegeâŚthey must have been your parents. Did they know you were up in space? Did they send you up here? The thought made your head hurt so you stopped, tucking it away, it was for another day. There were too many questions floating as is. Then the shirt, a giant shirt that confused that shit out of you even more. You took it out of the box, holding it up to show him and the two of you just burst out laughing.Â
âSo I have bad taste in clothing?â you asked, trying to regain your breathing, him wiping away the tears from his eyes.Â
âYou should see some of the other clothes people brought,â and those words were just the start. Too much vodka flowing through your system, the two of you found comfort in trying on stupid hats and shirts packed throughout the ship. At some point you found yourself collapsed on the floor with him, laying there, the bag of alcohol laying between the two of you.
You talked for hours that nightâŚwell you assumed it was night, trying to hypothesize about who the two of you might have been. Were you smart? Where had the two of you met? Were you friends? Somewhere in your mind you felt like there was something else there. But you did not want to dig there, when you tried your head would just pound right back. So you laid there, accepting the silence of space, accepting that none of it made sense.
âI am glad I am not alone,â he spoke up from the silence, so quiet you might have missed it.
âI am not sure why, but I feel like we were meant to do this together,â you replied, turning your head to the side to look at him.
He was already looking at you with a soft smile on his face. Tomorrow you would wake up and it would be overwhelming all over again. But for now, you were wearing an alien shirt and laying beside a man with a beautiful smile and titled glasses. Floating absently among the stars and you felt like you have never felt so at home.
Iâve been deep in the trenches of fanfictions ever since I was 12. Life went on and almost a decade later of quitting reading fics, after watching Thunderbolts last year in theaters and saw a post on tiktok, then people recommending writers on comment section, here I am with probably a thousand fics read within nearly a year.
I'm truly grateful for all of the wonderful bucky fanfic writers on this platform as their fics saved me from a very dark place I was in and kept me alive until today.
In honour of my almost a year on tumblr, here are my favourite and re-read worthy fics (and I definitely re-read them more than once as they live rent free in my head lmao):
(warning: most of these are r18+. You are responsible of your own media consumption)
Uncle bucky by @iamthatonefangirl (I sent in anonymously before but she was the writer recommended in the comment section of that tiktok video I found talking about bucky in thunderboltsâbasically who I will give credits for restarting my fanfic reading journey. Honestly, I have no other words, but trust me when I say all of her works are chef's kiss. Uncle bucky is just on my top fav)
Rewind by iamthatonefangirl
For the love of game by @pellucid-constellations (this is honestly the one that made me create tumblr acc as I was initially reading for more than a month without one lmao)
Undisclosed by pellucid-constellations
Letters through time by @buckysleftbicep
Wildflowers by @superbassbuck
Grade A pain in my ass by superbassbuck
Lessons in love by @mandoalorian
The Education of James Buchanan Barnes by @danysdaughter
HR can't save you by danysdaughter
Attrition by @crybabycabin
Babydoll by @metal-armed-muse
A fever he can't sweat out by @epiphanyrogers
O come ye all faithful by epiphanyrogers
You up? by @iwritefanfictionsnottragedies
Touch tank by @rosesaints
Oral History by @cursedheartsclub
No strings attached unless by @kryptoclark
To whom it may concern by cursedheartsclub
Nerdy Bucky series Bucky this, Bucky that by @imnotjustreadingg-volume-two (my fav of hers <3)
Invisible by @danitcx
I think I've seen this film before by @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky
No roster, just you by @salem-s
The right questions by @juniebjonesin
Douced in sequins by @miraclediviner this is the first one I ever saw of talent manager bucky x pop star reader and i'm so hooked
Guilty as sin by @redemptive-truth
Don't you ever end up anything but mine by @flowersforbucky
My neighbor is a prnstar by @brunchable
Show & tell by @nonotwithoutu
Null & void by @smorgaswhored
Property of j.b.barnes by @witchywithwhiskey
AITA by nonotwithoutu
His and his only for 24 hours by salem-s
Yes, ma'am by @night-scare
Lessons in chemistry by @d1stalker
Best laid plans by nonotwithoutu
For your consideration by @daydreamgoddess14
Only you by danitcx
Illicit affairs by @carmenberzattosgf
Happy meal by @sins-write-tragedies
Cuffing season by @phoenix-in-writing
Jealous-capades by @boysoconfusing
You're no good for me by @sinner-as-saint i love all of her writtings istg. This one is my most fav as it lives rent free in my head. Wish I could have a Bucky sugardaddy too
I'll follow you until you love me by sinner-as-saint
The burden of love by danitcx
Silversprings by @thatfoxygrl
Clark Kent talking you through it by @laceyfaeryy
Lovegame by @maiamore
I'm gonna kill Jimmy by @kissmyglxck
Girl next door by maiamore
Like the real thing by maiamore
(you think) he doesn't like you back by @staseras
If you leave, i forget how to breathe by danitcx
Lessons in lovemaking by @artficlly
Honey girl by @violentdelightsandviolentends
Vanilla cookies by staseras
He is touched starved by staseras
Growing pains by @lunexiax
Only ever you by @blowingbarnes my all time fav! Reread this more than five times already because this is of of those that lives rent free in my head. Still waiting for part two
Stormbound by @tw1sters
Superdick by @mcumorningstar
Lay me down by @godmadeaterribleerror
FĂJATE FĂJATE EN TU SECRETARIA by @herejustforbuckybarnes one of my fav congressman! Bucky fics
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18+ | MDNI - stantastic's bucky's dream house collab
PAIRING:Â librarian!bucky barnes x professor!reader
SUMMARY: bucky barnes falls in love with you, his gorgeous literature professor, on his first day of college. four years and a degree later, heâs one of the librarians at the very same college he attended, and now thereâs nothing stopping him from asking you out⌠if not for one tiny detail: his spectacularly clumsy and painfully shy nature. thatâs when his colleague, several romance books and a pen come to his aid.
WARNINGS: she/her pronouns for reader; college au; pov switch; unspecified age gap (bucky is younger than reader and started college in his early 20s, so now he should be around 25); original characters; secret admirer!bucky; shy & clumsy!bucky; confident!reader; reader wears skirts and a dress; angst; insecurity & anxiety; mild jealousy; heavy yearning (sam, steve & darcy are so done with his ass); unrequited love (according to bucky); fluff; mutual pining; smut; masturbation (m) & sexual fantasies (nipple play; riding; oral); mention of edging; public indecency.
WORD COUNT: 19.5k (sorry)
A/N: hi barbies đ this is my first ever collaboration and I'm so glad I could do it alongside the amazing, sweet people that are the stantastic members! and of course, thank you @miraclediviner for putting so much love into planning this collab, and @metal-armed-muse for your feedback 𼚠hope you'll enjoy đŤśđť ps: read end notes if you'd like to know which books I quoted.
Back when Bucky was a student, the library had felt like a refuge, a place where every worry could be neatly pressed between the pages of a book and shelved away for later. Between the sound of pages turning somewhere in the distance and the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead that no one ever really notices until they stop working, expectations lower their voices and time stretches just enough for him to breathe.
Four years later, standing behind the front desk with a stack of returns balanced precariously in his hands, it feels⌠well, not so different, except that now heâs the one expected to know where everything goes.
Which, in theory, he does.
In practice, howeverâŚ
âBarnes?â
Bucky blinks, the sharp sound of his name pulling him out of the slow drift of his thoughts, and as he looks up a little too quickly, the top book in his stack shifts just enough to send a brief flicker of panic through him before he tightens his grip.
âYeah, yes,â he corrects himself mid-breath, stepping closer to the computer. âSorry. I was justâuhâthinking.â
The blonde girl on the other side of the desk watches him mildly unimpressed, fingers drumming lightly against the wood.
âThatâs usually how that works.â She replies dryly, nudging three books toward him. âCan you check these out?â
âRight. Yeah, of course.â
Bucky sets his stack down with exaggerated care, as if the pages would turn into ashes at the slightest bump, and begins scanning the books one by one, his movements just a fraction too aware of themselves. He knows how to do this, heâs done it hundreds of times. There is absolutely no reason for his hands to feel like they belong to someone else.
âOkay, so these are all set,â he hums, sliding them back across the desk with what he hopes resembles confidence. âYouâre good.â
âThanks.â
âYeah, anytime. I mean, during open hours. Not, like, anytime anytime.â
The student pauses as she is putting her university badge back in her wallet just to send him a glare that reeks of poorly concealed judgment.
â⌠Right.â
She takes the books in silence and Bucky watches her go for longer than necessary before letting out a slow sigh, tipping his head back to the ceiling as his lips press together.
âGood recovery.â He murmurs under his breath.
âBuck.â
He doesnât need to look to know who it is, there arenât many people who call him that, but his head turns anyway. Steve is leaning casually against the edge of the desk with his arms crossed, expression already bordering on amused in a way that makes Bucky immediately defensive.
âYou just told her not to come back.â Steve grins.
âI did not,â he huffs, words coming out a little too quickly. âI just clarified the hours.â
âI clarified.â He insists in response to his raised eyebrows, less animatedly this time, because arguing with Steve is like trying to hold water in his handsâpointless and inevitably messy.
His best friendâs grin only grows as he follows Bucky to the shelf he was previously organizing, but whatever heâs about to say next never makes it out, because at that exact moment the heavy front doors open with a quiet creak that still somehow cuts through everything else.
Bucky doesnât think, nor decides. His body just knows, gaze lifting instinctively, like pulled by an invisible thread, and then, you walk in.
You move unhurriedly without being slow, composed without being rigid, the soft rhythm of your heels echoing faintly against the polished floor as you cross the entrance. Thereâs nothing ostentatious about you, nothing that demands attention in the obvious way. And yet, it gathers around you anyway, inevitable, drawn in by the quiet confidence you carry so naturally.
Bucky forgets how to breathe for a moment.
He has known you for years, but heâs never quite prepared for the way his chest seems to tighten and soften all at once, a reflex he has no control over.
âOh,â Steve snickers beside him. âThere she is.â
Bucky doesnât respond, not when his entire focus has narrowed on you making your way to the front desk, already smiling in that easy, familiar way that feels like it belongs in this space just as much as the books do.
Darcy spots you at once, straightening with visible delight.
âYouâre late.â She announces, though the accusation is entirely undermined by the grin tugging at her mouth.
âIâm fashionably late,â you set your bag down with a soft thud, your tone teasing. âThereâs a difference.â
âThere isnât. You just enjoy making an entrance.â
âI enjoy making you wait.â
At that point, Darcy laughs, bright and unrestrained, and you follow a second later, the sound softer, but no less captivating.
And BuckyâŚ
Bucky sighs.
It slips out of him before he can stop it, quiet but unmistakably there, the kind of sound that belongs more to a fairytale than to real life.
Without realizing it, his body shifts, leaning slightly to the side as if captured by your melody, and the way your expression changes as you speak: the subtle lift of your brows, the absent gesture of your manicured hand as you emphasize a point, the wayâ
The cart.
There is a cart behind him. A very real, very solid cart, stacked with books that are waiting to be sorted.
His elbow does not meet empty air so much as it fails to meet anything at all.
His balance tilts, center of gravity rearranging in a way that is both slow and horribly inevitable, and for one suspended, dreadful moment, Bucky is aware of what is about to happen, completely incapable of stopping it.
âOhââ
The impact is catastrophic.
The cart slams into the nearest shelf with a jarring metallic crash that reverberates through the silent open space, books jolting and tipping, one slipping free entirely to hit the floor with a heavy, echoing thud that seems to stretch far longer than it should.
When the commotion dies, a religious silence settles back in its place, thick and absolute. And Bucky is on the floor, flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer him an escape route.
â⌠I meant to do that.â He strains out to no one in particular.
Somewhere nearby there is a snort that is quickly hidden by a cough. On the contrary, Darcy doesnât even try: her laughter breaks through the quiet, too loud.
Bucky refuses to look at you. He likes to believe he still has some dignity left and he intends to preserve it for at least another three seconds.
Footsteps approach, quick and entirely unsurprising.
âJesus, Buck.â Steve frets, already crouching beside him, one hand braced on his shoulder as he looks him over. âYou good?â
âYeah,â he mutters, dragging himself up with Steveâs help, hands brushing at his clothes in a futile attempt to appear unbothered. âYeah, Iâm great. That wasâgreat.â
âMm-hm.â
âI just⌠misjudged the space.â
âYou mean you forgot about the heavy cart behind you because you were too busy daydreaming?â
Blushing, Bucky bends down at once, grabbing the nearest fallen book if only to have something to do with his hands.
âI knew it was there,â he insists under his breath, suddenly feeling too warm.
Steve leans in slightly, voice close to a whisper. âShe saw everything, you know?â
If a stare could kill, he would already be at his funeral.
âIâm aware.â
âYou sighed.â
Bucky freezes for half a second.
His head snaps towards his friend. âI did not.â
âYou totally did.â
âI breathed, Steve. Just like any other human being.â
âThat was not breathing, man, that was you yearning like a damsel in distress.â
His eyes close in dejection, as if that might erase the last thirty seconds from existence.
âI hate you.â Thereâs no real weight behind it.
âNo, you donât.â
â⌠No, I donât.â
With a satisfied grin, Steve straightens up while Bucky gathers a precariously balanced book, gripping it a little tighter than necessary.
âCâmon,â Steve adds, nudging him lightly. âLetâs clean this up before you take out a whole shelf trying to impress her.â
âIâm not trying to impress her.â Bucky mutters.
âCouldâve fooled me.â
Despite every instinct screaming at him not to, Bucky decides to glance up. Just for a fleeting peak.
Youâre still by the desk half-turned toward Darcy, but your attention has shifted, your frown flickering in his direction with a kind of faint curiosity that sends electricity straight through his veins. And for one ephemeral moment, it feels like youâre looking directly at him.
His grip loosens enough for the book to slip from his hands and hit the floor.
Again.
At least Steve has the decency to press his lips together to hide his laughter. âAre you going to offer her your handkerchief now that she looked at you?â
Bucky has spent a considerable amount of timeâfar more than he would ever willingly admitâtrying to convince himself that what he feels for you can be contained within the boundaries of his own mind, that can exist without demanding anything from him other than the occasional, carefully controlled glances when heâs absolutely certain no one is paying attention. Because it would be easier to carry it if it remained small and undefined and safely unspoken. A feeling that could be tucked away between routine and responsibility like a pressed flower between the pages of a book, preserved but ultimately harmless.
The problem, unfortunately, is that it has never been harmless.
Not even at the beginning. And that is something his mind recalls with a kind of stubborn clarity that refuses to fade.
It had been his first day of college, a morning that should have easily blurred into all the others, marked only by nerves and unfamiliarity and the low thrum of anticipation that comes with stepping into an entirely new world. He had been running just slightly behind schedule, not enough to cause a scene, but the lecture hall was already filling when he slipped through the back doors, shoulders drawn in just a little as if that might make him less noticeable. His bag shifted awkwardly against his side as he scanned the room for somewhere that felt sufficiently out of the way.
The space itself had been warm with early sunlight, long beams of gold stretching through tall windows illuminated the rows of seats that were already occupied by students who seemed, at least from where he stood, far more composed and certain of themselves and their place there. And Bucky, who had never been particularly skilled at navigating spaces that required that kind of confidence, had done what he always did best in these situations: move swiftly and quietly out of the way like a scared little mouse, choosing a seat that allowed him to exist without the pressure of being perceived.
The room had smelled faintly of old wood and chalk, filled with the soft murmur of conversations that wove together into a low, indistinct hum. His notebook was rigid beneath his trembling fingers, the nervous energy still alive under his skin.
And then you walked in.
There wasnât any dramatic shift or unnecessary urgency, yet your effortless composure altered the rhythm of the room all the same.
Bucky had looked up without thinking, his attention drawn by instinct, expecting nothing more than another ordinary face to catalogue and then promptly file away as part of the background of his new routine.
He didnât look away. Couldnât.Â
There had been something in the way you carried yourself: assured without feeling unapproachable, and that inexplicably held him captive.
Bucky had found himself marveling at you doing something as simple as carefully setting your things down. You then turned to face the room, your eyes sweeping briefly across the rows of students, almost pleased.
âGood morning, everyone.â You had started, voice clear and even.
At the time, he had dismissed the gentle pressure behind his ribs without much thought, attributing it to the unfamiliarity of the environment. This was a completely new experience and therefore bound to feel odd at first, so Bucky had resolutely turned his attention to his notebook, pen moving a little too frantically across the page as he attempted to anchor himself to a practical and tangible task.
However, as you spokeânot just about the material, but around it, through it, as if literature was not a bunch of static concepts to be memorized, but a universe to be exploredâhis attention kept shifting not to what you were saying, but to how you were saying it. To the way your hands moved when you explained a particularly important paragraph, to the small pauses you allowed yourself when choosing your words, because precision mattered more to you than simply filling the silence.
You were the professor. The kind that doesnât just teach students concepts and ideas, but changes something fundamental in the way they see the world. You taught nineteenth and twentieth-century literatureâBritish mostly, with the occasional American detourâand spoke about it in a way that made it feel alive and still unfolding.Â
You could recite passages without looking at the pages, entire lines of Pride and Prejudice slipping easily into conversation as if they had always belonged there, as if they were simply another language you spoke fluently. And you quoted your favorite poets with the same certainty. Never showy, never exaggerated.Â
You carried that knowledge with that poised, quietly seductive composure of someone who knowsâknows that she knowsâand because of that, never needs to raise her voice to be listened to.
Watching you interact with students was fascinating. You truly listened, fully immersing yourself in their words to the point that even hesitant responses felt worth being heard. But most importantly, Bucky noticed the way your glossy lips curled around a smile each time someone was brave enough to participateâa genuine and unguarded curve that seemed to belong more to you than to the role you were occupying.
At first, he told himself it was normal. Students notice things about their professors all the time; admirationâacademic or otherwiseâis not unusual, it doesnât mean anything beyond a simple appreciation for someone who is good at their job.
He held onto that explanation for longer than he probably should have.
Through the first few weeks of returning to that lecture hall, he always chose the same general area in the back that allowed him to exist without drawing attention to himself.
Except distance, Bucky would eventually realize, did very little to lessen the effect you had on him.
Somewhere along the way, his thoughts of you had become more constant and less easily dismissed. Bucky began to notice not just the obvious aspects, but the smaller, more specific details that had no real reason to matter to a student, and yet traitorously lingered in his mind before falling asleep.
Your fingers played with the corner of the page whenever you were concentrating on a passage. Your head moved in a small, curious tilt to an unexpected answer, because as you always said, âthere is no correct, absolute way to interpret literature.â Your handwriting curved just slightly to the right across the board, neat but not rigid, structured but still distinctly yours. Your voice softened when reading aloud, as if you were stepping into the text rather than simply reciting it.
And Bucky found himself anticipating those moments.
It was a gradual, subtle change that sinked rather than struck, growing steadily in the background of everything else until one day, without any clear warning, Bucky became aware of it in a way that could not be easily undone.
Sitting in that same lecture hall, long after most of the other students had left, his notebook opened in front of him though he had long since stopped writing, and listening as you gathered your things at the front of the room, he realized that what he felt had extended far beyond anything that could be reasonably categorized as harmless or temporary.
Yet, he had not said anything. Because even allowing the words to take shape in his mind had felt like crossing a line he had no right to approach, let alone step over.
So Bucky had done what he deemed best at the time.
Keep it contained.
He finished the course, handing in his assignments and accepting your feedback with reverent attention, all while maintaining that same distance he had cultivated from the beginning.
He had graduated.
He had left.
He had told himself, at some point, that it would fade. That time would do what itâs supposed to do.
Except it failed.
Because now, standing in the same building years after his first day of collegeâthe same quiet hum surrounding him, the same soft rays filtering through the windowsâand watching you laugh across the room as if no time has passed at all⌠his heart still tilts toward you, inevitably drawn to your light.
It was a root that burrowed deeper instead of retreating, patiently lying dormant until it became, without his permission, far too ingrained to pull free. And the truth is, he did not just develop a passing affection, or carry a fleeting admiration that lingered longer than expected.
Bucky fell in love with you.
Silently.
Completely.
And he never really found a way to fall out of it.
By the time the library begins to empty, the building itself seems to settle back after holding its breath for the entire day. Chairs sit askew where students have left them in a hurry, some pens lie abandoned on the desks, and the overhead lights seem just a fraction too bright now that there are fewer people around.
Bucky has always liked this part of the day. There is something comforting in the slow winding down and the small, predictable tasks that come with closing. It gives him something to focus on that doesnât involve thinking too much about the way your smile lingers behind his eyelids each time they flutter close, or how his own reaction to your sole presence was⌠deeply unfortunate.
You had left not long after his embarrassing fall.
He had not watched you go. Not obviously, at least. But Bucky had been aware of the subtle shift in the air when you moved toward the door, your voice lowering as you said something he couldnât quite hear from where he stood, that made Darcy smile in a knowing, almost conspiratorial way.
He had pretended not to notice.
Bucky likes to think he is very good at pretending. Which is exactly why he doesnât immediately react when he hears footsteps approaching the desk, lighter than Steveâs, accompanied by the casual sound of hands dragging across a surface, before coming to a stop right in front of him.
âLong day?â Darcy asks, her tone light to the point that it immediately raises suspicion.
Bucky firmly keeps his eyes on the screen.
âNot really different from the others.â He shrugs. The safest answer he can give without committing to anything.
She simply hums, leisurely leaning her elbows against the desk as she studies him with open curiosity.
âYou fell over today.â
Buckyâs eyes flutter close for a moment.
âI tripped.â He corrects.
âYou collapsed,â she counters deadpan. âThere was a whole sound effect and everything.â
Muttering, he blinks at the screen to focus back on his task. âIt was an accident.â
âRight,â Darcy draws the word out. âAnd the sigh?â
His fingers stop over the keyboard.
âWhat sigh?â
âYou sighed.â
âI didnât.âÂ
âYes, you did.â She grins, far too pleased with herself. âIt was, likeâso romantic, yet a little tragic. Honestly, if I didnât know better I wouldâve thought you were rehearsing for one of those Netflix romantic movies.â
His lips part indignantly, but nothing comes out, because arguing will only make this worse. âI was just tired.â
âFrom sitting at the front desk all day?â
He squints at her, nodding once. âYes.â
Tilting her head, Darcy considers him in a way that feels dangerously teasing.
âYou know,â her fingers tap lightly on the wooden surface. âItâs kind of fascinating.â
Bucky doesnât like that word.
âWhat?âÂ
âThe way you look at her.â
There it is.
He blinks, going for his best deadpan face.
âWho?â
âHer,â she repeats, saying your name. âMy friend. The professor who shouldâve gotten the Teaching Excellence Award last year instead of that jerk Mr. Campbell.â She rolls her eyes. âThe one you definitely did not sigh at earlier.â
Bucky lets out a short, incredulous breath, a nervous scoff slipping out before he can stop it. âWhat? No! Why would I even do that?â
The words come out too fast and high, tripping over each other in their urgency. His head shakes just a little too quickly as he leans back slightly, like physical distance might somehow reinforce the denial.
âWe barely speak to each other.â
Darcy observes him in silence for exactly three seconds. Then her lips gradually twist into a smug smirk. Not unkind, but still, it suggests she has already decided how this conversation is going to end.
âBucky,â she starts with a raised eyebrow, regarding him almost fondly. âYou look at her like she invented happiness.â
A pathetic sound claws out of his throat, caught between a laugh and a choked whimper that does absolutely nothing to help his case.
âWhat are you even rambling about?â He insists with an exaggerated chuckle, though the conviction is⌠lacking.
âHey, itâs actually kind of impressive. I didnât think people did that in real life.â
âLook, Darcy, I donâtââ He starts again, then his shoulders fall. There is no version of this where he wins. âIâm just⌠looking. People look all the time, we have eyes for a reason. Itâs not that serious.â
âDidnât know ânot that seriousâ meant staring at someone like theyâre the best part of your day.â
Heat violently creeps up the back of his neck, cruelly manifesting across his face with a red blush. He turns back to the computer screen in a poor attempt to hide it.
âYouâre seeing things that arenât there.â He mutters.
She shakes her head, and her blue eyes seem to soften, but it could be a trick of the light. âBucky, Iâve known her for years, and Iâve known you for what, a few months? And even I can tell.â
Thatâunfortunatelyâlands like a punch to his stomach.
Swallowing, his gaze drops to the way his fingers curl weakly against the edge of the keyboard.
âI donâtâŚâ He tries again, fainter this time, because the denial thinned precariously under the weight of being seen. âItâs notâitâs nothing like that.â
Darcy doesnât interrupt him and that somehow makes it worse.
âSheâsââ He sighs. âShe was my professor. Sheâs older, and so⌠amazing. Andâand pretty, and sheâs got her whole life together, while Iâm...âÂ
He gestures vaguely to himself, to the desk, to the library. As if that explains everything. âThis.â
Thereâs a brief pause.
âYouâre âthis.ââ Darcy repeats, her tone pensive rather than dismissive. âAnd what exactly is âthisâ supposed to mean?â
Bucky huffs a small, humorless laugh.
âTemporary,â he swallows. âUnimpressive. A guy who falls over carts in the middle of the day because he canâtââ He cuts himself off abruptly, pressing his lips together.
âBecause he canât what?â
Bucky shakes his head again, eyes hardening. âIt doesnât matter.â With his back straightening a little, he mentally retreats back into that safe cocoon made of denial and insecurity that has protected him since middle school.Â
She is quiet for a moment longer, studying him far less amusedly now.
âItâs been years, hasnât it?â
His whole body stills and that says more to her than words ever could.
Sighing, she pushes herself off the desk. âYou know,â her tone is casual as she adjusts her glasses. âShe likes books because they say what people canât bring themselves to say out loud.â
Bucky glances up at that, caught slightly off guard.
His colleague simply offers him a knowing smile.
âJust⌠something to think about.â She adds with a light tap of her knuckles on the desk, before turning, already stepping away as if the conversation has reached its natural conclusion.Â
âDarcy.â Bucky protests tiredly, but the words donât quite form anything coherent. Sheâs already waving him off without turning back.
âLock up, Barnes.â She calls lightly over her shoulder. âAnd try not to fall over anything on the way.â
The door closes behind her with a final click, plunging the library back into a deafening silence.
Bucky stands there for a moment longer than necessary, his hands resting against the edge of the desk and his gaze unfocused as her words echo in his mind in a way he doesnât particularly appreciate.
She likes books because they say what people canât bring themselves to say out loud.
Exhaling and with a hand dragging down his face before letting it drop, his shoulders tighten as a sense of discomfort begins to surface in his chest.
Because it would be easy, in theory.
To do something.
To say something.
Huffing a quiet breath, Bucky shakes his head with a sad smile. âDonât be ridiculous.â He mutters.Â
The idea alone is absurd, so dangerous that he doesnât have the courage to examine it too closely.
Because what would he even say? How would he say it?
The image forms anyway, uninvited and entirely unhelpful: him standing in front of you, words tangling somewhere between his brain and his mouth, his fingers fidgeting awkwardly and unnecessarily because they never know where to go, his voice catching on something as simple as your nameâ
He grimaces.
âYeah,â he murmurs dryly, reaching for the stack of keys as he steps out from behind the desk. âThat would go so well.â
He moves through the library methodically, switching off lights one section at a time, the space dimming in stages as shadows stretch across the shelves. By the time he finishes, the only light left is the soft, warm glow on the desk.
He pauses there, keys still jingling in hand, his tired reflection faintly visible on the black computer screen. With a tired sigh, Bucky reaches forward and turns the lamp off.
The click of the lock echoes faintly in the empty space, and just like that, another day is over.Â
Morning, in theory, is supposed to fix things.
Itâs a universally accepted fact: sleep settles thoughts. Tangled and overwhelming woes will loosen with rest, and even a few hours of unconsciousness create order and resolution where there was none. A reset that doesnât require effort.
Unfortunately, this morning proves, with irritating efficiency, that theory and reality have very little interest in aligning. Because when Bucky wakes up, there is only a dull, persistent pressure behind his eyes that comes from thinking too much and sleeping too little, and the immediate awareness that nothing has been resolved overnight. In fact, if anything, as soon as his eyes snap open, his stomach starts somersaulting in ways that make focusing on anything else significantly harder.
His first conscious thought is, inevitably, you.
His second is the memory of yesterday.
He exhales slowly into his pillow, pressing his face against it like that might physically muffle his thoughts.
âShit.â He mutters, voice still rough from hours of disuse.
He lies there for a moment longer, staring at nothing and fully aware that going back to sleep is not an option. Lingering in bed will only allow his mind to spiral harder.
So he gets up and carries it with him anyway.
By the time he reaches the library, the day has already begun without him. Once he pushes the door open, itâs the echo of familiar voices easily threading together that hits him first, suggesting an unspoken complicity built over shared breakfast and coffee breaks lasting more than they should.
Steve is leaning against the front desk, coffee in one hand and posture relaxed in that effortless way that means he has been awake and productive for hours. Sam is right beside him, mid-sentence, gesturing lightly with a half-eaten pastry, while Darcy stands across from them behind the desk, her own cup balanced precariously in one hand as she guffaws at something Sam has just said.
Itâs⌠too lively. Especially for someone whose brain is still trying to catch up with the rest of his body.
âIâm telling you,â Sam warns jokingly. âIf he falls again today, Iâm not helping him.â
âMind to remind us exactly when you ever helped?â Darcy asks, incredulous. âFrom where I was standing, you looked like you were choking on your own laughter.â
âHey, I offered emotional support. And donât act like you werenât cackling on this same desk.âÂ
âSam, you almost fell from your chair. You had tears in your eyes.â
He side-eyes Steve offended. âBecause I was thinking about his wellbeing, man.â
Bucky seriously considers turning around. Ultimately, he decides against it, because that would be suspicious and he is already operating at a disadvantage.
When he steps fully inside, all three heads turn toward him almost automatically.
There is a brief, collective pause, before chaos descends upon him.
âWell, look who survived the big, bad cart.â Sam smirks with entirely too much energy.
Bucky simply sighs, regretting getting up from his bed.
âGood morning to you too.â He mutters, walking toward them and hoping they will drop the topic if he doesnât engage too much.
âGood morning.â Steve echoes, his tone noticeably lighter than usual, which is never a good sign.
Darcy, on the other hand, narrows her eyes at him.
âYou look terrible.âÂ
âThanks.â Bucky replies flatly.
âYouâre welcome.â
Sam leans forward on the wooden surface, arms crossed and eyes studying him with a barely concealed grin. âDid you sleep at all, or did you just lie there thinking about your life choices?â
Bucky doesnât answer, which does nothing to stop him.Â
âMan,â Sam continues, shaking his head. âYou really committed to the tortured lover bit.â
âItâs not a bit.â Bucky sighs, dropping his bag on a chair.
Steve simply watches him, quieter and more observant, his gaze flicking briefly over the tension in Buckyâs shoulders and the slight heaviness in his movements.
âYou okay?âÂ
Bucky simply shrugs. âFine.â
His friend hums doubtful but doesnât push. Sam, however, is desperately waiting for a reaction.
âSo,â he claps his hands once. âAbout yesterdayââ
âNo.â Buckyâs head snaps toward him.Â
Darcy beams. âOh, weâre absolutely talking about yesterday.â
âThereâs nothing to talk about.â Bucky insists, already bracing himself.
âYou fell.â Sam counts on one finger.
âFor fuckâs sakeâI tripped.âÂ
âYou sighed.â Steve adds.
âI breathed.â
âYou were in absolute awe.â Darcy counters with a beam.
âI was just curious.â
âI thought you were about to fall to your knees and ask her to marry you in the quad.â Sam smirks, taking a sip of his coffee.
âWhatââ He sputters, his cheeks quickly turning red at the slight implication of you... marrying him. âWhat the fuck does that mean?â
âIt means,â Darcy cuts in, her tone taking a more serious note. âThat you need to do something about it, Barnes. Now.â
Bucky looks at her like she grew a second head, then tucks his chin down, fidgeting with a stack of random papers lying close to the computer.
âCan we not do this right now? I slept like shit, my head is throbbing and Iâm only running on a cup of coffee because I didnât have any cereal left. Just⌠please.âÂ
Sam exchanges a fleeting, subtle look with Steve, before his lips part, eliciting a stressed groan out of Bucky.
âWhat if,â he hums, like the thought has just occurred to him, nothing more than a passing idea with no real weight behind it. âYou just⌠didnât talk to her.â
Bucky frowns.
âIs this a joke? I already donât.â
âNo, I mean on purpose.â He clarifies, eyebrows raising knowingly. âLike, instead of overthinking every conversation into oblivion.â
With a tired exhale, his eyes close momentarily as if the action alone could give him the strength to deal with his nosy friends. âSam, that doesnât make any sense.â
âIt does,â his friend insists, straightening up. âOkay, listen. Youâre bad at talkingâor whatever it is that you do with herâweâve already established that.â
âThank you.â He replies sarcastically.
âSo stop trying to talk!â
Bucky stares at him deadpan, mouth opening and closing as his brain elaborates.
âThat is the worst advice youâve ever given me!â
âNot talking is not the same as saying nothing.â Steve corrects quietly.
Buckyâs eyes land on him, more suspicious than confused. âWhat are you getting at?â
Darcy sets her coffee down with an air of finality. âSamâs trying to suggest an alternative method.â
âWhich is?â
Said man gestures vaguely. âAnything that isnât you standing there and short-circuiting in real time.â
All three look at him with different degrees of amusement, to which he can only sigh, tension leaving his shoulders at once.
â⌠Okay, I guess sometimes I kind of short-circuit.â
âSometimes, he says⌠â Sam coughs. âAnyway, just donât put yourself in a position where you have to speak.â
âSo what should I do?â Bucky asks sincerely curious for the first time that morning.
At his friendâs shrug, his head falls back dejected.
âThis is going nowhere.â
At that point Darcy crosses her arms, leaning forward on the desk, eyes solemn and fixed on Buckyâs.
âBarnes, you donât have to tell her⌠everything. No oneâs expecting you to stand in front of her and confess your feelings like a fucking Hallmark movie.â
âGood,â Bucky mutters. âBecause Iâm not doing that.â
âBut you could communicate something.â She continues.
âItâs not like I never talk to her.â
âI mean, you say âhiâ.â Steve shrugs, grimacing at the memory of his friend nearly tripping over his own feet the time they ran into you in the hallway last monthâone of the rare times theyâd managed to pry him away from the library for more than five minutes.
Bucky points at him, pleased. âSee?â
âBarnes, thatâs barely a syllable.â
He frowns. âOkay, so what do you want me to do then?â
Thereâs a brief pause, the silence too heavy for Bucky to sustain and heâs ready to put an end once and for all to this useless discussion, but then Darcy shrugs nonchalantly.Â
âWrite it down.â
He freezes.
âWhat?â
âWrite it down,â she repeats, like itâs obvious. âYouâre better when you have time to think, not to mention the effect her mere presence has on you. Right? So think. Then write.â
âThatâsâno,â Bucky frowns. âNo, that sounds so much worse! Thatâs permanent.â
âItâd be on a piece of paper.â Sam quips up. âItâs literally the least permanent thing. One wrong gust of wind and puff, itâs gone.â
âYou donât even have to sign it.â Steve adds.
Hesitation glints in his blue eyes as they silently jump between their hopeful faces.
âYouâre asking me,â he says slowly. âTo write her a note.â
âNo,â Sam corrects. âWeâre asking you to write her a love note.â
âThere is a difference.â Steveâs eyebrows wiggle teasingly.
âA very important one.â Darcy nods.
Sighing, Buckyâs gaze drops briefly to nothing in particular, his thoughts already starting to move faster than he can keep up with.
Itâs a bad idea. It tastes like something heâs going to definitely regret a few months from now, like taking on a hobby you were so certain it was going to be funny and stimulating, but now it only steals your patience and money.
And then whatâs he going to do when you are going to eventually find out the notes came from him? Resign and move to another state? How is he going to face you?
But what scares him the most, is the fact that the idea of confessing doesnât feel as impossibly pathetic as it did yesterday night.Â
âHeâs thinking about it.â Sam sings songs into his cup of coffee.Â
âIâm notââ Bucky starts, then shakes his head. âI wouldnât even know what to say.â
Darcy takes a sip of his coffee. âI think you do, but you donât have to come up with something from scratch. You already know the kind of books she likes.â
Buckyâs chest tightens faintly.
âYeah.â He sighs, eyes timidly meeting the floor. âThat I do.â
âBorrow something,â she continues. âThen make it yours. Oh! If it helps,â she perks up. âSheâs coming by later for The End of the Affair. Weâve got this weird tradition going on every springâI randomly pick one book for her every week and she treats it like rewatching a comfort show, except itâs all different love stories on pages instead of seasons on a screen.â
Bucky lets out a slow breath, his shoulders dropping just a fraction, not exactly in defeat but in something closer to reluctant consideration. His lips press together, before resolutely looking his friends in the eyes.
âOne.â His voice breaks embarrassingly, like it costs him everything to say it out loud. âJust one and⌠we see how it goes.â
Samâs grin lights up the entire room.
âAll we need is for you to try.â Steve gives him a pat of encouragement, though Bucky could use a lot more than that right now.
Just a note and theyâll finally leave him alone.
You arrive later in the day, the end of your teaching hours bleeding into the tranquil part of the afternoon, when the library becomes more about the familiar rhythm of study sessions and exchanging small pieces of conversation that never feel particularly rushed.
When you walk in, Bucky is at the front desk, pretending to be busy with some books he has already sorted twice.
âHello, James.â You greet him easily, his name warmly rolling on your tongue like this is just another part of your day and not a personal attack to his soul that makes his entire nervous system briefly forget how to function.
Bucky looks up and immediately regrets it when he meets your eyes.
âHi.â He answers, too quickly, too quietly, and then clears his throat as if that might fix the way it came out. âHi.â
It doesnât fix it at all. His ears go slightly red but you donât seem to notice. Or if you do, you are kind enough to not comment.
âLong day?â You set your bag down and lean into the deskâs edge, one hand closing softly as your temple rests against it.
âUh, kinda. Well, itâs nothing compared to that of a professor.â His fingers fidget nervously.
You smile faintly at that, like you understand more than you let on. âDonât underestimate your job, James. Youâre surrounded by voices that refused to disappear. And you take care of them. That counts for more than you think.â
His lips part slightly, failing to find any words that could rival your beautiful mind. He isnât used to hearing his job described like it holds weight, more meaningful than a temporary position and a set of tasks he performs without thinking too much about them.Â
Before he can think about anything worthy enough, your eyes glance sideways as Darcy appears from the back.
âThere you are,â she bubbles. âI was starting to think youâd abandoned me.â
âI would never skip our afternoon gossip session.â
Bucky watches as the conversation flows without effort, leaving him standing just slightly outside of a bubble he doesnât quite know how to enter. Itâs actually adorable how his eyes try to stick to the books in front of him, yet still end up on you.
Darcy disappears again almost as quickly as she appeared, muttering something about âperfect placementâ and leaving you and Bucky in a quieter space that immediately becomes more noticeable.
âI swear she gets more dramatic every week.âÂ
Bucky huffs something that might be a laugh if it were louder.
âSeems⌠consistent characterization.â He manages, regretting it the second it leaves his mouth.
Thereâs a pause in which Bucky considers walking into the nearest shelf and staying there, but then you smile. At him. Because of him. Itâs a shy curve, amused and fleeting, that makes his heartbeat accelerate just enough to hope you wonât hear it.
His eyes are already flying away from your beautiful face, hands reaching for the nearest thing like it might save him from the way his blood is pumping wildly in his veins.
His fingers close around a stapler. A fucking stapler.
Your eyes follow his movements, until they are distracted by a book lying nearby with a yellow post-it stuck to the cover, your name elegantly written on it.
âOh,â you perk up. âShe picked it already?â
âYeah.â Bucky nods once, your fingers lingering over the cover as if touching an old friend. The shift in your expression is immediate: the tiredness doesnât disappear so much as it gives way, naturally bringing you back to life. He watches it happen with quiet wonder, struck by how easily something simple as a book can reach the very core of your soul.
âMmh,â you turn it in your hands. âGood one to start my yearly re-reading.â
âYeah,â he agrees softly. âThought so too.â
You glance up at that, curious, but before the moment can stretch too far, Darcy reappears again to insert herself between you both with suspicious efficiency, and the conversation drifts easily into lighter territory, from complaints about deadlines to a sarcastic comment about your best friendâs enthusiasm for emotionally ruining you with the book she picked.
Bucky listens more than he speaksâas usualâuntil eventually, you gather your things, saying your goodbyes with the same lovely smile, and then you are gone again, slipping back out into the world beyond the library. One where Bucky canât follow you.
So he stays behind, his stomach churning as your perfume invades his nostrils, and his cheeks warm, the same color of a strawberry.
The parking lot is less busier than expected as you settle into your car with ease, dropping your bag onto the passenger seat. A soft exhale claws out of your throat, your shoulders finally loosening and your head momentarily resting back against the headrest.
Itâs only when you reach for your bag to adjust it properly that something about the book feels slightly off.
The edge of a white paper is sticking out from between the pages, just barely, but enough to catch your attention. You pause, frowning at it as you pick it up carefully. For a moment, you assume it must be nothing: maybe a forgotten bookmark, or a note Darcy accidentally left there. It wouldnât be the first time it happens. She often leaves her things at your apartment, later in the week complaining about having lost them.
Still, there is something about the way itâs folded that makes curiosity swirl in your stomach as you open it with caution.
âI couldn't have thought of her more. Even vacancy was crowded with her.â
Of course you would recognize it immediately given how many times you have already read it. Itâs a passage from the book itself, written in careful handwriting. Deliberately selected. And itâs⌠beautiful in its simplicity; romantic in a way that makes your breath slow without you meaning it to.
You read it once again, smiling softly at the gentle words.
And then you finally notice the second part.
âI hope your day was kind to you.
Love, Bâ
The shift in your expression is immediate. Because that is something personal, directed not toward a character, but toward you.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the edges as your heart gives a small, unexpected lurch, catching you off guard to the point you bring your palm to your chest just to make sure your body is still functioning. Sitting still, your mind tries to make sense of what you are seeing, and the thought of the note being a mistake crosses your mind pretty quickly.Â
A misunderstanding, right.
Maybe this B left the note for someone else.
Maybe itâs a joke.
But the words are too intentional. A quiet, sincere message that doesnât feel performative yet is entirely too thoughtful, causing your cheeks to heat up. It seems to be directed at you but you donât link the signature to anyone in particular.
Your stomach twists in a strange, fluttering sensation as you read it one last time. Then, you finally lower the paper and stare at the parking lot in front of you for a moment longer, before carefully folding the note back up with trembling fingers, your pulse still uneven and your thoughts scattered in a way you donât fully trust yet.
It could be nothing. But it doesnât feel like nothing.
Once the note is safely placed back inside the same pages, almost reverently, you slip the book into your bag, out of your sight.Â
The sky is gradually darkening with soft hues of orange and pink and you still need to stop by the store to buy some produce, yet you allow yourself to sit in silence for a couple of minutes, hands lightly resting on the steering wheel and gaze lost somewhere far away. And when you finally decide to start your car, the radio blasting some latest pop song, your thoughts canât help but circle back to the words you just read.
You
say⌠do you know anything about a certain piece of paper inside the book you gave me?
Darcy
a piece of paper?
oh shit is it the receipt for that blue shirt Iâm supposed to return tomorrow? bc if I miss it again Iâm gonna lose those 60 dollars for good đ
You
I thought you returned that yesterday? btw I donât know what it is, looks like a love note I think? is this your umpteenth âsubtleâ way to tell me I have to start dating?
Darcy
no you said you were coming with me tomorrow
oh? I have no clue what you mean đ
maybe the books took pity on your nonexistent love life and are finally starting to write back to you? wouldnât that be something?
You
fuck off đ
Darcy
love you too <3
âHe could not be mistaken. There were no other eyes like those in the world. There was only one creature in the world who could concentrate for him all the brightness and meaning of life. It was she.â
You donât notice it, but your smile lights up every corner of my world.
Love, B
The following week, the book comes home with you without attention, just another familiar weight in your bag that you donât think twice about once class starts.
Itâs only later in your apartment, when you are finally allowed to exist without answering to anything or anyone, that you reach for it again almost absently. Now comfortable on your couch, you are already halfway into the thrilling anticipation of losing yourself in yet another story that has nothing to demand from you, except attention.
Once you open it, something small slips out before you even register the change in weight. The folded piece of paper lands on your knees with no sound, yet you flinch anyway. For a long moment you just stare at it with wide eyes, because this canât be an accident, not anymore.Â
The first note could have been an oversight, something forgotten, or probably meant for someone else. Thatâs why it had been easy, then, to push it into the background of your thoughts and let it become a harmless detail in an otherwise ordinary week.
Your fingers move before your brain fully agrees to it, the paper already familiar in its structure now: the same placement of a line from the book first, and beneath it, a simple, personal addition, almost disarming in how unremarkable it tries to appear.
Your eyes trace the words slowly, as if savoring every letter.
There is a particular kind of attention in it that doesnât feel casual. Not in the way people are ordinarily kind, or polite. This feels like someone has been observing without announcing it, leaving behind traces of themselves instead of explanations.
When was the last time anything in your life felt like it was aimed at you specifically, rather than at the role you occupy, the version of you that is expected to respond in proper, predictable ways? And who would do something like this? Not in the dramatic sense of confessions, but in this understated, quiet way of slipping fragments of themself into pages, trusting that you would find them when you were meant to.
It feels almost intimate in its restraint.
And as your mind tries to analyze that, it naturally reaches for an old memoryâan unconscious comparison. A place where youâve been before, back when everything at work still felt new and open.
At some point in the last months of your previous relationship, your ex was part of your life like those people who exist just close enough to feel superficially involved. There were evenings youâd come home carrying the day still alive in you: students who had sparked a debate with their brilliant answers; stimulating discussions that had shifted something in your thinking; all the small, unremarkable moments that shaped your job into something more than a simple obligation.
He listened as if you were talking about the weather.
And over time, you learned how to adjust yourself around that. To smooth out the edges of your enthusiasm before offering it.
Your jaw tightens at how miserable you were.
After you broke up, you didnât stop loving love. You just stopped expecting it to arrive in a form that chose you back. Books filled that space more easily than people ever did, love stories especiallyâthose could be held at a distance, experienced without consequence. You could allow yourself to feel everything without needing to risk what came after.Â
Until now.
The note in your hand doesnât feel like it was ever meant to remain tucked away between the pages of a book. But you have to remind yourself to keep your feet on the ground. Itâs too easy to misread things like this, assigning meaning where none is intended.
You should stop here. You almost fold it back and place it on the coffee table like an afterthought, ready to jump straight into the first page. But then, uninvited, a face appears at the edge of your memory.
The person you have seen behind the desk more than once. The way he looks up too quickly when you approach, as if he can sense your presence the moment you cross the threshold. The carefulness of his voice when he speaks to you. The way he seems to take up less space when you are near.
James.
You exhale sharply, as if that alone can dismiss the thought.
Sweet, kind and clumsy in a way that makes him easy to underestimate and difficult not to notice. But also younger, and most importantly, your student once, even if those years have settled behind you both by now.
There are boundaries that people like you donât cross. And yet, the thought refuses to leave.
Sighing, you fold the note with precision, as if returning it to order might also restore the sense of control you are gradually losing track of. You tell yourself, as you set it aside, that there is probably a logical explanation behind this. Many things sound unreasonable when analyzed under the microscope between the walls of your own mind. But even as you try to convince yourself of that, you are aware that something in the air between you and that possibility has shifted. This is starting to become a pattern, and patterns begin to ask for interpretation whether you want them to or not.
The thought of someone seeing you as a creature that could hold that kind of light is enough to make your lips curl into a serene smile for the rest of the night.
âDo I love you? My god, if your love were a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches.â
You seemed a little tired today. I hope youâre being gentle with yourself.
Love, B
Sam is the reason Bucky is outside at all.
âMan, if I have to watch you reorganize the same shelf one more time, Iâm reporting you.â He had said an hour earlier, already halfway to the front door before Bucky could argue. âYou need air. Sunlight. Human interaction that isnât whispering.â
âI talk to people.â Bucky had protested under his breath, grabbing his jacket anyway.
âYeah,â Sam shot back, holding the door open. âAt a volume only ghosts can hear.â
Now theyâre crossing the quad on their way back to lunch, the faint bitterness of coffee still lingering on his tongue as the campus feels alive but not too overwhelming. Students are scattered across the grass, their smiles tired and their bags dropped carelessly by their side.
Sam is talking about something Bucky isnât entirely following, gesturing with what remains of his drink, when it happens.
The collision is light, but the consequence is deadly for his poor heart.
Youâre walking toward them from the opposite path, a heavy tote bag slipping slightly from your shoulder, completely focused on something youâre pulling out of it.
Bucky sees you before you see him but he doesnât move out of the way fast enough. The impact of your arms bumping is barely more than a firm brush, but itâs enough to knock the balance out of what youâre holding.
âOh shit, Iâm so sorry!â Bucky startles, already reaching forward as the books in your arm tilt dangerously. You manage to catch most of them, but a few slip free anyway, hitting the concrete with a dull thud.
âNo no, itâs okay, that was me.â You apologize quickly, crouching down to pick them up, though youâre a fraction slower than usual, like your body is lagging behind your intention.
He is already on the ground, hands closing around your books before you can reach them, then arranging them in a neat stack.
âSorry.â He mutters again, offering them back to you, though he doesnât let go right away, not when you look this tired. Your fingers brush against each other for an ephemeral moment, causing a shiver to run down his spine, and when you straighten up, your eyes finally land on him.
âOh, James!â Your eyebrows lift in surprise, voice warming almost instantly. âHi.â
âHi.â Bucky parrots back, a little breath caught in the word.
Up close, itâs easier to notice the heaviness under your eyes and the lazy curve of your smileâit takes a bit more effort to reach your face. Yet itâs the sparkle heâs used to see in your movements that worries him the most. The energy is still there but buried a little deeper than usual.
âYou okay?â The question slips out before he can filter it, his eyebrows furrowing.
You blink, caught off guard not by the question itself but by how swiftly and directly he gets there.
âYeah.â You nod at first. A small, polite answer that is meant to close the subject rather than invite more questions.
Although Bucky doesnât say anything, something in his expression must give him away, because you let out a small breath that turns into a self-deprecating chuckle.
âIs it that obvious?â
He shrugs, a little awkward now that he realizes he crossed a line.
âOnly if youâre paying attention.â He mumbles, then promptly looks down, like heâs said too much.
âOkay, Iâm a little tired.â You admit, shifting the books against your chest. âItâs been a long week, nothing to worry about.â
Bucky hums pensively, like heâs been expecting that answer. âYeah, you lookââ He stops himself, frowning. âNot bad. Justâtired.â
You beam properly for the first time that day, a hint of amusement breaking through the lack of sleep.
âWow. You really know how to cheer a woman up.â
âI didnât meanââ His eyes go comically wide. âI justââ
The words trip over themselves before he can stop them.
âYou are always beautiful.â He blurts out, too fast, too honest.
You still, eyebrows raised in shock. But as Bucky feels his stomach drop somewhere near his shoes, your expression brightens in a way that he almost feels like he has died and gone to his own personal heaven.
âOh, thank you.â You momentarily glance down, a coy smile taking over your lips. Your voice is a low, breathy thing, but it lands heavier than anything else in the conversation so far.
His brain scrambles uselessly for damage control, for something to say that might undo the moment, but everything just sounds worse before it even forms completely.
Behind him, Sam lets out a quiet, poorly concealed snort, but Bucky ignores it.
âIââ He starts again, yet youâre still smiling at him. Which, somehow, makes it infinitely worse.
âYou should get some rest,â he swallows, in a last, desperate attempt to direct the conversation. âIf you can.â
Itâs simple, a bit clumsy even with the way he canât seem to meet your eyes as you study him like youâre not used to people saying that and meaning it.
âI will,â you nod. âThank you, James.â
His hands twitch at his sides, wishing he could offer to carry your books, your bag, or say something useful, something that might actually help and not further push him to hide foreverâbut words fail him, dying in his throat.
You shift your weight slightly, lips parting as if you are about to say something else, when your gaze flicks past Buckyâs shoulder and lands on the man watching the scene like his favorite reality show.
âOhâSam?â You greet him, a little surprised.
His friend straightens immediately, stepping forward with a grin thatâs just a little too knowing.
âMissââ He starts, out of instinct more than anything else.
You groan softly, already shaking your head. âOh God, no. Please donât. We are not doing that.â You chuckle. âWe are almost colleagues at this point. Or close enough, Doctor Wilson.â
Sam lifts his hands in surrender. âForce of habit.â
âIt makes me feel ancient.â You add jokingly.
âYou look far from ancient, professor.â Sam shoots back easily with a friendly wink.
Bucky glances between the two of you laughing like two old friends, a knot forming in his throat at how naturally the conversation unfolds, how easily Sam fits into it.
âHow are you doing?â You ask him, genuine interest threading through your tone.
âGood,â Sam crosses his arms to his chest. âA lot more busy. Theyâve got me running around a lot, but I guess thatâs part of the deal.â
âYouâll be great at it.â You state without hesitation.
Sam grins. âYeah, I know.â
You laugh at that, shaking your head.
âIâm serious,â you add a tad more serious. âYouâve got the right instinct for helping people.â
Sam briefly glances down at that, not used to compliments. âI appreciate that.â
Thereâs nothing wrongânothing Bucky can point to and say this is whyâand maybe thatâs what makes it worse. Your interaction with his friend isnât forced, not tentative in the way it always seems to be with him. It flows, not leaving room for hesitation, and hesitation is the only language Buckyâs ever been fluent in.
His hands keep hovering uselessly at his sides before one of them comes up to rub the back of his neck, an old habit he falls into when he feels disquieted. For a moment, he considers stepping in, adding somethingâanythingâbut he wouldnât even know where to begin. He would rather leave in silence than try inserting himself into a rhythm that would carry on just fine without him, and probably end up being ignored. Even if he knows rationally that neither of you would do that to him.
So he stays where he is, half a step behind, listening. As usual.
You nod once, satisfied, then glance back at Bucky.
âWell,â you give him a little smile, drained but real, adjusting your grip on the books again. âI should let you both get back to it.â
âYeah,â It comes out as an involuntary whisper, so Bucky quickly clears his throat. âSee you.â
âSee you around, James.â
You give Sam a small wave, then turn, walking across the quad until you gradually blend back into the movement of the campus.
Thereâs a beat of silence in which Bucky is still looking longingly in your direction, when Sam exhales.
âWow.â
âI mean, wow.â He repeats at the lack of response, dragging the word out this time. âYou just stand there and do that with no warning?â
âDo what?â Bucky mutters, already starting to move again.
His friend falls into step beside him, shaking his head. âYou ever notice you stop blinking around her or is that just me?â
Bucky shoots him a look. âShut up.â
âIâm serious,â he continues, completely undeterred. âYou were gone. I couldâve run around naked and you wouldnât have even noticed.â
âI wasnât that distracted.â Bucky replies flatly.
âLiar,â Sam counters. âYou didnât even know I was still there until she spotted me.â
Bucky canât argue, because for once heâs right, but Sam doesnât need to know that.
His friend shoots him a sidelong glance, lips already twisting into a small smirk. âYouâre in trouble.â
He sighs tiredly, yet doesnât even try to deny it.
âYou pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope... I have loved none but you.â
I get the feeling Iâm already in deeper than I have any right to be.
Love, B
Darcy called it a âfairâ exchange, half-sprawled against the front desk earlier that afternoon while Bucky pretended to log the latest entry of the day, hopeful she would eventually forget the whole thing if he looked busy enough.
âI helped you with the note thing,â she stated, like it was a perfectly reasonable transaction. âI require my payment now.â
He had eventually agreed, which in hindsight felt like the first mistake of the day.
Itâs simple, really. In and out. Pick a pastry, hand the money and run back to the library where words are predictable and the space knows his name.
But the cafeteria is loud, exposed. Trays clattering, chairs scraping, too many conversations overlapping so nothing can be separated cleanly. And too many people existing too close together without thinking about it.
Bucky moves through it like heâs slightly out of sync with the floor beneath him. Heâs been here before throughout these past few years, of course. With Sam, Steve⌠even Darcy recently, when she drags him out on their breaks, talking the entire time so he doesnât have to. But being here alone makes such an ordinary task sound impossible. He is suddenly aware of his damp hands and how he shouldnât let them hover uselessly at his sides. Of his posture, too straight or not straight enough. Of the fact that no one is guiding him through the space with casual familiarity, splitting the crowd ahead of him with easy conversation that makes him feel less like an intruder.
Bucky eventually reaches the display case feeling like heâs halfway through a side-quest that tastes more and more like an ambush. Pastries sit behind the glass in neat rows, almost judgmental in their little safe corner, yet he doesnât really see them. His focus keeps slipping, attention unable to find anything to attach itself to for more than a second.
Two options blur together in his mind.
He should just pick one. It doesnât matter, itâs just pastries.Â
But he hesitates too long. A couple behind him shifts closer. Someone laughs too loudly nearby and it hits his ears too suddenly, his shoulders tightening instinctively, like his body is trying to make itself smaller.
He should choose. He should leave. He should do anything that involves not standing still like an idiot.
And then, without his permission, his eyes dart away mindlessly, stopping right to the far end of the room, on a face he knows too well. And the chaos is entirely forgotten.
You are hereâalways somewhere inside the rhythm of the building. But Mr. Fowler is here too, seated across from you like itâs the most natural arrangement in the world.
Professor Fowler is a math genius. He is always composed, always too comfortable in spaces that arenât entirely his, sporting that cunning smile as if he were the sole keeper of the secret to having the last word in every conversation.
You are leaning forward, hands moving animatedly as you talk about something that matters more than anything else in the room. Maybe a studentâs absurd answer in one of your quizzes. Or maybe is it something more personal? It doesnât really matter, because Fowler is laughing and thereâs nothing polite about that. He genuinely finds it funny. There is no hesitation, no carefulness.
And you answer that at once, smiling at him so easily.
Thatâs the first word that comes to mind, uninvited and unhelpful. Ease, Bucky realizes with unpleasant clarity, has a shape, and you and Fowler fit inside it without effort.
He has heard things before. Even if they came from voices that donât matter, they start to form patterns when they repeat often enough in passing corridors, in the kind of giggles that bubble when something is slyly assumed.
Your names are linked together too lightly, followed by a glance that suggests there is nothing to confirm and nothing to deny, just the ultimate assumption everyone makes when two well-matched people keep ending up in the same orbit: both of them good-looking, established, sharp in their own fields. The sort of pairing that doesnât need to be announced to feel plausible, which somehow makes it worse than a confirmation would have.
Bucky realizes he has stopped breathing properly at some point during that realization. His hands still hold nothing useful, and the counter is now farther than he remembers, his body having gradually drifted away without noticing.Â
Across the room, Fowler says something, and this time you laughâproperly, head tipping back and eyes squeezing shut. And there is nothing performative in it, only familiarity unfolding candidly between you like it has always been there.
It feels real.
And it doesnât include him.
He should have left the moment this stopped feeling like speculation and started looking like certainty.Â
There are people who move through the world as if it already recognizes them, and people who donât quite manage to step into that recognition without friction. So Bucky turns away and doesnât look back.
There is no point in that, not when your smiles are for another man.
When he finally reaches the library, Darcyâs voice catches him before he can fully disappear into the stacks.
âBarnes,â she calls, far too bright for the way his day has just fractured. âWhere is my muffin?â
âThey ran out of pastries.â The shock at the way his own mind promptly provides him with a convincing lie doesnât manifest on his face.
Darcy squints at his back like she is trying to decide whether something happened or itâs just one of his days. âYou okay?â
With a non-committal hum, Bucky keeps walking until heâs standing in his usual dark corner, no memory of the steps in between and the people he brushed past along the way. The books are already there, waiting in the same order, and for a moment he simply stands in front of them.
Then, almost mechanically, he begins to rearrange them.
Not because they need it.
âShe did not understand the beauty he found in her, through touch upon her living secret body, almost the ecstasy of beauty. For passion alone is awake to it.â
Sometimes I think standing too close to you would be enough to undo me. I find myself stopping thoughts before they become something I canât easily take back.
Love, B
A single touch of his shoulder was enough for his cock to stir. Well, it wasnât just that.
Bucky was talking with Steve in front of the library when he spotted you and Darcy making your way back after your break.
He didnât realize he stopped speaking mid-response until Steve glanced at you and then back at him with understanding.
The effortless grace in your movements made it impossible for him to look away, a mixture of admiration and longing dancing in his own blue eyes... until they landed on your outfit. The skirt you were wearing moved differently than the ones he was used to, shorter and tight enough to sinfully cling onto the flesh of your thighs covered by sheer, light fabric that made his breath hitch embarrassingly loud.
And then you had come closer, and his knees almost buckled when he noticed how much skin your shirt was revealing. Itâs pretty hot today and you were here for a conference organized by the Department of Literature. Itâs only normal for you to put a little more effort in your outfits when you are not in class; you could be a little bit bolder.
The open collar was covering almost all of your breasts, still, the curve of your tits was completely visible for his eyes to feast upon.
The final blow was you touching him. Youâre mid-sentence, when your foot caught on the uneven pavement, and his body just had to react before thinking. His hand was already around your waist, your fingers going for the nearest thing for support: his shoulder. You ground yourself for a moment as you corrected your step, thanking him with a sweet smile that will haunt him for weeks.
It was barely contact. An instinctive touch and nothing more.
Still, now he canât stop the phantom brush of your digits on his covered skin from giving him goosebumps. Or the tingling sensation on his palm as it closes uselessly around nothing, trying to remember what the curve of your waist felt like.
It wasnât long before Bucky had to excuse himself, conveniently holding his jacket in his arms because of the hot weather and low enough to hide his big bulge.
The walk to the restroom was nothing short of humiliating. He felt like every single pair of eyes was burning through his skin, judging him for popping a boner in the middle of a conversation with the prettiest woman in the world wrapped in tight silk and nylon.
Itâs not the first time Bucky comes with your name on his lips, and images of you moaning and crying out under him rolling in his mind like the lewdest of movies. Still, it never happened in a public place.
As soon as he locks the door behind him, Buckyâs slacks are so unbearably tight he clumsily unhooks his belt, lowering them enough to relieve the growing pressure on his erection. He wishes to indulge in one of his perverted fantasies so bad, but it doesnât feel right. Not here.
In a desperate attempt to calm down, he presses his back against the wall, sweat causing his hair to cling to his forehead and eyes squeezing shut. Until the image of the swell of your breasts comes back traitorously behind his closed eyelids, and that soon transforms into your naked tits bouncing in front of his face, nipples hard and glistening with his spit after he thoroughly kissed and sucked and pinched the sensitive nubs.
Yes, in his mind you are a sensitive little thing that needs her breasts worshipped. If he had a little more experience, Bucky is certain he could make you come just by toying with your nipples.
And then he thinks about that damn skirt. His fingers would lightly trace your soft skin covered by the pantyhose, ripping the fabric apart just to hear you gasp, and then taking his time in covering your pretty thighs with his mark.
Bucky always starts with the best intentions: slow, light touches, trying to make the pleasure last as long as possible. But he is far too eager to wait. He could learn to be patient for you, though. Edge you and himself for hours until you canât take it anymore, indulge in your shaky thighs squeezing his head as his tongue teases your clit to bring you so close... and then pull away just to hear you beg and whimper for him to fuck you until you pass out, until the only thing your mind can remember is his name, and your pussy the shape of his cock.
A whimper claws out of his throat when his fingers instinctively reach down, wrapping around his length. Bucky is both long and thick, his palm sliding up and down, following the upward curve so easily. A shiver runs down his spine when he focuses on the tip, smooth and rounded, his hips jerking forward as his thumb smears precum across the crown.
He is sure you wouldnât have any problems taking him. You are a determined, strong woman, and even if the stretches would burn at the beginning and your cheeks would be wet with fat tears of overstimulation, youâd still look down at him like a goddess with her favorite devotee, stubbornness burning in your eyes as youâd ride him with the little strength left.
Brows furrowed in concentration and head thrown back against the white wall, Bucky strokes his cock at a steady pace, lips parted around muffled breaths and low groans that fall into the palm pressed firmly against his mouth. At some point his eyes snap open, traveling down to the space between his legs, and his brain must really hate him, because it offers the image of you knelt there, shirt unbuttoned and skirt bunched at your hips, enough to expose your wet core. Your hand plays with his balls while your glossy lips stretch around his cock.
âJust like that, babyâfuckââ
His hips twitch in wild, frantic thrusts, the sloppy, wet sounds of his fingers picking up their pace echoing in the empty restroom. He is throbbing at the phantom feeling of your tongue tracing the veins and your lips closing around his tip to suckle on it like a damn lollipop.
He isnât prepared for the violent, abrupt wave of pleasure that hits him only a few seconds later. Ropes of cum steadily paint his palm, a few, thin stripes spurting on the floor as his choked groans die behind pressed lips.
When the room finally stops spinning, Bucky tiredly slumps back against the wall, eyes accidentally falling on the mirror right in front of him. His chest heaves with rugged breaths and his hands are now dirty with his own cum. The sight makes his already red cheeks look like two tomatoes.
His cock is still out and half-hardâit makes such a crude picture next to his creased pants and underwear.
Only then shame curls hot in his belly.
âI have for the first time found what I can truly loveâI have found you. You are my sympathyâmy better selfâmy good angel.â
There are people you admire, and then there are people who quietly become part of how you think about everything else. I didnât expect the difference to feel this irreversible.
Love, B
Classes have just let out, so the hallway is still quite full but thinning at the edges, students spilling out in clusters to move toward exits; some linger just a little longer than they need to. Bucky is standing off to the side, a folder tucked under his arm for the administrative office, waiting for the flow to clear before he moves.
You come out of one of the classrooms a few steps ahead of him, mid-sentence, turning slightly as you finish saying something over your shoulder to a student who stands by the door.
âThatâs actually a really good pointâjust donât stop there, okay? Push it a bit further and youâll see where it goes. Actually, you know what? I have some articles about the psychological function of the Gothic in nineteenth-century literature, and I believe they could be very helpful for your essay. Just send me an e-mail to remind me, okay?â
The student nods, half-confident, half-lost, and you give her an encouraging smile before she heads off. You fully step into the hallway while adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, and only then your distracted gaze lands upon him.
You shift the thick stack of papers in your arms, catching Buckyâs attention.
âMonthly assignments?â He guesses.
You glance down at the stack, then back at him, lips already curling knowingly.
âUnfortunately, yes.â Your shoulders move with a deep sigh. âAnd they all seem to have been written at three in the morning, which makes them⌠pretty creative.â
He huffs a quiet chuckle, a mix of sympathy and amusement.
âYeah, canât blame them.â
âI donât even mind the lack of sleep,â you continue. âItâs the confidence. Theyâll write something completely unhinged and still conclude it like itâs the most solid argument ever made.â
That pulls a real smile out of him.
âHonestly, I respect that.â He says before thinking too hard about it. Then, almost immediately, âNotâthe unhinged part. Just... the confidence.â
Something about your laugh shakes the butterflies in his stomach.
âNo, I get it. Thereâs something admirable about committing to a bad take.â
He nods along, then hesitates like heâs deciding whether to say the next part.
âAre they actually bad? Or just⌠not what you were expecting?â
Your head tilts a little, considering him for a moment.
âSome of them are bad,â you admit quietly. âBut some are... uh, unfinished thoughts, yes. Like theyâre almost there, but they stop right before it gets interesting.â
âYeah,â he murmurs. âThatâs worse, I think.â
Your eyebrows shoot up curiously.
âBecause they couldâve been good... if theyâd dared to go further.â He quickly explains, then immediately wonders if that sounds stupid. Too obvious. Tooâ
âYes, exactly. Dare is the right word.â You sound elated to be finally understood. âThey get scared.â
Thereâs a small pause in which you hurriedly look for one paper in particular, pulling it out from the middle of the stack.
âThis one actually had a really good point,â you mumble to yourself as you frown at it, eyes smoothly skimming the text. âAbout how emotional restraint in early twentieth-century fiction isnât absence, but displacement.â
Bucky looks up at that, interest showing on his features.
âLikeâredirected?â
âExactly,â you nod, a little more animated now. âBut then they just didnât follow it through.â
âThey couldâve tied it to narrative voice,â he muses. âHow whatâs left unsaid actually shapes the way the story is told.â
âYes!â You smile. âThatâs what I thought.â
Thereâs a flicker of something in your expressionâapproval, maybe, or just satisfactionâthat gives Bucky enough confidence to continue.
âDo you everâŚâ He clears his throat. âI meanâdo you ever feel like they just donât trust their own ideas enough?â
Your smile turns a little gloomy.
âAll the time.â You shake your head. âThey think thereâs a âcorrectâ answer theyâre supposed to land on, so they donât follow their real thoughts on the matter.â
He nods, more certain now that the conversation is finding its rhythm.
âYeah,â he agrees. âLike theyâre writing for approval instead of⌠figuring something out.â
You hold his gaze for a second longer than before.
âYou read my mind.â
The words settle between you with finality, your gaze meeting his, surprised at first, like youâre still turning the conversation over in your mind. And Bucky doesnât lower his eyes like he usually would.
He holds it, because stepping away first would mean breaking this rare moment he gets to enjoy just existing with you. Because thereâs a soft attentiveness in your expression that makes it hard to pull back from.
Like heâs worth listening to.
The moment stretches for a second too long. Then another, until it no longer feels like a mere pause in a conversation, and giving away even the slightest of hints about his feelings for you is enough to scare Bucky into talking again.
He clears his throat first, the sound cutting abruptly through the quiet hallway as he looks down at the papers like theyâve suddenly become very important.
âUhââ He has no idea how to finish that.
You blink like youâve just been pulled out of a dream, your posture adjusting slightly as you look away as well, fingers tightening just a little around the stack in your arms.
A small, almost embarrassed breath leaves you.
âYesââ You murmur, then shake your head faintly, as if resetting yourself. âSorry.â
âNo, itâsââ He mentions at the same time, then cuts himself off, heat uncomfortably creeping up the back of his neck.
The brief, clumsy overlap of words goes nowhere, but then you shift your weight, grounding yourself back into something familiar, something safe.
âActually,â you take a small step closer, a little more composed now. âWhile I have youââ
His head snaps up a bit too fast at your wording.
âI wanted to ask you something about one of the students whoâs been coming to the library a lotâtall, always looks like he hasnât slept in three days? His nameâs Peter. Peter Olson.â
Bucky blinks, searching his memory.
â⌠That doesnât narrow it down much.â He admits hesitantly.
An embarrassed chuckle falls from your lips. âFair. Mmh, well he usually sits by the back tables. Keeps switching books every couple of hours like heâs looking for something and not finding it.â
âOh,â Bucky perks up. âYeah. I know who you mean. The one who wears the same grey hoodie every day?â
âYes, thatâs him!â You snap your fingers. âI was just wondering if you knew him, since he spends so much time there. Has he ever said anything to you?â Your brows furrow. âOr anyone you know? Heâs been struggling in class, and I canât tell if itâs the material or something personal.â
Itâs not the question per se that catches him off guard, but the way you ask it. Not like itâs your job, like youâre obligated to care.
âHe doesnât talk much,â Bucky starts slowly. âBut he stays late. Sometimes he just plays games on his phone until we close.â
You nod pensively, like that confirms something.
âYeah, thatâs what I thought. I might check in with him,â you mutter, more to yourself than to him. âJust... in general.â
You glance back at Bucky then, a soft smile already brightening your features.
âThank you so much.â
He shrugs, hoping to come across as nonchalant as Sam. âYeah, of course. Anytime.â
You shift your grip on the papers again, but you donât move away immediately. Instead, you squint at him.
âHey, are you doing okay?â
The question lands unexpectedly.
He blinks. âYeah.â
You tilt your head slightly. âJust yeah?â
He chuckles at that. âI swear,â he repeats, a little more honest this time. âIâm good.â
You hold his gaze for a second longer, like youâre deciding whether to believe him or not. Despite your initial doubts, you nod anyway.
âOkay.â
No lecture, no attempt to force him to speak.
âWell,â you announce ruefully, taking a step back. âI really need to go and start grading these now. Thank you again, James.â
âNo problem,â he gives you a thin-lipped smile. âSee you around, and good luck with those.â
Bucky stays there minutes after the shape of your body has disappeared behind a corner, the folder meant for the administrative office still waiting in his hands.
Nothing big just happened. It was just a normal conversation, honestly. You didnât say anything extraordinary, nor did anything that should linger in his chest like this. You talked about literature and essays. You exchanged ideas. You asked about a student. You asked about him... And then you let it be enough.
Later, when heâs alone, it comes back to him in piecesâthe subtle pride burning in his chest at being on the receiving end of that kind of attention, like he exists in the same category as everything else you choose to care about.
âHer presence altered the flow of time itself, making the hours feel lighter when she was near and heavier when she was gone.â
Iâve started measuring time around the moments you are by my side. I didnât realize how much that would change things until I started noticing the difference when you are not there. Something in me refuses to settle properly without you in my day. Am I going mad, or does that happen more easily than people like to admit?
Love, B
Irritation curls hot in his chest as Bucky focuses on his phone, on the message from Steve warning him heâs running late. Waiting alone like this has never sat well with him, not when the constant sense of not belonging thrums high in his veins.
He steps forward in line anywayâthey discovered this quaint cafĂŠ years ago while looking for a place to study for the days they actually didnât feel like opening a book at allâbarely paying attention to what heâs ordering, until a familiar voice cuts through the jazz melody coming from the speakers.
âJames?â
He turns around in surprise, because there you are, sitting at one of the tables by the window, one hand wrapped around a cup, the other lifting in a small, happy wave when you catch his eye.
His body stiffens at once.
Thereâs no distance of a desk between you, no quiet formality shaping the interaction, like a college hallway. You look⌠softer, somehow. Draped in light fabric that catches the faintest movement of your body even when youâre still. Itâs a dress that falls more naturally than the usual careful lines of trousers and shirts he associates with you.
Why does Bucky feel like heâs committing the sweetest kind of sin, seeing this version of you that belongs entirely to yourself?
His phone is still in his hand, screen gone dark, but he doesnât even register the weight of it, because in that moment, there is just you in a pretty dress and afternoon light, smiling up at him like you are an angel genuinely delighted to see him.
Only then does he remember he is supposed to respond.
âOhâhi.â
âHi,â you echo, your smile growingâeasy and relaxed, fitting perfectly into a sunny Saturday morning. âWhat are you doing here?â
âUhâwaiting. For Steve.â He gestures vaguely with his phone. âHeâs late.â
You laugh, a quiet, knowing sound. âAlways the last one to arrive and the first to go away. I see nothing has changed.â
Your hand points at the empty chair in front of you. âYou can come sit, if you want. Iâm waiting for my friends too.â
Itâs said so casually, like it doesnât require consideration.
Bucky hesitates anyway.
âAre you sure?â He is immediately aware of how unnecessary the question is.
âOf course! We can keep each other company.â You bubble. âI donât bite.â
That gets a small, startled huff out of himâhalf laugh, half whimperâbefore he steps closer to you than heâs ever been.
The first few minutes are clunky.
Bucky sits a little too straight, hands not quite knowing where to go, fingers brushing the edge of his cup like he needs something to keep him anchored to reality. His answers are short at first, slightly off-beat, but you donât let the conversation stall.
âHowâs work been?â You rest your chin on your closed hand.
âUhâgood. Quiet. Mostly just⌠books.â He winces a little at his lame answer.
âThatâs literally my favorite category of things!â
A quiet chuckle escapes him, some of the tension easing from his shoulders thanks to your cheerfulness.
âYeah, I figured.â
âYou get to spend your whole day around them,â you continue. âThat sounds like a dream to me.â
He shrugs, a reflex more than a response. âItâs just⌠temporary. You know, nothing serious.â
You donât answer that right away.
âTemporary doesnât mean meaningless,â you explain calmly. âAnd being around something you love every day isnât small, James. Most people donât even get close to that.â
He opens his mouth to respondâout of habit more than anythingâbut doesnât have anything ready for that, in fact. And you donât push it, opting to take a sip of your drink.
Sometimes silence says more than words ever could.
Somewhere along the conversation, things shift.
Maybe when you start telling him about one of your classes and how a student arguing with you over an interpretation somehow made you rethink your own reading of the text. Maybe when he finally finds himself asking a question without rehearsing it first. Maybe when you laugh again, and this time he doesnât freeze around it.
âYou let them argue about Joyce with you?â His eyebrows shoot up, a hint of disbelief slipping through.
âOf course!â Your eyes widen, like itâs obvious. âThatâs the fun part. Otherwise itâs just me talking to a bunch of nodding heads for two hours.â
The corners of his mouth lift properly this time, not the small, careful version he usually allows in public.
âYeah, I guess that makes sense.â
You agree with a shake of your head, taking a sip of your second cup of latte. âYouâd be good at it, actually.â
That catches him off guard.
âAt⌠teaching?â He tentatively asks.
âYeah. You pay attention. Thatâs half the job.â
He doesnât know what to do with that either. So he just nods, a little slower this time.
âHave you ever considered that?â
His brows furrow in surprise. âActually... no.â
You donât react immediately, and for a moment he thinks the conversation might just drift away on its own, like so many of the others have, but instead you tilt your head slightly, studying him with that same quiet attentiveness that never fails to bring a blush to his cheeks.
âIâm serious,â you add, softer now. âYou make people feel like what theyâre saying matters. Thatâs rarer than knowing things, honestly. You can always study content, but some people never learn how to make someone want to keep talking.â
No one has ever framed him like that before, as if it were something worthy of praise rather than just a byproduct of him being timid, or quieter than most people.
His distant eyes drop briefly to the table as if the surface might offer him something solid to hold onto while his thoughts rearrange themselves around the idea, his fast heartbeat almost drowning any other sound at how beautifully you keep describing him and his job.
âI never thought about it like that.â He murmurs, not sure if it was meant for himself only.
You donât push it further, just lean back into your chair with a serene smile.
âIâm telling you, there is a difference,â a voice behind you abruptly ripples through the quietness. âYou canât just say a flat white and a latte are the same thing.â
You flinch at the rising volume of the statement.
âThey are basically the same thing,â another voice argues back, annoyed. âItâs milk and coffee. Thatâs it.â
âThatâs like saying all literature is just words on paper. Donât be ignorant, Joe.â
Buckyâs gaze flick up to you at once, a sparkle of amusement dancing in his eyes, like heâs silently asking if youâre hearing this too.
You are, clearly, because youâre biting your lips so hard to avoid laughing and draw their attention.
âThereâs a texture, thereâs a ratioâthereâs an actual difference if you pay attention.â
âI am paying attention,â Joe replies, sharper now. âI just donât think itâs worth pretending itâs deeper than it is, Mary.â
âThatâs not pretending,â she counters quickly, almost cutting over him. âThatâs just⌠caring about things.â
He lets out a short, disbelieving snicker. âNo, thatâs overcomplicating things that donât need it.â
âRight, because you hate when things get too complicated.â
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âYou know very well what I mean, Joe.â
âItâs coffee, Mary.â The guy insists exasperated, but thereâs something defensive in his voice now, less certain. âYouâre acting like itâs a personality trait.â
âMaybe it is,â she snaps back. âMaybe the way people choose things does say something about them.â
âOr maybe you just want it to.â
âOr maybe you just donât notice anything.â
And just like that you watch Mary stomp out of the coffee shop with a sighing Joe right on her heels.
There is a brief, silent pause in which you and Bucky just stare at each other, before you both burst out laughing.
âTheyâre not wrong, you know?â You breathe out, still smiling. âPeople get very attached to their preferences to the point it becomes a personality trait.â
Bucky leans back a fraction in his chair now, more at ease than he had been at the start.
âI think itâs less about the coffee,â he crosses his arms to his chest. âAnd more about wanting to be right about something.â
You hum around a sip of your drink. âOr wanting something small to feel important.â You argue back. âItâs easier to defend a preference than to admit it doesnât really matter.â
âDo you think people actually taste the difference,â he asks after a moment. âOr they just decide they do?â
A grin takes over your lips.
âI think sometimes they decide first,â you rest your chin back against your hand. âAnd then convince themselves their senses agree with them.â
It feels like that explanation applies to more than just coffee, to more than just the harmless debate that unfolded right behind you between two strangers who you will probably never meet again.
His gaze lingers on you for a second longer than necessary before he looks down again, almost unconsciously.
âWell, I think Iâm in trouble.â His grin is poorly concealed.
That makes you smile. âWhy?â
âBecause I donât think Iâve ever made a defining coffee decision in my life.â
âThatâs fine,â you gesture with your hand. âNot everyone needs to be a person of conviction.â
He squints his eyes at you. âI feel like thatâs not a compliment.â
âIt wasnât.â
He huffs out a laugh through his nose, shaking his head at your serious expression.
âMovies are like that too.â
That catches his attention a little more.
âWhat do you mean?â
âEveryone has one classic opinion they feel morally obligated to defend.â
âThatâs⌠accurate, unfortunately.â He rolls his eyes, suddenly reminded of his sister and her obsession with Casablanca.
You lean back a little in your chair. âLike people who act like you personally attacked their family if your favorite movie is not some... I donât knowââ You gesture loosely with one hand. âFrench, silent short film from the twenties.â
Bucky closes his eyes tiredly, head falling back. âGod, I hate those people.â
âI kinda am those people.â You eventually admit with a smirk.
That earns you a look.
âIâm joking!â Your giggle is so contagious his own lips twist into a small smile. âWell, maybe sometimes...â Your index finger rhythmically taps your chin as you think for a few seconds.
âI just love classics.â
âI donât... actually like most classics.â He scrunches his nose.
You blink, slightly taken aback. âThat sounded like a confession.â
âIt felt like one. Iâve never told anyone.â
You lean forward in interest, whispering conspirationally. âOkay, so which ones donât you like?â
He hesitates for a moment, like he knows this is about to become a problem. âGrease.â
Your expression falls at once, humor slipping away just as quickly as it came.
âWhat?â
âI didnât say I hated it.â
âThatâs worse.â Your eyebrows shoot up.
âHow is that worse?â He frowns.
âBecause it means you watched it and still chose neutrality.â
He stumbles over his words, hands raising in defeat. âWait, wait. I didnât choose anything. I just didnât... connect with it.â
You straighten up slightly. âThatâs not allowed.â
His lips press together, trying to hide a smile. âWhy not?â
âWhy?â You balk. âBecause itâs Grease, James!â
âThatâs not an argument.â
âIt is culturally! Itâs been around forever for a reason.â
That makes him laugh properly this time.
âWell, now I feel like Joe.â You chuckle at that, shaking your head in fake disappointment.
âThis is exactly what I meant about people having strong opinions about things they donât care about.â
You tilt your head at that, mildly affronted. âExcuse me, I care deeply.â
âItâs a musical.â
âItâs one of the musicals.â
At that point Bucky leans back on his chair with a glint of delight dancing in his eyes. âSo Iâm not allowed to just⌠not like it?â
âNo.â You shrug, lips already twisting into a grin.
It makes him smile again, his ears burning a little at the fleeting realization that he just had a funny banter with you without making a fool of himself.
âOkay.â He sighs resignedly. âThen what do I get to dislike without being judged?â
You think about it seriously, arms crossing to your chest as you look out of the window.
âAh!â Your face lights up. âModern remakes of classics.â
His eyebrows shoot up. âThatâs safe?â
âThatâs universally safe.â
âI feel like youâre setting me up.â He squints at you.
âI swear Iâm not,â you lift a hand in sincerity. âThatâs just objective truth.â
Buckyâs blue eyes study you for a moment with something you canât fully decipher, ultimately opting for a thin-lipped smile. âYouâre impossible.â
His gaze inevitably falls on your lips, so lost in his own thoughts that he doesnât notice the way your own lies on his.
However, your phone lights up, the strong vibration of an incoming text breaking the spell. Bucky suddenly straightens up, expression sobering now that he has been pulled out of whatever quiet complicity had settled between you. Meanwhile, you throw the screen a quick glance, then your eyes fall back on him.
âMy friends are here.â
Bucky moves quickly, pushing his chair back with too much strength, the scrape of it against the floor making a few heads turn.
âSteve isnât here yet, right?â You ask, and then, more tentative. âStay.â
As if surprised by your own request, you correct yourself frantically. âI mean, if you want to, of course. I just⌠Iâd really like it if you stayed. I can introduce you to my friends.â
Thatâs when Bucky stops entirely.
Your eyes are so hopeful and devastatingly pretty, your expression open at how uncomplicated the request is even if it clearly costs you something to make it.Â
He almost says yes.
Itâs there, immediate, unfiltered, so close on his tongue. Because thereâs no calculation, no expectation dressed up as politeness. Just the simple, disarming fact that you want him there.
Then the door opens. Voices spill in. Energy, movement, a kind of ease he hasnât been part of in a long time.
And thenâ
Fowler.
Of course heâs here. Of course he belongs to this part of your life too.
Bucky bites his tongue and shakes his head before you can say anything else.
âNo, itâsâI should go, really.â He is already stepping back. âSteve just texted. He canât make it. Iâve got⌠stuff to do. Groceries.â
He knows you can see through his lie, but he doesnât really care to fix it right now. Still, that small shift in your expressionâdisappointment flickering in your eyes before you smooth it over with a polite smileâshatters his heart to pieces.
âOh. Okay,â you nod. âWell⌠Iâll see you on Monday, then?â
âYeah,â his voice dims. âYes. Monday.â
He doesnât trust himself to stay longer than that.
Outside, the air suddenly feels colder than it should for a morning of late spring.
His feet donât stop moving until heâs across the street. Then he turns back, even if he knows whatâs going to see will make him lie awake all night.
Through the window, he can still spot youâonly now youâre not across from him, not contained in that small, manageable space of a shared table.
Youâre part of an organized mess, alive and warm. Inside jokes repeated over the years and questions that require only a knowing look.
Your friends lean in, talking over each other, laughter overlapping easily, and youâre right there in the middle of itâthe center of it allâresponding without hesitation, without that small pause heâs come to recognize when you speak to him.
Fowler is closer than that day in the cafeteria, seamless in the way he occupies the space beside you. You laugh at something he says, and itâs probably the same laugh he has heard just a few minutes ago. It shouldnât matter but Bucky stands there longer than he means to. Long enough for the pit in his stomach to return and set him a few steps back in your blooming friendship.
Could he even call it that, what you had? Talking about literature, stopping for a meaningless chat in the hallways, and randomly bumping into each other on a Saturday morning?
He is just an acquaintance. Those are your friends. They fit in a way that doesnât require adjustment, that doesnât need to be questioned.
And Bucky thinks about how long it took him to stop tripping over his own words, how even at his best, it had taken effort to reach something that, for Fowler, seems to exist without trying.
He thinks about his job. Replaceable. A placeholder more than a direction.
He thinks about the way his life still feels like itâs waiting to start.
Your life looks full, complete in a way his isnât. And the people in it... they belong there. Theyâve already figured out what heâs still trying to understand.
He exhales slowly, the sound barely leaving his chest.
Whatever existed in that small space between the two of you inside that cafĂŠ, itâs meant to stay there. It doesnât extend here and it never will.
This time, when he turns away, he doesnât stop again.
By the time Bucky reaches the end of the street, the decision has already been made, agonizing but certain.
Tomorrow will be his last note.
âThe human heart has a way of making itself large again even after it's been broken into a million pieces.â
I didnât know how to write these notes in a way that didnât sound like I was still your student trying to impress you. I think Iâve been confusing proximity with possibility, standing too close to something I was never meant to touch. Iâm still a temporary version of myself, still borrowing space. Time. Confidence. And I donât think Iâm the kind of man you would ever choose. You⌠youâre not temporary. You come into peopleâs lives to brighten them with your presence, and I donât believe I am worthy enough to deserve that kind of warmth.
So I think this is the right thing to do.
I am going to let you go.
Not because I want to, but because I donât know how to keep loving you without shattering into pieces, until thereâs nothing left to recognize.
Always yours, B
You donât make it home today. The thought of this small, unexpected thing finding its place in your life without asking permission, like it has belonged there all this time, always returns persistently in the back of your mind. It has translated into pure anticipation of what youâll find next inside your books, and today it has been impossible to ignore since the moment your eyes opened. You catch yourself thinking about it between lessons, tasks, in the small pauses where it blends with the image of a certain person, already fantasizing about whatâs going to happen the next time youâll see him again.
By the time you step into the library, youâre already smiling to yourself. Itâs ridiculous, you know that. Nothing about a person anonymously writing you love notes should matter this much, it shouldnât feel this addictive.
Despite the fact that the initial on the notes had been easy to dismiss at first, something vague enough to ignore, it gradually became impossible not to imagine a certain someone behind those words. You told yourself youâre being irrational, but as much as your brain tries to keep you grounded, it canât stop your pulse from picking up every time that possibility takes hold in your thoughts.
You donât rush, not outwardly. But thereâs a lightness to your steps, a quiet impatience that shows in the way your fingers tighten slightly around the cover, in how quickly your gaze moves past Darcy. The world feels just a little less interesting compared to what youâre about to read.
Itâs been a long time since anything has made you feel like this. Or, anyone.
You slip away from the main aisle, drawn toward a quieter corner where shelves grow narrower and the sun doesnât quite reach that far in. Your fingers are already finding the page before youâve fully stopped walking, a warm sensation blooming in your chest in a way that feels embarrassingly close to a suffocating excitement. And when the folded paper finally reveals itself, tucked exactly in the middle of the book, your smile grows, unguarded and bright.
For a brief, suspended moment, everything feels exactly as it should.
You finally stop between two rows of thick books, hands closing around the edges of the note with a familiarity that shouldnât feel so natural. For a second, your thumb presses along the crease, tracing it onceâenough for you to take a deep breath and calm down your wild heartbeat.
The quote registers firstâyour mind catching its tone before its meaning fully settlesâand then your eyes move down, desperately looking for the rest. For an explanation.
Each line feels like a stab to your heart, those words completely stripped of the gentleness that had softened them until now. Thereâs no careful distance here, no hesitation disguised as sweet restraint. Whatever has been building silently inside your secret admirer has become an uncontrollable, raging sea, inevitably crashing your heart against the cliffs.
By the time you reach the last line, your breathing has changed.
Your palm rests on your mouth in an instinctive attempt to contain a sob. Your eyes sting without permission, blurring the edges of the words still lingering in your mind.
You read it over and over again.
Itâs a goodbye.
And it doesnât make any sense.
Nothing in the notes before had prepared you for this abrupt ending, for the certainty that your fate has already been decided without you. You try to trace it back, to find the moment where it might have shifted, something you might have missedâa look, a conversation, anything that could explain how it reached this point.
But thereâs nothing.
Only the unsettling realization that someone has been feeling this deeply, this painfully, somewhere just outside your awareness. And now theyâve chosen to step away.
Your grip tightens around the paper.
The ache that follows in your chest surprises you more than anything else. These notes had become a small but constant reminder that someone out there saw you as something more than your role and a polite smile. You hadnât fully realized how much of them you carried with you every day until now.
It had become a possibility you never allowed yourself to name. And now itâs being ripped away from you before youâve even had the chance to decide if you wanted it.
A wet breath leaves your lips, the paper trembling faintly between your fingers as you lean back against the sturdy shelf, hands stiff on your thighs as you clench your jaw, trying to stop your chin from wobbling so embarrassingly fast in a public space.
Thatâs why you donât hear him at first.
Bucky lethargically turns into the aisle with a few books in his arms, already half-thinking about where they belong. He slows when he notices someone ahead, instinctively preparing to move past without disturbing them.
Then he recognizes you, and his body locks into place.
Youâre standing too still, your posture drawn inward in a way that doesnât belong to you. Your bag has slipped from your shoulder, probably without you noticing, because it hangs awkwardly in the bend of your elbow. The fabric of your shirt was dragged with it, the collar now slipping just enough to expose the slope of your shoulder and your collarbones, the seam no longer primly sitting where it should.
You look⌠undone, in the most mortifying of ways.
And then his gaze drops. In your other hand, a book barely held, your fingers curled around it without intention, like you forgot it was there.
Realization hits fast enough to make his stomach turn, sharp and sudden.
His note.
The air leaves his chest in a shallow breath.
He had imagined you finding out, vaguely, distantlyâbut not like this. Not with you standing in one of the darkest corners of the library, alone and crying for the very thing he had convinced himself would never affect you so much.
A soft, shaky sniff pulls him sharply out of his thoughts, so Bucky decides that this is enough.
He steps forward, careful like approaching a wild, injured animal.
Your name comes out of his lips more hesitantly than he wants to admit.
Your chin lifts, a flicker of surprise, brief and disoriented, crosses your features, before you realize who is standing before you. At that point you straighten abruptly, instinctively composing yourself, though the traces of what you were feeling canât disappear with a single swipe of your fingers.
âJames.â You greet him with a slight bow of your head, your voice fainter than he has ever witnessed.
His heart hurts at the sight.
âAre you okay?â He whispers.
You nod too quickly. âYes!â You exclaim, nodding eagerly. âYes, of course. Iâm fine, itâs justââ The sentence falters, dissolving before it can take shape. You shake your head then, swallowing. âIt doesnât matter.â
Bucky should leave. He set the decision in stone last night as he crafted his last note, deliberately, with the kind of resolve he doesnât usually manage to hold onto for long. And even if right now you are shakenâholding onto that piece of paper that clearly matters to you more than he ever intendedâBucky should step back, let it end cleanly, before it could turn into something more complicated, more humiliating.
Youâll move on. In a few days, maybe a week at most, the notes will blur into a simple memory. Youâll return to your life, to the steady rhythm of it, to things that are real and lasting and meant for you. And eventuallyâmonths from now, years, it doesnât matterâyou might remember this with amusement. A strange, fleeting experience. A story to tell with a soft smile to your kids, about that shy, awkward student who hid behind borrowed words because he never quite had the courage to stand in front of you and speak them himself.
Itâs exactly what he wanted.
But youâre still holding that damn piece of paper, and he knows every word written there.
âYou donât have to pretend.â He mumbles.
Your eyes lift to his again, searching now, something in his tone catching where everything else might have passed unnoticed.
â⌠James?â Uncertainty threads through your voice.
Thereâs a moment where he almost steps back, almost lets this dissolve into something safer.
âI didnât think youâd read it here,â he blurts out, his voice strained at the edges. âI thought youâd take it home, or⌠later.â
Your back slowly straightens to face him as realization dawns on your face.
âYou wrote this.â
Bucky nods, just once.
âIâm sorry.â
The apology comes quickly, choked, like it has been waiting all along in his throat.
âI shouldnât haveâI didnât mean for it to end up like this.â
âLike what?â You ask, voice steadier despite tears still blurring your vision.
âLike you having to deal with it.â
You shake your head, a small, almost disbelieving movement.
âThatâs notââ Your eyelids flutter shut momentarily, chest raising and lowering with a deep breath as you try to find the right way to say something that suddenly feels more complicated than it should be.
âWhy would you think this is something I have to deal with?â
He lets out a short, humorless breath.
âBecause it is,â he says with too much certainty. âItâs not something you asked for.â
âAnd you decided that for me?â
He hesitates. âNo. I just⌠didnât want to make it harder for you.â
âHarder how?â You press, stepping closer without fully realizing it.
Bucky takes his time to look at you, properly, and whatever he sees in your expression seems to unsettle him more than the fear of being rejected.
âBecause Iâm notââ His jaw clenches as he searches for words that donât sound as inadequate as he feels. âIâm not someone you would choose.â
You stare at him with furrowed brows, because of how easily he says it, how certain it sounds, like he has already accepted it as an absolute, indisputable fact.
âThatâs not your decision to make.â
âIâm not deciding anything,â he replies, though his voice breaks. âIâm just being realistic.â
âYouâre not,â you say, taking another step closer. âYouâre assuming.â
âIâve seen enough to know,â he sighs, and thereâs something in the way his voice tightens that suggests he hadnât meant to say even that much. âItâs notâthis isnât about whether I feel something. That part was neverââ He stops, swallows back an embarrassing sob that dissolves his words into a whisper. âItâs about where I fit beside you. And I donât.â
You silently study how heâs holding himself tightly, slightly leaning back, like heâs already preparing to flee.
âThatâs not your decision to make.â You shake your head, stepping closer again. âYouâre being afraid.â
He canât deny that.
And thatâs when you close the distance.
Your lips meet in a tender kiss. It isnât rushed, but it isnât hesitant either. Itâs a decision made without overthinking, without giving him space to retreat behind that safe prison of insecurity he built to protect himself from being hurt.
Initially, Bucky doesnât move, eyes wide and arms rigid at his sides.
This doesnât make sense. Your lips on his.
Itâs only when one of your hands touches his cheek, warm and hesitant, the other settling over the uneven rhythm of his heart, that his palms lift, almost cautiously, like heâs afraid youâre going to disappear with a single brush of his fingers. Just a figment of his imagination. A beautiful, sweet lie.
He cradles your cheeks, the touch so fragile, like a breath caught between speaking and silence. And your lips part gracefully against his, his tongue gaining more confidence the more you tease it with yours.
Buckyâs a mess by the time you pull back, his ears ringing and his breath shaky. You donât leave him completely, the tips of your noses still brushing as his eyes desperately search yours for the slightest hint of regret. But he finds none.
âI donât understand,â he breathes out. âWhy would youââ
âBecause I want you, James.â You answer simply.
âThatâs notâThatâs not supposed to go like this.â
Your eyes close with a sigh, and when they flutter open again, Bucky has to swallow back another apology as a set fresh of tears makes them glow so prettily under the dim-light.
âWhat if I donât see you the way you see yourself?â Your head tilts. âIf I donât think youâre temporary. If I donât think youâre out of place in my life.â
Thereâs a long moment where he just observes you in awe, the certainty of being unwanted he held onto for so long unraveling piece by piece, replaced by something far more delicate yet warm. So warm his chest feels full.
âThen why didnât youââ His voice breaks, the question catching in his throat.
âBecause you never gave me the chance.â
This time, Bucky doesnât look away. His shoulders loosen, gradually, finally allowing himself to live in the moment. One of his hands shakily moves from your face, like heâs still not entirely sure you are real, and settles lightly against your waist. His eyes follow the movement, grounding himself in your body to convince himself this no longer feels like a ridiculous dream.
âCan Iââ His lips press together at your grin.
He doesnât finish the question. Instead, he simply leans in.
This time, the kiss is his.
END NOTES: thank you so much for reading đ here is the link to the collab masterlist!
books quoted:
1. The End of the Affair by Graham Greene
2. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
3. The Princess Bride by William Goldman
4. Persuasion by Jane Austen
5. Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H. Lawrence
6. Jane Eyre by Charlotte BrontĂŤ
7. Il barone rampante by Italo Calvino
8. The Bridges of Madison County by Robert James Waller
time to expose myself: I've never read some of these books. yes I suck, I'm a terrible person, I'm illiterate, whatever you want đŠ some I just studied; others I discovered thanks to this story. all the quotes come from a long, thorough and agonizing research on different websites about romantic quotes (đ) and reddit (I swear I always find some interesting info every time I look up a topic I have no knowledge about). I tried to make sure each quote comes from a book with love/romantic relationships as one of the themes, but again, I had never even heard about some of them until a few weeks ago, so my knowledge entirely comes from google. I apologize if the english translation of some quotes is not 100% correct, I had to translate those myself because I could only find them in their original language.
warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, friends with benefits, secret relationships, jealousy, blood and wounds, war, fluff, angst, light banter, mutual pining, slight chef!bob x reader moment, possessive sex, pussy pronouns, breeding kink
wordcount: 12.2k
a/n: based on this request. thank you sm for the suggestion because it helped me out of my slump. ohhh knight!bucky how i yearn for you
main masterlist
synopsis:
A maidservantâs only job is to tend to the princess's every whim. But despite the warnings of everyone around you, you can't help but fall for the one person you shouldn't, and that was the kingdom's trustiest knight and the princessâs sole protectorâJames Barnes.
Being the maidservant of a princess came with both its advantages and disadvantages.
You were constantly on your feet, up before the sun rose and down long after it set. Your body was in a permanent state of ache and strain from lifting heavy baskets of laundry up and down several flights of stairs, and your fingers were often raw from the needle poking through thick fabrics.
Princess Daphne always barked the wildest commands, keeping you and the other maidservants running around the palace to satisfy her every whim and desire.
It was hard, tedious work, but it gave you a roof over your head and a decent enough pay. And in this day and age, with the war against Sokovia, protection was the most important thing.
You could live in a beautiful home, but none of it mattered if Sokovian soldiers could barge past the kingdom gates at any moment with their weapons and horses at the ready.
With knights posted at every corner, the palace became your sanctuary.
There was one knight in particular who always seemed to linger near the maidservantsâ chambers on the highest floor. A window sat right outside your room in the hallway, offering a clear view of the grounds where that same knight always stood on guard.
âJames,â you greeted him with a sigh, still catching your breath from the long climb up the stairs.
He turned toward you, his usually tense, focused shoulders easing slightly at the sight of you.
A small, rare, and gentle smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
âYou knowâwhen itâs just me and you, you donât have to call me James.â
A sheepish flush crept over your face as you approached him.
There was a true sense of family among the palace workers; the bond between the maidservants was like a sisterhood, and you were close with many of the chefs. Late at night, when the palace fell asleep, you and the other servants would gather at the kitchen tables to laugh and drink long past midnight.
The knights hardly ever got the time off or the leisure that you and the other maids enjoyed. But for Bucky, just seeing and talking to you was enough.
He stepped toward you, his heavy armor clinking with every movement. âLong day?â
âMhm,â you mumbled tiredly.
Finally stripped away from the presence of royalty, you were free to speak as sluggishly and as improperly as you liked.
A soft exhale left Buckyâs nose. His right handâflesh and humanâcame up to caress your cheek, while the other, metal and forged by the kingdomâs greatest blacksmith, cradled the other side of your face.
The touch was cold and made you shiver, but nonetheless, it was still Bucky.
Your Bucky.
âSleepy girl,â he muttered, his thumb tracing your cheek as he stared down at you, strands of long, dark hair falling over his face. âYouâve been working so hard, havenât you?â
A little whine left your mouth as you stepped closer into his space, letting yourself bask in his touch.
He chuckled softly, pulling you against his chest and pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.
âI should let you retreat to your bedchambers,â he spoke quietly. âBut I donât want to let you go. I havenât seen you all day. Is that selfish of me?â
âVery selfish of you, James.â
âI told you not to call me that.â
You smiled, tilting your head back against his chest to look him in the eye. âOhâI apologize, Bucky.â You teased.
Bucky grinned, his hand trailing down to your chin and lifting it, presenting your lips to himâthe prize heâd been seeking all day.
âThatâs my girl,â he mumbled.
Just as he leaned in to find the salvation heâd been starving for, the door to your bedchamber swung open. Your roommate, Yelena, poked her head out and scrunched her nose in disgust.
âEw,â she dragged out childishly. âIs this what you knights usually do on your time off? Stick your tongue down an unassuming maidservantâs throat?â
Your face burned with embarrassment as Bucky pulled away, glaring daggers in Yelenaâs direction.
He clicked his tongue. âUnassuming,â he repeated in a grumble.
He looked back down at you with a soft, disappointed sigh.
âI shall let you rest.â Using his gloved hand, he brought your fingers to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your palm. âGoodnight, maiden.â
Bucky stepped aside as you retreated toward your bedchambers. Yelena held the door open with her body, arms folded tightly across her chest as she continued to glare him down.
âYelena,â you hissed at her quietly as you slipped inside, âstop.â
After throwing one last look over her shoulder at Bucky, Yelena finally pulled the door closed. Inside, your roommates and fellow maidservants were already settled for the night, snug and comfortable on their cots.
Natasha was brushing out her hair, a knowing, teasing glint in her eyes. âDid you have fun with soldier boy out there?â
You gasped softly at her direct question. âN-Natâ!â
âYou know, soldier boy didnât even spare us a glance when we walked up the stairs,â Wanda added, swinging her feet over the edge of her bed as she stood up. âItâs as if the knight recognizes the sound of your footsteps by heart.â
All eyes were on you, and you wished the floor would simply open up and swallow you whole to save you from the relentless teasing.
âYou ladies are unbelievableââ
âAm I the only one who doesnât find this funny in the slightest?â Yelena barked, a disapproving look on her face. She glared harshly at Nat, then Wanda, and finally you. âIf word gets out that a maidservant is having an affair with a knightâno, the Sergeant himselfâweâre all ruined!â
You frowned, undoing the ties in your hair as you made your way to your side of the room.
âI wouldnât call it an affair,â you explained. âWe havenât put a title onâŚâ You swallowed hard, twisting the hair tie between your fingers, ââŚthis arrangement.â
Yelena ran a hand down her face. âThatâs even worse!â
âYelena, calm down,â Natasha cut in, glancing at you from her bed. âBut as harsh as she's being, she is right.â
You kept your head down, trying to appear fixated on the hair ties and pins scattered across your dresser. You knew they were rightâthat being in any kind of relationship with one of the kingdomâs knights was nothing but trouble.
Especially when the knight in question was Sergeant Barnesâthe very man entrusted to watch over the princess.
âYou are in love,â Wanda pointed out gently from across the room. âWe can see that. But you have to believe usâweâre only looking out for you.â She approached you, setting a gentle hand on your shoulder. âFalling in love with a knight will bring nothing but heartache.â
Words were just words until they were spoken by the right person. Yelena and Natasha could doubt you and Bucky all they wantedâbut it was Wandaâs voice that truly made the realization sting.
Because Wanda was a maidservant who had fallen for a knight, just like you.
His name was Vision, and he had been felled in a battle against Sokovian soldiers. While they were deep in their secret affair, they had been told the same things over and over.
âYou could get us all in trouble.â
âYouâre only thinking for yourself.â
But before word could ever get out about Wanda and Vis, he passed away, leaving Wanda to grieve in total isolation.
She couldnât even attend his funeral, and her name couldnât be left in his will.
It pained you because, despite the sanctuary and comfort of living in the palace, you still wanted more. You wanted to be with the man who stood just outside your bedchambers.
âI know,â you said quietly, looking up at the other girls and forcing a smile to show them you were okayâthat this was okay. âAnd I understand. I wonât let it come between us.â
It was a promise you had made countless times, but you knew you would always run back to him.
You were kneeling on the floor, adjusting the hem of Princess Daphneâs dress as her blue eyes bored into the large window to her right rather than the full body mirror in front of her.
âIs it just me, or are the roses in the garden unkempt?â
There was no one else in the room, so this was her attempt at a conversation. Most of these ended with her complaining about some minor issue, leaving you to simply nod in agreement.
You glanced over your shoulder, taking in the roses. They didnât look out of placeâmaybe a few weeds were overgrown nearby, but nothing unruly.
âThe roses do look unkempt these days, Your Royal Highness,â you agreed anyway, bringing your attention back to the skirts.
She hummed. âThe gardener has been fruitless lately, has he not?â
âI believe Mister Alexei has been feeling unwell, Your Royal Highness,â you explained politely.
Princess Daphne raised a brow, looking down at you as you fluffed her skirt. âWhatever for?â
You pressed your lips together, glancing up to meet the princessâs eyes. âHis wife passed away, Your Royal Highness.â
âI see,â she sighed softly. âThatâs a shame.â
You stayed quiet as you continued to fix her dress. You finally rose from the floor, letting out a soft groan as you pulled yourself up. You smiled, admiring your own handiwork on the princessâs back, but her mind seemed preoccupied with something else.
âAll finishedââ
âI would like for you to tend the gardens today.â
You blinked at the sudden request. âI⌠the gardens?â
âYou fill the vases with the most precious and stunning flowers every morning,â she said with a guileless smile. âSo, I am entrusting you to tend the gardens.â
You truly didnât know what to say.
You had never been ordered to work the grounds beforeâsure, you might have plucked a stray weed or offered a hand to Alexei when the days in the palace were slow and long, but never like this. That was what a gardener was for.
But knowing Princess Daphne, she couldnât tell the difference between someone arranging a bouquet and someone maintaining an entire estate.
And you were nothing but a maidservant. How could you refuse, anyway?
âI⌠yes,â you bowed your head. âIt will be done, Your Royal Highness.â
âWonderful!â Princess Daphne beamed, clasping her gloved hands together as she stepped off the pedestal without your assistance. âI expect the roses to be vibrant and lively once I return from my promenade!â
Once Princess Daphne left her bedroom, you stayed behind to tidy the mess she had left in her wake. When the room was back in order, you made your way down to the gardens.
Outside, the sun was baking the garden soil. Your nostrils were immediately hit with the scent of dirt and blooming jasmines.
You managed to find a pair of old, oversized gardening glovesâlikely Alexeiâsâin a shed, and after tucking your skirts as best you could, you dropped to your knees before the rosebushes. The work started easy, clearing away small weeds and tossing them into a pile.
But then, a thick rooted weed tucked right at the base of a vibrant red rose was giving you a run for your money.
You gripped it tight, bracing your feet against the stone path, but it wouldnât budge.
âCome on,â you hissed under your breath, your face heating up from both the sun and the exertion.
With a frustrated huff, you desperately heaved, putting your entire body weight into it. The root finally snapped, but the sudden lack of resistance sent you flying backward. You tumbled through the air like a fool, losing your balance until you landed with a dull thud right in the middle of a freshly turned hydrangea bed.
The Queenâs favorite flower.
You sat there for a moment, stunned, with your legs sprawled out and dirt smeared all over your⌠toosh.
The heavy clinking of metal hit the stone pavement, stalking closer and closer. Bucky loomed over you, his long hair catching the light from behind as his heavy cape draped over his shoulders. He didnât offer a hand immediately, wanting to take in the sight of you sprawled out and dirty.
He rested his gloved hand on the hilt of his sword, a slow, devastatingly handsome grin spreading across his smug face.
âDonât tell me the princess has you working her gardens now.â
You looked around to see if anyone else was near, but it was just him.
âBucky,â you greeted with a breathless smile. âDonât tell me the princess has you clearing the garden perimeters.â
Buckyâs grin widened as he extended a hand. When you took it, he lifted you from the dirt with ease.
âIf the princess believes there are any threats out here, you can start by eradicating these,â you said, lifting the weed in your hand for emphasis.
He chuckled softly, reaching out to brush away a bit of soil that had caught in your hair.
âNo, actually,â he said. âThe princess sent for me. She wants me to accompany her on her promenade through town.â
âOh,â your smile faded slightly. âI see.â
Bucky nodded, standing tall in his armor. All you could think about was how, while the man you loved was out strolling and shopping with the princess, you would be here in the dirt, working far beyond your usual station.
He tilted his head, leaning down slightly to get a better look at your expression. âIs there something troubling you?â
I donât want you to promenade with the princess, even if it is your job.
I want you to stay here with me instead.
âNothing,â you lied, forcing a smile as you clutched the weed tighter in your gloved hand. âItâs a lovely day outside for a promenadeâIâm sure itâll be a good change of pace from guarding the palace all day.â
Bucky furrowed his brow, noting the way your shoulders slightly slumped and how your voice had grown quiet. He reached out and caught your hand with his gloved one, running his thumb gently over your knuckles.
âThe promenade wonât last forever,â he promised, his eyes searching yours. âAnd once youâve finished tucking the Princess into bed, Iâll be posted near the gazebo south of the palace.â
He stepped even closer until his tall frame shadowed yours, the cold metal of his chest piece brushing against your bodice.
âMeet me there,â he whispered, his thumb still tracing slow, gentle circles over your knuckles. âBehind the willow trees. No other knights patrol that far down, and the sound of the water will drown out... everything else.â
Drown out everything else.
You knew exactly what he meant. This wasnât the first time you two had snuck away past your working hours just to find comfort in each otherâs arms.
Buckyâs gaze dropped to your lips for a quick, hungry second before he pulled back just slightly to maintain appearances.
âTonight, after the moon hits its peak,â he murmured, quiet and low. âDonât make me wait for you, sweetheart.â
Your heart thumped faster in your chest. Now, the only thing left to do was count the hours until you were in Buckyâs arms againâa thought that made the day drag on far slower, despite the mountains of work piled up before you.
âTonight,â you repeated with a genuine smile. âI shall be there.â
Bucky smiled softly, satisfied with your answer. âGoodââ
âSergeant Barnes!â the King shouted from across the garden, where he stood by the shade.
Buckyâs body went stiff as a board, his hand instantly dropping from yours as he snapped into a formal salute. You quickly stepped away, desperately brushing the loose soil from your skirts and keeping your head bowed low.
âYour Majesty,â Buckyâs voice lacked the warmth he shared with you just a moment ago.
He moved toward the King, leaving you behind without another glance.
The King didnât even spare a look at the messy hydrangeas or at youâthe dirt smudged maidservant trembling beside them. His eyes were fixed solely on his most trusted knight.
âSergeant, the Princess is ready for her departure,â the King lectured with authority. âWhy are you lingering in the gardens when your charge is waiting at the carriage?â
âMy apologies, Sire,â Bucky replied, a mask of stoicism and professionalism taking over him. âI was merely ensuring the perimeter was secure before leaving the grounds. I am headed to the stables now.â
The King gave a curt, stiff nod, though he didnât look pleased. âSee that you are. In these times, the Princessâs safety is paramount. We cannot have our best men distracted by trivialities.â
The Kingâs gaze flickered momentarily toward youâa cold, passing look that made you feel like nothing more than a piece of garden furnitureâbefore he turned back to Bucky.
âMove along, Sergeant.â
âAt once, Your Majesty,â Bucky said.
He turned to leave, but for a split second, while the Kingâs attention was turned away, Buckyâs gaze broke rank.
Over his shoulder, he stole one last look at you. You were already back on your knees, picking at the weeds, and Buckyâs heart clenched. He wished he could spend his days right next to you.
In his eyes, you shouldnât be the one picking the flowers, but rather the one receiving them.
But all he could do for now was tear his gaze away and head for the stables.
With the Princess gone and the garden task finally completed, you followed the distant yet familiar sounds of clinking copper and boisterous laughter down into the belly of the palace.
The kitchens were a different world entirely. As soon as you pushed through the heavy doors, the scent of roasting garlic, fresh rosemary, and baking bread enveloped youâa welcome relief, even after being stuck outdoors in the fresh air all morning.
At the center of the room, several maidservants were perched on the edge of the prep tables, their legs swinging as they broke fresh bread and shared it with the kitchen crew.
âLook what the cat dragged in!â Yelena called out, her mouth half full of loaf. She beckoned you over with a sticky hand. âYou look like youâve been rolling in the trenches.â
Natasha looked up from where she was leaning against the counter, a cup of cider in her hand. âAnd it looks like you didnât have your knight in shining armor to save you this time.â
âThatâs because the Princess is strolling through town today, which means Sergeant Barnes is busy looking after her,â John, one of the cooks, mentioned from across the kitchen, not looking up from his work.
Wanda motioned for you to take the empty seat next to her. âHours have passed, and the Princess should be returning soon. Eat now, unless you want to wait until midnight.â
Your stomach grumbled as you stepped deeper into the kitchen to claim your spot.
âIâm starving,â you groaned tiredly, sinking into the seat. âWhat are you all feasting on?â You smiled, taking in the mountain of bread crumbs and various loaves scattered across the table.
Yelena nodded toward the back of the kitchen. âBob has been locked away by the ovens all morning. He calls it focacciaââ she lifted a piece of the bread, âapparently, itâs all the rage in the southern kingdoms.â
You glanced over to see Bob carefully dimpling the surface of a fresh loaf with his fingers, drizzling it with a generous amount of olive oil and pressing sprigs of rosemary into the dough.
âHeâs even made a special companion for it,â John called over his shoulder, âa savory onion and fig jam.â
Wanda slid a small wooden bowl and a thick, airy slice of the bread toward you. The loaf was golden brown and glistening, pockmarked with herbs that smelled divine. The jam was a deep, thick purple that smelled of caramelized sugar.
âTry it,â Wanda encouraged. âItâs much better than the dry biscuits we usually get. He even added a bit of honey to the jam to cut the salt.â
You tore off a piece, dipped it into the jam, and took a bite. It had a satisfying, golden crunch on the outside but remained soft and pillowy on the inside.
âMmm!â You beamed, eyes widening as you reached for another piece. âBobâthis is delicious! If youâve been cooking like this all this time, how havenât I had a taste until now?â
âItâs because you spend most of your free time with Sergeant Barnes rather than us,â Yelena teased, rolling her eyes, which earned her a sharp nudge in the shoulder from Wanda.
Across the kitchen, Bobâs ears turned a shade of pink that you noticed even from your seat.
âThank you,â he mumbled, keeping his focus fixed on the dough in front of him. âIâve been trying something new⌠so Iâm glad you like it.â
âAw, look at that,â Yelena teased, turning her entire body to stare at the baker. âYouâve got Bob all flustered now.â
John snickered, glancing at Bob, whose face only burned a deeper shade of red.
âCareful with that one, Bob,â he warned, pointing his whisk at you. âGetting too close to her will only get the kingdomâs mightiest soldierâs blade pressed against your throat.â
The entire kitchen barked in laughter at Johnâs comment. You should have been embarrassed by their relentless teasing, but instead, you just felt bad for Bob. The poor man was stammering in the corner, desperately trying to dismiss the attention.
âHey now,â you called out, focaccia crumbs still clinging to your lips. âDonât tease the guy. Heâs the only one keeping you all fed.â
Laughter still hung in the air, and for a few minutesâaway from the pressure of your choresâyou were all just a group of friends rather than a squadron of dirty servants.
The enjoyment continued until the melodic tolling of the courtyard bells rang out. In an instant, as if a switch had flipped inside everyoneâs head, the boisterous noise died. Everyone scrambled to their feet to collect themselves.
âThe promenade is over,â Natasha said, setting her cider down and wiping her hands on her apron. âBack upstairs, girls. Princess Daphne will be expecting us.â
âI didnât even finish my loaf!â Yelenaâs complaints were ignored by everyone else as they hurried toward the doors.
Wanda stood up, giving your arm a gentle squeeze. âThe Princess will likely want a bath and a change of clothes immediately. Go onâIâll change her sheets so theyâre ready for her to lie down.â
You swallowed your barely chewed bite in one hard gulp. âRight. Iâm going.â
On your way to greet the Princess, you collected a set of freshly pressed towels along with various soaps and aromatic oils for her bath.
You scrambled up several flights of stairs, lungs burning, hoping to reach her chambers before she did.
With your heart beating wildly in your eardrums, you rounded the corner and stopped short.
Princess Daphne was already lingering at the entrance of her bedroom, but she wasnât alone.
Bucky was standing right beside her.
And against your better judgment, you pressed yourself into the shadows of the wall, gripping the wicker basket tight as you listened in.
âMy knightly duties do not require me to escort you all the way to your chambers, Your Royal Highness,â Bucky said, his tone formal and polite.
Princess Daphne giggled, pressing a gloved hand to her mouth as she flushed beneath the knightâs gaze.
âPlease, when it is just us, you must call me Daphne,â she sighed, her voice drifting into something dreamlike. âJust as I shall call you Bucky.â
You felt your heart drop.
As far as you knew, you were the only one who called him Bucky. It was a name he had reserved for the people closest to him. You knew he had served the palace long before you arrived, but the reminder of the closeness he shared with her was a sting that never failed to make your heart ache.
âThank you for accompanying me on my stroll through town, Bucky,â Princess Daphne continued, as you winced from behind the corner.
âOf course,â Bucky nodded politely. âWith the rising tensions against the Sokovians, it is my duty to put your safety above all else.â
âYou always make the gloomy days brighter and the dangers feel so much smaller,â she smiled.
âI am glad to hear that, Your Royal Highness,â Bucky hummed, his gaze flickering to the door of her bedchambers. âShall I take my leave, then?â
The Princess frowned, her expression turning pouty. âI told you to call me Daphne.â She looked around with a sigh. âAnd no needâit seems my maidservant has yet to arriveââ
Your feet moved before you could think, and you rounded the corner, acting as if you had just arrived and hadnât been eavesdropping the entire time.
âI apologize for the wait, Your Royal Highness,â you said, bowing politely with the basket still in your hands. âI made sure the towels were freshly warmed for your arrival. I can prepare your bath right away, if youâre ready.â
Bucky turned toward you, his eyes widening slightly in surprise.
âOh,â Princess Daphne was surprised, her hands folding primly at the front of her dress. âI would like that very much.â
You stood there for a moment with a polite, awkward smile, waiting for the Princess to grant you permission to enter, but she didnât.
So instead, the three of you remained in a tense, silent standoff.
Buckyâs eyes were fixed on you. His posture was stiff, his gloved hands tightening at his sides as if he were fighting the urge to reach out.
Princess Daphne cleared her throat, glancing at Bucky. âYou are dismissed, Sergeant Barnes.â
He didnât reply immediatelyânot until the Princess called for him once more, her voice sharper this time. âSergeant?â
âI⌠my apologies,â Bucky said, finally turning to face her. He bowed low. âYour Royal Highness.â
He glanced at you, offering nothing more than a short, professional nod. For someone of his rank, it wasnât customary to acknowledge a maidservant, but as he walked past you, you felt the subtle, intentional graze of his glove against your skirt.
The ghost of his touch made the hair on your arms stand up.
âThe bath, then?â Princess Daphne spoke up, snapping you back to attention.
âYesâof course, Your Royal Highness,â you stammered, scrambling to recover your composure.
You pushed into her bedchambers and moved toward the bathing area, immediately drawing the steaming water.
The Princess followed close behind, peeling off her silk gloves. She didnât wait for you to ask about her day, as she was already glowing with excitement to recount her afternoon.
âHe truly is a marvel, isnât he?â she sighed, watching the water swirl into the marble basin. âThe way the villagers part for himâhe has such a presence. Or perhaps it was simply because he was standing beside me. And yet, he was so attentive today. He held my parasol the entire time we crossed the market square without me even having to ask.â
You kept your back to her, focusing on the steam radiating off the tub as your jaw clenched at the image.
âHe is a man very dedicated to his duties, My Lady,â you managed to say.
âItâs more than duty,â she countered, her voice drifting into a dreamy haze. âWhen we stopped by the fountain, he told me that my safety was the only thing on his mind.â
Steam continued to fill the room as the tub rose with nearly scorching water.
You knew, deep down, that Bucky only said those things because it was his jobâjust as your job was to nod and smile at every word the Princess spoke. But a selfish part of you was seething with jealousy at the thought of anyone else walking by his side.
âDo you think he finds me charming?â
Your eyes widened and the vial of bath oil slipped from your hand, splashing more of the aroma into the water than intended. You turned to look at her, the word âIââ dying on your lips.
âItâs so hard to tell with men like him,â she continued, unlacing her bodice with a sigh. âSo stoic. So guarded. But I saw the way he looked at me today!â
There was so much you wanted to say, but the words withered at the sight of her.
Having served her for so long, she had grown comfortable being nearly bare in your presence. As she let her hair fallâthe silky blonde locks you had pinned so carefully earlierâher slender, graceful frame made your heart ache.
She was so beautiful, and standing in the same room as someone as beautiful as Princess Daphne felt like a cruel insult to your own heart.
But that was okay, because you would see him tonight. Unlike Princess Daphne, you would see the real version of himâthe version of Bucky who gave you nothing but his warmth and his heart.
So, until then, you simply bit your tongue and nodded with a hollow smile.
âIt is impossible not to find you charming, Your Royal Highness.â
The night crept on, and while the other maidservants were long asleep, you slipped out of the bedchambers. With quiet, tiptoeing steps, you made your way down the stairs and snuck out the back of the palace toward the gazebo where you and Bucky had agreed to meet.
The night air was cold and breezy, the shawl around your shoulders fluttering in the wind as you treaded through the grass.
Bucky was rightâno guards were posted on this side of the palace.
As you sat down, your eyes drifted to the left. Tucked away behind the trees and bushes stood the small cabin where the kitchen crew rested. The lights were out, meaning the cooks were likely all in bed.
While you waited, the only things keeping you company were the hooting of owls and the gentle chirping of crickets.
By now, it was well past midnight, and your earlier excitement was slowly fading into exhaustion.
You found yourself yawning every few seconds, your eyelids growing heavier with each passing minute.
Had Bucky been caught up in other duties?
Had he forgotten?
Or worseâwas everything Princess Daphne said true?
Had he realized his heart belonged elsewhere?
An hour had passed, and your heart began to ache the longer you sat alone without a trace of him.
You knew you had to be up early for your morning duties, so with a tired sigh, you pushed yourself off the bench and pulled your shawl tight.
As you stepped down from the gazebo, the sound of crunching grass echoed in the distance. Your eyes snapped open, your heart leaping at the possibility of him finally appearing.
But as the figure stepped into the faint, warm light of the gazebo, your shoulders deflated.
âBob?â you asked, your voice sounding more disappointed than you intended. âWhat are you doing out here?â
Bob blinked, looking just as confused as you were. âI stayed behind in the kitchen,â he said, hitching a thumb over his shoulder. âI wanted to perfect the focaccia.â He lifted the loaf, which was carefully wrapped in a white cloth.
He stepped closer into the light, his eyes trailing you up and down. He took note of your thin sleeping gown with nothing but a flimsy shawl to cover the rest of you. Your face warmed in embarrassment as you wrapped the shawl tighter around you, though it salvaged nothing.
âWhat are you doing out here?â Bob returned the question.
âIâm⌠umâwaiting for someone,â you replied meekly.
Bob glanced around, the crickets filling in the already awkward and suffocating silence when he found no one else near.
â⌠For how long?â
âI havenât been out here long,â you lied, only finding yourself more embarrassed being caught in this predicament. âI was just starting to head back, actually.â
Bob pressed his lips together as if he wanted to say something. He knew you werenât telling the truth, and any worker within the palace could piece two and two together.
Instead of leaving you be, he stepped up into the gazebo to meet you and lifted the loaf in his hands, changing the subject for your comfort.
âI think this is the best loaf Iâve made,â he said, unwrapping the cloth and revealing the gold-crusted focaccia with herbs laced at the top. âWant to share it with me?â
You looked back toward the palace. You really should have gone back inside, knowing just how early youâd have to rise in a few hours to tend to the Princess.
But at the thought of returning to your cold, lonely cot with nothing but the empty promise Bucky left behind, the warmth of a friend didnât sound bad at all.
âJust for a moment,â you whispered, and Bob smiled gently.
You sat back down on the wooden bench, and Bob settled beside you, careful to maintain a respectful distance. He carefully tore the focaccia in half, the crust crackling over the chirping of the crickets.
âHere,â he said softly, handing you the larger piece. âItâs still warm.â
You took the piece in your hands and bit into itâno jam this time, but the taste was even better than the one you had earlier that day in the kitchen.
It was delicious, and you didnât even need to shower him with compliments. The satisfied look on your face told Bob everything he needed to know. He smiled, his expression warming as he bit into his own piece.
For a moment, you two just sat there in silence. The only sounds were the crunching of bread and the wind rustling the leaves in the trees. Bob didnât push for answers or smother you with questions like the girls usually did back in your chambers.
You two just sat there, enjoying each otherâs company under the stars.
âYouâre an incredible cook, Bob,â you said, gazing up at the dark sky. âI wish people outside of the palace could taste thisâitâs exquisite.â
Bob wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his shoulders hunched modestly.
âI told myself that when the war is over, I want to open my own bakery one day.â He looked up at the sky with you. âItâs always been my dream.â
You glanced at Bob. He had such a faraway look in his eyes that your heart could only ache for him.
Sokovian soldiers had been sweeping through the streets, stripping people from their families and tearing down local businessesâwreaking havoc everywhere they went. For the lucky few handselected to work in the comfort of the palace, it was like a dream compared to the world outside.
But even though many workers had aspirations beyond these stone walls, they knew deep down that safety came before all else.
âWell, when you do open up your shop,â you said, nudging him in the shoulder with a reassuring smile, âIâll be the first one in line.â
Bob smiled at you. âWhat about you? What do you want to do when the war is over? Will you stay here at the palace?â
âDoes anyone actually want to stay at the palace?â you joked, and he chuckled softly.
âNo. I want what any other woman would want. I want to get married, have my own familyââ Your smile faded slightly at the thought. âMaybe a cottage somewhere deep in the forest, by a river. A place where my husband can go hunting while I stay home with the baby.â
But even if the war ended tomorrow, you knew that future was a ghost.
Even if everything went exactly as planned, the only person you could imagine sharing that life with was Buckyâand he was the Sergeant of the Howling Commandos. They were the elite, the knights specifically curated to guard and protect the royal family at all costs.
He could never leave his post, even if he wanted to.
Bob knew it, too. It was why he didnât press you with more questions. He simply rested a hand on your shoulder, offering a silent sympathy.
âIâm sorry,â he whispered.
You forced a smile. âItâs okay.â
Another silence settled between you, the crickets filling the space before Bob sucked in a breath to continue.
âI know you hear this plenty of times,â he started gently, âbut you deserve so much better thanââ
âHey!â
A rough voice shouted from across the yard, followed by the sound of heavy boots thumping frantically against the grass. Both of you snapped your heads up, and your breath hitched at the sight of Bucky.
He looked as though he hadnât slept in days.
He looked angry, his entire body tense, and his left handâthe cold metal of his prostheticârested firmly over the hilt of his sword.
Bob scrambled to his feet, hands raised in surrender to show he meant no harm. You quickly stood up beside him.
âJamesââ
âWhat the hell are you doing past your post at this hour?â Bucky seethed. He didnât even look at youâhis icy glare was focused entirely on Bob and Bob only.
âIâI was just about to head to bed, sir,â Bob stammered, his hands still raised. âI was just finishing up some work in the kitchen andââ
âBullshit,â Bucky spat, stepping into the faint light of the gazebo. âAll I see is a mere cook who has forgotten his placeâa foolish boy who thinks heâs entitled to roam the grounds after dark. Youâre a cook, Reynolds. Your duty begins and ends at the stove.â
You winced at his cruelty. You knew Bucky could be roughâit was how he had earned his rank, but Bob didnât deserve this.
âJames, calm downââ
âYou will not tell me to calm down, for you are interloping on palace grounds as well,â Bucky snapped, cutting you off so harshly that you flinched.
âI meant no disrespect, sir,â Bob whispered, his voice trembling.
âThen get out of my sight before I decide your presence here is a threat,â Bucky threatened, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. âBack to your hole, baker. Now.â
âY-yes, sir!â
Bob scrambled down the steps of the gazebo, sparing one last, sympathetic glance over his shoulder before retreating toward the dark cabins. Bucky watched him with a tense jaw, his face twisted in disdain until Bob reached the door and shut it behind him.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Bucky had never spoken to you like that.
Usually, your meetings were filled with the hushed, gentle tones he shared with no one else. But tonight, he spoke to you as if you were just another servantâand that hurt more than his shouting. Instead of running to him for a hug as you usually did, you stayed rooted to the floor of the gazebo, your body tense, unsure of what he would do next.
Bucky slowly turned back to you, his eyes piercing, cold, and completely unwelcoming.
He stepped fully into the gazebo, his gaze trailing down your thin nightgown before landing on the white cloth Bob had left behind on the bench. He picked it up slowly, examining it as if it were evidence of a crime.
âYou broke bread with the boy?â
You didnât dare to speak.
âAnswer me,â Bucky commanded.
âI waited for you,â you said instead, your voice trembling.
Bucky fell silent, the cloth in his hands lowering at your quiet admission. For a moment, it seemed as though he had been snapped out of his defensive daze, and you took the opportunity to continue.
âI waited for over an hour,â you said, wrapping the shawl tighter around your body defensively. âI have to rise in merely four hoursâyou know that. And yet...â Your voice started to shake, your face scrunching as you tried to will away tears. âYou stood me up.â
Bucky parted his lips to speak, but you breezed right through him.
âNot only thatâbut you treated Bob with such blatant disrespect! Heâs my friend, and he did nothing but keep me company and feed me!â
Buckyâs eyebrow twitched at that, his voice coming out pettier than he intended. âI didnât realize that kid was of such importance to you.â
You blinked, your face scrunching at his words. âDonât tell me,â you scoffed lightly in disbelief. âAre you jealous?â
He made a face. He could deny it all he wanted, but the way his jaw set told you the truth.
âI am many things,â he said stiffly. âBut jealous? I am not.â
You crossed your arms over your chest, shaking your head. âOh, Iâm sure.â
âAnd even if I was,â Bucky stepped closer, invading your space until he was looking down at you. You made no effort to move, standing your ground despite the height difference. âIs that so wrong?â
Your brows furrowed. âFunny for you to say. I heard you had an excellent time being out with the Princess today.â
Buckyâs face became a mask of confusion. âWhat?â
âAbout how charming you were,â you said with bitterness. âShe said you held her parasol and that you looked at her⌠differently.â
Bucky let out a dry, humorless rasp of a laugh, running his gloved right hand through his hair.
âLooking at her differently? Thatâs unbelievable,â he scoffed. âAnd you know it is my job to do as I am told.â He took another step, his shadow completely looming over you. âAnd charming, is it? What do you think? Am I charming?â
He was taunting you now, but you refused to let him distract you from the fact that he had stood you up.
âYouâre ridiculous, James,â you spat. Your hands tightened on your shawl as you tried to push past him, but he grabbed your arm firmly enough to hold you in place.
âWaitââ he sighed, his shoulders finally easing as the defensive walls came down. âIâm sorry. It was never my intention to stand you upâI swear it.â
He squeezed your arm gentlyâa silent plea for you to hear him out.
âI was with the General,â he spoke, his voice getting quieter. âThe meeting⌠it went on for hours. There were maps, ledgers, reports from the front. Itâs Sokovia. The news is bad, and the King is panicked.â
He met your eyes, and you could finally see the raw regret and exhaustion behind them. âThe Sokovian line is breaking through the southern pass. Itâs getting worse, and the General is scrambled. He spent three hours arguing over troop placements and supply routesâI⌠I couldnât just walk out.â
Bucky tugged on your arm gently, guiding you to face him. His left hand moved to your chin, his thumb stroking your cheek to keep your focus on him as he explained.
âI was supposed to leave tonight. Right after the meeting adjourned, I was ordered on a scouting mission to the front lines. I wouldnât have even had time to find you to say goodbye.â
Bucky was leaving?
You sucked in a sharp breath, a wave of regret washing over you for being so quick with your accusations.
âBut⌠youâre still here,â you whispered, your eyes searching his.
âI am,â he nodded, tilting his head down to stay in your line of sight. âRogers and Wilson⌠they volunteered to take the mission in my stead. Theyâre out there right now, just so I could be hereâwith you.â
Buckyâs hands trailed from your face down to your arms, eventually finding your hands and cradling them in his larger palms. He brought your hands up to his face and leaned down, pressing soft, gentle kisses to your knuckles.
âThere is never a moment where Iâm not thinking of you, and Godâthe thought of you waiting for me this entire time⌠I canât even fathom it,â his voice broke as he pressed another kiss to your skin, looking up at you through his lashes. âI swear to youâI would never leave you alone.â
He stood tall again, releasing one of your hands while his other crept up to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck. He tilted your head back slightly, holding your gaze under the dim gazebo light.
âAnd as for that outburst earlierâŚâ He exhaled, the sharp edges of his pride finally softening into embarrassment. âIâm sorry. Iâve been on edge, is all. I never meant to take it out on you, my dear.â
Bucky didnât wait for verbal forgivenessâhe took it from the silence and the way you gazed up at him, your eyes softening in the moonlight.
He leaned in, his breath warm against your chilled skin before his lips finally met yours. It was a soft, yet desperate press, a low groan escaping him at the feeling of your warmth against his own.
When he pulled back, it was only to pepper kisses across your forehead, his eyes closed tight as if he were memorizing every inch of you.
âYou are a sight for sore eyes,â he murmured against your skin, his voice a gravelly, broken thing.
He kissed your temple, then the tip of your nose, his hands sliding from your hair down to the small of your back to pull you flush against his chest, you shivered from the cold armor. âA beautiful, beautiful sight.â
You sighed softly, your body unable to help but crave his touchâto crave him.
And all Bucky wanted to do was make love to you.
He stepped back, his eyes never leaving yours as he began to remove his armor pieces one by one. You moved to take your shawl off, setting it on the bench behind you as you reached for the straps of your dress.
âNo,â Bucky cut you off coldly. âKeep it on. I want to tear through it myself.â
You swallowed hard, your face warming as you obeyed. You stood there, watching him as he watched you with hungry eyes. As he stripped away the layers of leather and steel, his breathing grew heavier. When he reached his belt, his fingers fumbled clumsily for a moment before he stepped back into your space.
He closed the distance again, his lips trailing down the line of your jaw to the sensitive skin of your neck. You let out a shaky breath, your head tilting back to give him better access as his mouth explored you.
âIâve missed you,â he mumbled, the words muffled against your throat. He began to suckle gently, marking you between words. âGod, Iâve missed you so much it hurts.â
âIâve missed you so much too, Bucky,â you moaned softly. âSo much.â
Bucky groaned against your skin, satisfied by your confession as his touches grew needier. His metal hand trembled slightly as it gripped your waist, pulling you so close there wasnât any space left between you.
He whispered sweet nothings into the crook of your neck, each sentence making you writhe beneath him. âYou smell so good.â âYouâre so soft.â âSo pretty.â
Buckyâs hands were everywhere all at once, a contrast of heat and cold as he explored the curves he had spent all day dreaming about. His flesh hand groped at your hip while his metal fingers seared through the thin fabric of your nightgown, mapping out the expanse of your lower back.
âIâm sorry,â he rasped against your ear. âIâm so sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. Iâm going to make it up to you. I promise.â
Your heart raced as his lips found yours again. His tongue pushed past, sweeping against yours as he kissed you hungrily.
Now stripped of his armor, Bucky pressed his hips forward, and you gasped softly at the feel of himâhis cock, thick and hard, straining against his pants as it poked against your lower belly.
Your body already felt so empty without him. There was a building ache between your legs that only he could remedy.
âBucky,â you sighed softly against his mouth. âI need you.â
âI know, my dear,â Bucky groaned, rolling his hips against your stomach once more, letting you feel just how hard he was for you. âYou donât know how badly I needed you today.â
His hands wandered down to grope your bottom through your dress, bunching the fabric in his fists as he lifted it up past the curve of your ass to squeeze you more.
âMissed your legs wrapped tight around me,â he breathed. âMissed you moaning my name.â
Bucky couldnât wait any longer.
His strong arms wrapped tight around your body, picking you up and laying you gently on the floor of the gazebo. He spread your legs, nestling himself between them. With a rough hand, he found the hem of your skirt and lifted it past your thighs, exposing your undergarments. He impatiently found the waistband, tugging them down roughly past your legs to expose you to the cool night air and his hungry gaze.
âFuck,â he muttered, his tongue darting out to wet his lips at the sight of your glistening cuntâalready puffy and begging for him, and he hadnât even put it in yet.
âShe missed me, hasnât she?â he hummed, staring at your pussy as he began palming himself over his pants. He felt pre-cum trickle at the tip, staining the front of his trousers. âBet I can just slide in so easily. She wouldnât even put up a fight.â
You watched, breathless, as Bucky pulled himself out of his pants. His cock sprang forth, so thick and so heavy, as pre-cum dripped from the tip and onto the floor.
âChrist,â you said, voicing your thoughts out loud.
Bucky grinned, his flesh hand gripping the shaft as he pumped himself slow and steady. âWhen was the last time we fucked, sweetheart?â
You swallowed hard, trying to mask your embarrassment at his vulgar words. âI⌠I donât know. Nine⌠ten days ago?â
Bucky hummed. âHavenât fucked you for a little over a week and youâre already seeking attention from other men, arenât you?â
Your eyes widened at his words, and you couldnât help a small, huffing laugh. He really was jealousâand that jealousy only seemed to spur him on, because his cock twitched in his hand as he stroked himself.
âGotta claim you again,â he mumbled so quietly, it was like he was speaking to himself. âGotta remind you who you belong to.â
With his metal hand bracing his weight over you, he rubbed his cock up and down your cunt, soaking himself in your juices. Your back arched off the floor, your hips wiggling for more of him, but Bucky only clicked his tongue.
âWhat an eager little thing,â he taunted.
âBucky,â you whined, wiggling your hips until your entrance caught his tip. âPl-please...â
Bucky groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt your warm, wet opening catch around his sensitive tip.
He was so hard it was nearly painful. He had planned to take his time and savor this momentâbut with the war in the back of his mind, he felt a desperate, driving need to fuck you as hard and as much as he could while he was still alive.
With a low growl, his hand found the back of your thigh, hiking it up and spreading you wide. With half of his tip already inside, he adjusted himself so he could sink even deeper.
âGoddamn,â he breathed, his muscles straining with the effort it took not to fuck you into the floor right then and there. âJust as I thoughtâso fucking wet⌠can just⌠slide right in.â
You hissed, your hands finding Buckyâs broad, bare back and clawing at the muscle as his thick cock stretched you out with each passing thrust. You could feel him throbbing deep inside youâsearingly hot as your cunt welcomed him.
âMine,â Bucky gritted through clenched teeth as you bottomed out against his pelvis, sheathing him completely.
To him, the feeling of your pussy was like a much needed, warm, tight hug after a long, stressful day.
âTen days,â he breathed against your ear. âTen fucking daysâdonât think Iâm gonna last long inside you, baby.â
âDonât care,â you mumbled, wrapping your legs tight around his waist. âI just want to feel you, Bucky. Every inch of you.â
Bucky groaned, his flesh hand sliding up to your neck and applying pressure. He held your gaze, his eyes dark and blown out with lust, as he began rocking his hips back and forth. He moved slowly and sensually, forcing you to feel every swollen pulsing ridge and vein.
The sound of your pussy squelching around him filled the quiet gazebo. The mating press position made you feel utterly helplessâcompletely and devastingly stuffed.
âOh myâBuck, too⌠too much.â
âToo much?â he repeated raspily, staring deep into your eyes as he continued to fuck you slow. âBut sweetheart, this is me taking my time with you. Youâve taken harder.â
âI know,â you winced, your legs squeezing him tighter. âItâs just been⌠ten daysââ
âTen days and youâve already gotten so tight for me again,â he murmured, his pace increasing. âMeans you haven't been fucking anyone else.â
Your face burned as you stammered, âOf course notââ
The words that left your lips made Buckyâs heart soar and his cock pulse.
With a sharp exhale, he increased the pace. His thrusts slapped harder and deeper, making you bounce against the floor as you clung to him. The wet, vulgar sound of his skin hitting yours echoed under the gazebo roof, a testament to his hunger for you.
Bucky looked down at you, taking in the sight of your dress hiked up and ruined, your hair fanned out across the floor. You looked so beautifully destroyed, and something in him only wanted to ruin you more.
âJesus,â he muttered, his blue eyes trailing down to where your bare hips tilted to meet him. He watched in awe as his cock disappeared in and out of you, his shaft slick.
âYou look so good like this,â he rasped, his metal hand digging into your thigh to spread you even wider. âSprawled out for me. Mine. Just mine.â
Bucky leaned in, his teeth grazing your exposed shoulder as his movements became sloppier and uneven.
âSeeing you like this always makes it so damn hard to leave,â he rasped against you, his balls growing heavier with each thrust. âMakes me want to do things to make sure you stay.â
You were a babbling mess beneath him, your voice reduced to broken sobs and incoherent pleas. You couldnât even form words anymore, just soft, high pitched whimpers that only made Buckyâs grip on you tighten.
âI want to breed you,â Bucky confessed shamelessly. âWanna give you a piece of meâso when Iâm out there fighting, or when youâre away from me, youâll still have me. I want to pump you so full that youâll always be carrying a part of me.â
You body clenched at the implication of his words. He groaned at your tightness, gritting his teeth as he continued.
âNeed toâŚâ Bucky thrust deep, âpump you fullâŚâ He felt his balls growing tighter, felt himself getting closer. âGoing to have to make you my girl for good.â
Your eyes rolled back as Bucky used your body for his pleasure. He was so much bigger than you, so much stronger, and all you could do was be the woman he needed as he fucked himself into you. You moaned, your body getting wetter and tighter as you felt yourself getting close.
The gazebo and the starlit sky above started to blur as tears prickled your eyes from the overwhelming sensation of being fucked.
âYou like that?â Bucky breathed warmly against your skin. âYou like the idea of being full of me? Of my own seed... dripping down your pretty legs?â
Your head was spinning as you nodded frantically.
âYes!â you cried out. âYes, Buckyâplease! Iâm yours⌠all yoursâI want to be full of you!â
âFuck,â Bucky moaned. With your hands still tight around his shoulders, he circled both his arms around your waist, lifting you from the ground and pulling you flush against his chest.
He repositioned you until you were straddling his lap, held aloft by his strength alone. Buckyâs arms wrapped tight around your bodyâthe scent of sweat and sex mingling as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.
âBounce on it, baby,â he muttered roughly. âFuckâbounce on me âtil I cum.â
Your fingers laced through his long, dark hair, giving it a tug as you fucked yourself down onto his cock.
Bucky groaned, his head pressing into your shoulder as his hands moved from your waist to your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin to help guide your rhythm. Every time you moved down, he met you with a hard thrust upward that sent sparks through your body.
âThatâs it, sweetheart,â he rasped, his eyes fluttering shut as you began to quiver and squeeze around him. âJust like that.â
âBucky⌠IâmâIâm going toââ
âI know, baby,â he rasped, holding you tighter against his chest. âIâve got you. Iâm not going anywhere.â
Iâm not going anywhere.
âD-donât go,â you whimpered against him, your body tightening as you clenched around his cock, letting yourself unravel all over him.
Bucky growled, low and deep in his throat, as his arms pinned you tight against his chest. With one last rough thrust deep into your cunt, he finally broke.
Thick spurts of cum surged from him as he began pumping you full. He slowly rocked his hips in gentle motions, letting his seed settle and mix inside the heat of your body.
âGood girl,â he praised with a gravelly rasp. âMy sweet, precious girl.â
You let yourself melt into his touch as you two fought to catch your breaths.
Still perched on his lap, you felt him nuzzle his face into your chest, his hands roaming your back gently, mapping every inch of you as he came down from his high.
âSo perfect,â he mumbled.
You looked down at him through your lashes, and the sight of him made your heart ache. You wanted to stay like this foreverâwith Bucky always by your side, holding you and making sweet love to you while he praised you with gentle words you wouldnât want to hear from anyone else.
He told you he wasnât going anywhere in the heat of the moment, but even you knew he could only mean so much.
âI donât want you to go,â you said, your voice broken as you were reminded of his duties after tonight. âPlease, just stay with me.â
Bucky let out a long, heavy sigh, his grip on you softening tenderly. He pulled back slightly to look at you, his thumb gently brushing away the sweaty strands of hair that clung to your face.
He didnât pull out, he stayed joined to you, his cock still half hard and soft inside, wanting to keep that connection for as long as the world would allow.
âI know, sweetheart,â he whispered. âI know.â
He began to press soft kisses all over your faceâ your damp forehead, your cheeks, and your lips.
The reality was that after tonight, Bucky would have to be posted at the front lines along with his comrades, Steve and Sam. He would have to ready his blade, preparing for war at any given moment to lay his life down for a royal family instead of living on for the woman he loves.
But instead of letting that feeling take over, he gently pushed your hair back, looking deep into your eyes.
âRight now, letâs just enjoy the moment,â Bucky murmured gently, caressing your cheeks. âMe and youâweâre together now, and thatâs all we can ask for, right?â
He spoke so soft, but you knew deep down he was feeling that hurt just as much as you were. You nodded, forcing a shaky smile despite the tears that threatened to escape.
âRight,â you whimpered.
âDonât cry,â Bucky sighed softly, his thumb coming up to wipe the tear that spilled anyway, before leaning in to press another kiss to your lips. âIâm right here, baby. Right here.â
The sounds of crickets, soft breathing, and the gentle rustle of leaves filled the gazebo as you two held each other. His hands trailed down to your waist, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over the fabric of your crinkled nightgown.
âWhen the war is over,â you brought up carefully and quietly. âDo you think weâll have a chance to be together?â
Bucky went still for a moment before a small, hopeful smile tugged at his lipsâhe didnât have high hopes at all, but the smile you returned meant it was enough to reassure you.
âIn a perfect world, where there is no war and no duties to bind us separately, Iâll always choose you.â
The sun that rose the next morning was the brightest it had ever been that month.
You found yourself in a happier mood, and everyone around you could tell.
âWhatâs she smiling about over there?â Wanda asked as she folded freshly washed white cloth.
âWhat do you think?â Natasha grinned, watching out of the corner of her eye as you hummed to yourself, handwashing towels.
âSheâd usually be complaining about her back by now,â Yelena chimed in. âBut sheâs just singing to herself like some mentally derangedââ
âI can hear you all, you know,â you said over your shoulder without looking back. You pushed off your seat with a groan, stretching before you lifted the bucket of dirty water in your hands.
âIâm going to dump this outside,â you announced to the rest of the group. âMaybe bask in the sun for a bitâwho knows. Itâs a pretty day.â
âOkay, but donât be long,â Natasha called out as she pushed the tower of folded clothes to the side to work on the next batch. âWe have a lot to do today.â
âI wonât,â you reassured as you pushed the door open with your back, heading out of the cleaning chambers and into the warm sunlight.
As you dumped the water out onto the grass, birds chirped and the trees rustled gently in the spring breeze. Bucky was out there, somewhere, huddled in formation with the other knights as they scouted south of the kingdom.
After last night, Bucky had told you how he and the others had a mission that required them to be on their horses before sunrise. But later that night, he would meet you at the gazebo again.
He was the kingdomâs strongest soldier, and you knew he was more than capable of taking care of himself. But every time Bucky was out on a mission, you couldnât help but pray for his safety.
You always hoped that he would return home without a scratch, falling back into your arms once again.
You gathered the empty, damp bucket and reached for the door, but you stopped short at the sound of horns blaring from the top of the guard posts.
Your head snapped up immediately at the unexpected sound.
Was this a drill?
The kingdom hadnât made any announcements for a drill todayâunless you had missed it?
As you raised your hand to shield your eyes, squinting past the sun, you saw the frantic movement of the soldiers at the top of the towers. The distant shouting was getting louder, and you watched in confusion as they began to ready their crossbows.
âSokovian flags on the horizon!â
âSoldiers are pushing back from the southern bridge!â
âAlert the town! Citizens to the shelters! Get down!â
Your ears rang as everyone around you scattered in a frantic, panicked hurry. The horns continued to blare, crying out a symphony of war and ruin. Palace workers ran around, bumping into you as they retreated toward the safety of the cleaning rooms you had just stepped out of.
You knew you should run. You should follow them into the dark, stone safety of the cellars.
But the only thing you can think of was the southern bridge.
That was exactly where Bucky was stationed.
A hand clamped onto your arm, making you wince and snapping you out of your haze.
âAre you trying to get killed?â she hissed over the bustle of the crowd. Natasha yanked you backward, dragging you into the sanctuary of the cleaning chambers.
Inside, the room was unrecognizable. The neat stacks of folded white linens had been toppled and trampled underfoot. Buckets were overturned, soapy water slicking the floor as servants and workers scrambled toward the trapdoor leading to the deep cellars.
âOh my god,â you breathed. âHowââ
âTheyâre saying theyâve already made it inside,â Natasha yelled over the noise. âSokovian spies were already within the kingdom just yesterdayâsoldiers are barging right into the palace as we speak.â
You felt your blood run cold.
Sokovian soldiers were already threatening to tear down the palace, and the kingdomâs strongest soldier wasnât there to protect it.
âWhere are the others? Yelena? Wanda? Bobââ
Natasha led you toward the trap door, cutting you off. âTheyâre already insideââ
The doors of the cleaning chamber shattered inward before she could even finish.
Sokovian soldiers stomped through, their armor dark and their weapons already leveled. âClear the room!â one of them shouted, and before you knew it, the sharp crack of muskets and the whistle of crossbow bolts filled the air, splintering the wooden tables around you as the others screamed.
âDown!â Natasha screamed, shoving you to the floor as a projectile embedded itself in the wall where your head had been seconds before.
âTo the back doors,â you hissed at her, pointing behind her. âQuick!â
She nodded, ducking behind you as you both scrambled for the exit. You burst out into the rear garden, the air already suffocating with smoke from gunshots and the sounds of people shouting over one another.
âThe grapevines,â you shouted, pointing to the heavy wooden trellis that led to the outer wall. âWe can climb over and reach the forest. The trees are thick enough to give us coverââ
Natasha didnât let you finish before she grabbed your arm, already running in the direction you had pointed. âLetâs go, then!â
As you ran, a sharp crack sounded from your right. Natasha let out a choked gasp, her body crumpling as her leg buckled and blood blossomed through her skirt.
âNat!â
You turned back, reaching out to grab her arm, but the world suddenly turned into a blinding flash of white.
A cannonball screamed through the air, striking the stone archway just above you. The impact was nearly enough to deafen youâa force strong enough to throw you backward.
You hit the ground hard, the air driven from your lungs.
Everything went silent, replaced by a high pitched ringing in your ears that drowned out the war. Dust and debris rained down, coating your tongue in grit and stinging your eyes. Through the haze of gray smoke and broken stone, you tried to move, but your limbs felt heavy.
You felt yourself deteriorating, the sounds fading in and out as your vision began to blur.
A concussion set in, your head aching and your body going numb while the world around you began to crumple and fall apart.
âGet the Princess to safety!â the kingdomâs soldiers shouted over the noise. âGo, Sergeant!â
Your head throbbed with an ache as you craned your neck, struggling to see the what was unraveling in front of you.
Through the thick dust, a familiar silhouette broke through the haze.
It was Buckyâhis armor and silver blade flashing through the smoke. Following close behind him, a figure huddled low â the Princess, disguised under a dirty, oversized cowl to conceal her identity.
Ah, there he was.
Your heart thumped weakly in your chest as a strange, hollow peace settled over you.
Bucky was alive. Your Bucky.
He was alive, and he was protecting the princess.
You smiled faintly, and though your heart ached to reach for him, you knew it was futile. You couldnât even feel your legs anymore, pinned beneath the heavy stone debris. The blood pooling around you was enough to tell you that the end was near.
But at the very least, in this moment as the war claimed you, you knew the person you loved was still standing.
And that was all that mattered.
In the chaos, amidst the smoke and the screaming, Bucky caught sight of you out of the corner of his eye.
His entire body froze. The soldier who never hesitated, the very man who served as the kingdomâs ultimate sword and shield, went completely still.
His blue eyes widened, locking onto your broken form, taking in the blood, the dust, and the way you struggled to even lift your head.
Any other soldier would have seen your body and deemed it a lost cause, a life not worth the delay. But for Bucky, every duty was forgotten as his feet began to moveâaway from the Princess, and toward you.
âSergeant Barnes! What the hell are you doing? Get back in formation!â
âBarnes! Get over here! Protect the Princess!â
âThe Princess is exposed! Cover!â
âBarnes!â
Several commanding voices roared after him, but Bucky didnât look back. He didnât care about the crown or the certain court martial that awaited him, or even the noose.
All he cared about was you.
Heavy footsteps thundered near your head, and for a moment, you feared it was a Sokovian guard coming to finish the job. They dropped to their knees beside you, and trembling hands cradled your neck to lift you up.
âNo, no, no,â it was Bucky who rasped, his voice frantic as he wiped the dirt from your face. âHey⌠hey, look at me. Open your eyes, sweetheart. Itâs meâstay with me. Come on, stay with me.â
You tried to speak, but all that emerged was a soft, wet cough.
His thumb brushed the dust from your cheek, leaving streaks in its wake, while his blue eyes searched yours for any sign that you were still there.
âBuckyâŚâ you whispered, the sound barely audible over the roar of the nearby fire.
âIâve got you,â he choked out, leaning his forehead against yours. He ignored the shouting soldiers and the Sokovian arrows whistling overhead. âIâm right here. Iâm not going anywhereâyou have to stay. You have to stay awake for me.â
He began to pull at the debris with a desperate strength, refusing to let the world take the only thing he cared about.
âI canâtâI canât move my legs,â you choked out, your body feeling useless as he tried to lift you.
He was finally able to pull you free and cradle you in his arms, lifting you bridal style as he ran. You didnât know where he was going, nor did you care. All that mattered was being here, held by the person you loved most.
âJust stay awake, okay? Promise me youâll stay awake.â
âBuckyââ
âWeâll get you somewhere safeâI swear itââ
âBucky,â you tried again, your voice a soft, fragile thread.
As he ran, Bucky tilted his head down to glance at you, his eyes searching yours to make sure you were still there.
âI love you,â you whispered suddenly.
Buckyâs stride faltered for just a moment as a choked, broken sound escaped his throat.
For a second, the face of the stoic soldier crumbled, and his eyes grew glossy with tears that threatened to spill over. But he forced his jaw to tightenâforced himself to get back into that same resolve that kept him alive til now.
âNo,â he rasped, his voice hardening from vulnerability to a command. âDonât say that. Not yet. You donât get to say goodbye.â
He pushed himself faster, his boots skidding over the blood slicked stone of the courtyard as he dodged the falling debris of the palace.
âYou save that,â he muttered, his breath hitching as he ducked behind a crumbling stone pillar to avoid a spray of Sokovian arrows. âYou save those words for when weâre back at the gazeboâyou save them for when the sun is up and there isnât a drop of blood on this grass. Do you hear me?â
He looked down at you again, anticipating a responseâanything to show that you were still aliveâbut your breathing was growing labored in his grip.
âIâm not letting you go,â he promised. âYou hold on to me, and donât you dare close those eyes.â
Bucky continued to run, and the world around you was nothing but a darkened blur.
The sounds started to grow distant, and in this moment, even on the verge of death, at least you were held by Bucky once more.
Bucky kept his promiseâand more.
Even in a world that wasnât perfect, bound by duties that often kept you both far apart, in the end, he would always choose you.
thank you to the anon for that lovely request and for entrusting me to write it. if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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âŚsummary: You know Steve doesn't see you like that. You know because you asked him, and he said no. So it's not really fair, that he'd reject you and keep making you love him after, is it. âŚ
âŚwarnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, modern!au, no use of y/n, pining, rejection (at the start, off page, and steve's a liar about it), no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dry humping, teasing, making steve lose control, fingering, light spanking, praise kink, manhandling, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smutâŚ
âŚwc: 10.9kâŚ
âŚAuthor's Note: this one hit ME too hard bc i based it on real life too much. oops. all the better for the horny ig. Enjoy!âŚ
Youâre not looking for him in the crowd. And if anyone says you are, theyâre a big, fat liar.
Active scanning is not looking. Itâs a part of the job, to see whoâs here. What kind of interviews youâre going to be able to get, whoâs already closing in on who, whoâs snuggled up and gossiping and might not notice you eavesdropping. If youâre smart about thisâand you always areâyouâre going to walk away from tonight with a comment from Secretary Ross, Pepper Potts, or even an Avenger themselves.
But not him.
You have no interest in walking away with a comment from him.
âTheyâre here.â Your coworker Stacy bumps your shoulders, her eyes wide and fixed across the room. âHoly shit, theyâre actually here-â
âItâs their fundraiser.â You mutter, keeping your attention on a senator bumbling about near the drinks. âIt would be crazy if they werenât here.â
âYeah, but- Itâs all of them. Iâve never seen all of them-â
âYes, you have.â
Stacy glares at you. âWell, not so close.â
You glance over, pointedly only looking at their feet. âTheyâre not that close.â
âI could touch one.â Stacy breathes, and you snort.
âYou should go try that.â
That earns you another glare, and a smack on the arm. And you deserve it, but you just laugh and look back to your target. The tipsy, red-eyed senator whoâs going to have a few more drinks, and tells you all about that bill congress is trying to pass about the Enhanced. Youâve read it three times, and itâs a disgusting invasion of privacy, but those documents were off the record. If you can get a Senator, talking about how he wants to force all superheroes to either be sterilized or record their sex lives-
Stacy pinches your arm, and you squeak so loudly it echoes off the domed, ballroom ceiling. Some attention darts in your direction, but everyone quickly loses interest when they realize itâs nothing all that interesting. Your face is burning as you smooth your dress, and it doesnât stop burning. It feels like someone is tending to the hot embarrassment, fluttering in your tummy and restless in your fingers. Like someone is looking right through you, monitoring you, watching you-
âHeâs looking at you.â Stacy hisses in your ear, buzzing with so much excitement youâre sure sheâs about to turn into glitter and explode like fireworks, and youâre going to throttle her.
âHe is now, because you,â you shove her shoulder. It doesnât do anything to stamp out her thrill at your worst nightmare. âFucking made him notice-â
âNo, he was looking before-â
âNo, he wasnât-â
âYes, he was-â
âNo, he wasnât-â
âWho wasnât what.â
You freeze, and Stacy looks over your head with a fawning, dazed expression. Youâre going to kill her. Youâre going to cut her up into tiny pieces and burn them all in separate furnaces, and then youâre going to steal her dog and make it forget all about her, and marry her husband and make her cute little kid your Cinderella as bloodline punishment-
âHi, Mr. Captain Sir.â She giggles, looking back down to you with a wide-eyed itâs him expression.
Iâm going to kill you. You mouth. She doesnât seem all that bothered by the threat.
âUh- Hi. You donât have to-â You hear him shift on his feet behind you. âSteve is alright.â
You can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, trying to look smaller. More humble and approachable, when heâs a modern walking Hercules. A better version, who doesnât kill his wife and kids. Who gets you drinks and tries to be your friend and is so stupidly polite and kind and you hate him, you hate him so much-
He says your name. You plaster on the widest, most plastic and sickly sweet smile you can manage. You want him to feel like youâre a bit of plastic thatâs stuck between his teeth. To give up talking to you, because itâs not fair.
Steveâs just as handsome as the last time you saw him. And the time before that. And the time before that. If anything, heâs more handsome. You donât know how he does it, changing absolutely nothing about his appearance and looking hotter every time you get eyes on him. His hair is styled the same as always, but it looks so soft. You could run your fingers through it and it would probably feel like a cloud. His stupid, sharp jawline is slack as you glare up at him, and heâs so tall it makes you dizzy, and heâs fixing you with that puppy look that makes you feel like youâre important to him.
And youâre not. You know youâre not.
You went down that road once. You tried to be important to him, and he said no. And heâs Steve, so he was sweet and perfectly kind about it, and still wanted to be your friend, and youâd thought you were already over it so youâd said yes.
You thought you could just be his friend. He hadnât made anything weird. Neither of you had ever even brought up your failed attempt to ask him out again. And at the time, youâd thought you were over it.
But Steve is Steve. And heâs got some titanic hold over your heart thatâs left finger marks dug in through the landscape. Thereâs a depression over the cavity of your chest, and your ribs have molded to fit it, and now itâs far too late to go back. You only know how to have feelings for him. Youâve tried to get over it. To ignore it. To forcibly re-mold your love into something platonic, or clawed your way through some relationships in the hope theyâd help you move on.
They donât. They wonât. Nothing can.
The big stupid boy-scout standing over you owns you completely, and you canât even tell him without making it a problem.
Your new strategy had been to ignore him. Stacy ruined that.
She thinks he secretly has feelings for you. You tune her out every time she starts to crow and preach about it, because you know your heart is going to take it as gospel and not parody, and you canât afford false faith. All you have is whatâs grounded between your fingers.
Steveâs right here. Heâs smiling at you, all pretty and nice, and you have to smile back or else it will make him feel bad. Heâs got a drink in his massive hand for you. Youâve had a million wet dreams about that hand around your throat or cupping your pussy.
Youâre aching thinking about it. In an ideal world, this would be the part where you ran without looking back.
In an ideal world, youâd be standing on his arm right now, instead of all stiff and weird in front of him.
You need to get a fucking grip.
âHi.â You say, and itâs sounds lame and idiotic and pathetic-
Steveâs face splits into a big, happy smile. âHi. Howâs the night going for you, do you have your victim picked out?â
You scowl. âItâs not- Theyâre not victims-â
âYou treat them like theyâre victims.â His grin widens. âSometimes I feel like I should be saving them.â
âTheyâre all fine. Itâs not like Iâm drugging them or something.â
Steveâs brows raise. âThat makes me think you are drugging them.â
âNuh uh.â You stick out your tongue, and he laughs under his breath.
âOne day youâre gonna say something that actually gets you in trouble, you know.â He holds out the drink he brought you.
Itâs your favorite. Itâs always your favorite.
You told him what your favorite drink was, the very first time you attended one of these parties. Heâs never forgotten since, and it makes you love and hate him all the more.
âI donât think I will.â You mumble, both trying and desperately failing not to brush his fingers. His skin is warm. Heâs warm. Heâs like a walking furnace, and youâd like to just bury your face in his pecs and breathe him in and-
âKid, you already have.â
Steve looks at you like youâre the only thing in the room. His eyes are sparkling, and in the background you think Natasha Romanoff is circling like a shark, trying to get his attention, but if he notices he pretends he doesnât. He just looks at you and calls you kid, and the word plummets like a cold stone into your gut.
Kid. Thatâs all you are to him. Kid.
âBut if I got in trouble, youâd save me.â You take a long sip of your drink, and you like to torture yourself.
With his presence. His closeness.
How fast he nods. How certainly he answers.
ââCourse I would. Already saving you by pretending I donât see you getting all those Senators drunk.â
You laugh softly, but the sound hurts. When you look over your shoulder, Stacyâs abandoned you for the food table. You catch her eye, and she shoots you an excited thumbs up. She probably thinks this is going great.
âAre you feeling alright?â Steve says suddenly, and he sounds like he really, really cares. âYou been looking kind of sick- Not that you look bad- You look good, uh- Really good, but-â
âIâm fine.â You turn back to Steve, and you wonder if he can see it.
The pain, leaking down like a toxin from your eyes. Everything kind of blurry. Youâd throw up, if you didnât think heâd take care of you after.
âEverythingâs fine.â
Steveâs lips twitch. Youâre not sure he believes you.
But it doesnât really matter anyway. Youâre not his to get an answer out of. He decided that.
And youâre just doing exactly what Steve wants, all the time.
âYou do look nice.â He mumbles, taking a sip of his own drink, as if it could even do anything to him.
You smile, and there it is again. The shameful, unrelenting heat in your stomach. âThanks.â
I dressed up for you.
âI think heâs in looove with you.â Stacy says, spinning around in her chair. You flip her off, not looking up from your computer.
âIs the printer out of paper still?â
âI donât know, you print everything for me.â She pokes your chair with her foot. âPay attention to me, I said Steveâs in love with you-â
âNo, heâs not.â
âYes, he is.â
âNo, heâs not-â
âYes, he is-â
âIs this the same thing you were fighting about last time?â Steveâs voice comes from over your shoulder, and you freeze. âOr is that just⌠How you two talk.â
Stacy looks awfully fucking pleased with herself for a dead woman. âItâs the same fight as last time.â
âOh.â He pauses. You can hear his concern, and it makes you want to vomit. âIs everything okay?â
âMhm.â Stacy beams. âHi, Steve.â
You glance up, and Steve looks properly bemused and adorable about her whole demeanor. It makes you want to hold his face and kiss the tiny, pouting frown off his lips. You smack yourself internally. Get it together.
âHi, Stacy.â
She almost glows. âYou remember my name?â
âYeah.â He glances down at you. âI try to remember most peopleâs names.â
Stacy swoons. âOf course you do.â
Steve blinks, and you clear your throat.
âWhat are you doing here?â
âUh-â He rubs the back of his neck, giving you a small smile. âLunch, remember? We planned it last week.â
Oh. You did do that. âI told you to wait outside, my boss is going to try to interview you-â
âOh, she already did.â He laughs. âBut Iâm here for you, not a front page.â
You flush, and Stacy giggles like sheâs watching TV.
âSoâŚâ Steve shrugs. âLunch?â
Right. Lunch.
âHowâd you even get in the building.â You grumble, grabbing your jacket as you stand. He shrugs sheepishly.
âI took a photo with the guards.â
âSteve, I told you to stop doing that-â
âIt made them really happy, okay? And I went through all the metal detectors, same as everyone else-â
âI know, but you hate taking the photos, you can tell them no.â
Steve frowns. âItâs not that big an inconvenience for me-â
âBut you hate it.â
âI donât hate it-â
âSteven Rogers.â
You glare at him, arms crossed over your chest. Steve sighs, slumping like a scolded child.
âI donât love them.â He mumbles, and you nod.
âNext time, tell them no.â
âBut then I canât come upstairs.â
You shrug, starting at the door, your shoulder bumping against his. âYou can text me. Like youâre supposed to-â
âOr I can just do the photos-â
âNo-â
âBye, guys.â Stacy calls from behind you, and you look her with wide eyes. Youâd forgotten she was there.
âUm⌠Bye.â You wave awkwardly, and she grins.
Heâs here for you. She mouths, and you roll your eyes.
No hope. It just makes everything else harder.
If Steve wanted you, heâd say something. And youâre a big girl. You can handle just being his friend, because he wonât leave you alone long enough for you to properly avoid him. You can handle it.
His hand finds your lower back, when he opens the door for you. You almost trip over your feet from the dizzying touch.
You canât handle this at all.
The most annoying part about having undying feelings for Steve Rogers is that itâs Steve Rogers. Captain America. Golden Boy Number One. Mr. Perfect Specimen.
Youâre in love with the little blond boy with abs and a dopey smile and sweet blue eyes. Youâre obsessed with Mr. Muscles. You lose sleep over the guy who looks like he could crush you in a headlock then kiss you to sleep after.
Incredibly original. Groundbreaking, even. The love of your life is the masculine celebrity whoâs respectful and kind. Never before heard of stuff. Youâre really shattering glass ceilings with that one.
You want to shoot yourself in the face.
Itâs impossible to avoid even thinking about him, when heâs everywhere. You go out to the corner store, and heâs on the little TV mounted in the corner. Avengers brand yogurts line the grocery store, and you glare at Strawberries and Cream and Justice until your head hurts. He told you about that. He was pretty proud of how all the proceeds were going to charities.
âItâs a stupid name, though.â Youâd said, and heâd shrugged.
âTony says the name doesnât matter, as long as itâs got our faces on it. Apparently thatâs what people are buying for.â
Heâd frowned at that, and youâd given him an affectionate smile. He hates the glory of all of this. You know he does, and youâd told him gently youâre sure people will also buy for charity.
Youâd been lying through your teeth, though. When you grab the yogurt and shamefully shove it into your basket, itâs not for cancer research or orphans or to save the bees. Itâs because Steveâs face is smiling at you from the plastic, and youâre no better than the fangirls who get all doe-eyed over his every breath.
Not that youâre much better about that, either.
âI could give you an interview.â Steve offers on day, when youâd been complaining to him about slow news. âIt can be about whatever you want-â
âI donât want your pity journalism, Steven.â
He frowns. âItâs not pity. Iâm trying to help you.â
You shrug, wrapping your arms around your stomach. âWell, I canât accept your help.â
âWhy not-â
âItâs unethical.â
âI⌠donât think thatâs true-â
âWell, I didnât earn it.â
âYou donât have to earn it.â He says, all earnest and sweet and kind, and you want to die. âYou work hard, I know you work hard, and if this can help you- Here, we can do it right now-â
âI donât have questions ready.â You cut in quickly. Flatly.
Steve just shrugs. âMake some up. I know you can.â
You wish heâd stop believing in you. It makes your heart flutter.
âI have nothing I want to ask you.â You mumble hopelessly, and he frowns.
âI donât believe that.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause you always have something to ask me. To ask anyone.â
You flush, turning to the side to avoid his gaze. âMaybe I just know everything about you,â you mutter, and he snorts.
âNo. You donât.â
That gets your attention. You snap your head in his direction, and he smiles at you. Like he already knows he won.
âThere she is-â
âShut up.â You lean across the table, and his smile widens. âWhat donât I know about you.â
âA lot.â
âLike what-â
âYou have to ask me to find out.â
You narrow your eyes. He keeps fucking smiling.
âYou suck.â You grumble.
He shrugs. âI know you think that.â
Youâre both leaning across the table. If you reached up, just an inch, youâd be able to trace the line of his nose. Heâs so handsome. Itâs unfair, and you can feel a smile tugging at your lips in response to his.
âIâm going to punch you in the face-â
âIâd like to see you try, kid.â
Kid.
You lean back, ice water feeling like it was poured through your veins. Steve notices the shift. He frowns, but you donât give him the chance to question it. You just push on.
âI need a napkin.â You mutter., leaning back into your seat. âTo write questions.â
âYeah. Right.â He rubs the back of his neck. Opens his mouth, then closes it again, shaking his head slightly. âIâll go get that for you.â
Of course he will.
And when heâs talking to the waitressâpaper and a pen in his handâshe twirls her hair and giggles. Same as you would, if you got to know him where he didnât know you. Where he might just find you pretty, and give you a chance, because you were friends first and you think thatâs where you all went wrong.
This all mightâve been easier, if he really was just a celebrity crush. If you loved him because he was Captain America and not Steve. Your Steve. Who brings you back two pens in case you donât like the first, and shares his food with you while you gloss through the interviewâfeeling little detached from your own body, like heâs a million miles awayâand touches your lower back again when you finally leave lunch.
You mightâve gotten to touch him more, if he didnât mean something to you.
But you wouldnât trade knowing him for the world.
And that just makes it all hurt even more.
Steveâs been trying to get you out with his team for years. Youâve said no, over and over and over. You donât need to feel even more mortal than you already are. Donât need the reminder that he probably rejected you because youâre not even a quarter of what he and his friends are.
Not that you think Steve would think youâre any less because youâre not enhanced. You know he wouldnât.
Consciously.Â
But that doesnât change the reality of it. He wouldnât want you, when heâs surrounded by other Gods, like he himself, far more worthy of his attention. You can be mean and sharp, but you donât have the cool, collected, deadly beauty of Black Window. And youâve heard the rumors about them.
Youâve heard all the rumors. About Steve with everyone, because people like to talk. There isnât a pair of people on the Avengers that the public hasnât theorized about secretly dating.
And you know none of itâs true. Steveâs told you himself.
But that doesnât make it hurt any less, when you think about him with someone else more worthy. Someone he wants.
Which is why you didnât want to do this. And Steve had always respected thatâbecause heâs perfect, and he respects everythingâso youâd thought youâd never have to. He asks. You say no. He doesnât push it, or demand to know why. He waits months before asking again, and you know he only does that because he thinks youâre just too busy to go out the other times. That youâre saying no because you simply donât have the energy, and not because the idea makes you feel itchy. And you donât want to tell him. You like that he asks you. It makes you feel important.
But you still kept saying no.
Until Stacy overheard him ask you, and said yes for you. And Steve beamed, and you couldnât stand to burst the delicate little bubble of his joy, and now youâre here.
Huddled in the corner of a bar with the fucking Avengers all around you. Hawkeye and Thor are throwing darts in the corner. Hulk, Black Widow, and Falcon are playing pool. The Vision is eating onion rings, and everything feels like a very, very bizarre dream.
Steve hasnât left your side since you got here. Itâs been the only anchor you have. Youâd been able to hide in his shadow and duck under his arm, avoiding pressing questions and conversations you donât really want to have. Itâs not too weird for him to bring a civilian friend, at least. None of them have commented on it, besides throwing you passing looks. Steve mentioned that they all do it, from time to time.
But youâre the only one here right now. And if you could, youâd sew your hand into Steveâs so he couldnât leave you alone.
And thatâs always a little true. You want that all the time.
More than usual right now. But all the time.
âIâm going to get drinks.â He mutters, and you grab his bicep like a scared child.
âWait- Iâll come with you-â
âDonât worry, Iâve got it.â He grins down at you, patting your head like youâre a dog or something. âYou donât have to stand up.â
You want to shout at him that this isnât about him being a gentleman, itâs about him not leaving your sight. But youâre weak. And pathetic. So you just nod, and Steve smiles at you before walking away.
You try to hide in the shadows, avoiding any attention. It doesnât work.
âYouâre the journalist.â A cool, lazy voice cuts through the air, and you look up to find Tony Stark standing over your table.
âIâm a journalist-â
âNo. Youâre Rogerâs journalist.â Stark drawls, sliding into the booth. You stiffen, but donât dare to move away.
Thatâll make it seem even more obvious, when Steve comes back and you donât inch away from him.
âI understand what heâs been going on about.â Stark continues, looking you up and down slowly. âDidnât know they made them like you anymore.â
Your eyes narrow. âLike me?â
âMhm.â Stark smirks, and you raise your chin.
âWhat am I like, Mr. Stark?â
He chuckles, leaning back. âLittle spitfire, arenât you-â
âOnly to people who deserve it.â
That makes him laugh louder. Everything feels more and more like a fever dream by the second.
You look out to the bar, trying to find Steve. Internally begging him to come back. Heâs by the bar, your drink already in his hand. Itâs the same one you always get. Heâs holding it close to his chest, like itâs something priceless.
Thereâs a woman standing next to him. Just another random girl, in a tiny dress with some pretty good makeup, giggling and batting her lashes at him.
And Steveâs entertaining her. smiling at her.
The same way he smiles at you.
You donât want to be here. You didnât want to be here. You donât want to see how itâs not even the Avengers that heâd want more than you, itâs everyone else. Sheâs getting the same attention you try to drown yourself in, but youâre not the one who might go home with him. His grin is a little tighter with her, because heâs probably restrained and trying to play his cards right. She looks like sheâs talking sweet, and heâd probably want that more than you, poking and mocking him all the time. Heâs a God. Heâll say heâs not but he is, and what kind of god would want to be worshipped by someone who shows love with insults and eye rolls.
Thereâs a tight feeling, around your throat like rope. Your eyes are burning, and the world is blurring, and you donât want to see this. You canât see this.
You tried to be his friend. You really tried.
But you canât.
âWhatâs wrong with you?â Stark asks, and you look over to find him watching with a strange expression.
âNothing.â You clear your throat, fumbling for your bag. âI just- Remembered something. That I have to go do.â
You glance over to Steve again. Heâs laughing at something sheâs saying without shaking his head and tipping his head back, without looking away from her. Like he does with you.
âRight now.â You mumble. âI have to go do it right now.â
Stark hums, tapping his fingers on the table. âRight now, huh.â
âYep.â You stand up, and he gives you an almost amused look.
âWhat is it? If itâs so urgent.â
âStuff.â You snip.
Stark chuckles, shaking his head. âJesus, heâs batting in a whole other sport with you.â
âWhat the fuck does that mean-â
âNothing.â Stark smirks again. Like he knows something. âGo on. Iâll tell Cap you had stuff.â
You scan over his relaxed features, and he just keeps grinning, lazy and unworried. You could get an answer out of him, if you tried.
But you look up, back to Steve. And heâs grabbing his own drink from the bar. Still chatting with the girl. If he brings her back to the table, youâre going to vomit.
You have to go now.
âThanks.â You mutter, giving Stark a tight grin. âHave a good night.â
And Stark laughs, as you turn away.
âOh. Iâm sure I will.â
You avoid Steve for a week.
Properly avoid him.
He calls ten times, just the night you leave the bar. He texts almost every hour for the days after that, and you mute him. If you look at the messages, youâre going to respond to them. If you respond to them, heâll convincing you to talk to him. If you talk to him, or see him, or even stand near him, youâre never going to get over him.
Youâre going cold turkey on him, like heâs a drug.
To you, he is. And you need to get clean. You need to move on.
Steve doesnât come into the building to steal you for lunch, but he calls you every day. Your fingers fidget, still trying to pick up the phone.
You donât know how you manage not to, but you do. When you ask the guards downstairs, they say heâs walked through the door and walked back out five times. You force yourself not to think about it, and somehow manage to do that too. And youâre going to be able to do this. Youâre finally going to move on.
Moving on means moving. Not staying in the same little pit, waiting for his sun to change its path and shine on you. You have to climb out, and find a new place to be. Someone new to want.
Youâve done this part before. The whole dance of downloading the apps and going on the dates and telling yourself you want them, even though they arenât Steve. But this time is going to be different. If you tell yourself that enough, it will feel more and more true.
Thereâs a guy youâve been chatting with all week, and he seems sweet. He compliments you, and he was polite when you met for coffee, and heâs far from bad to look at. And itâs not like youâre going to marry him. You just need someone to be close to you that isnât Steve.
And maybe this guyâyou canât really remember his name, but youâll learn itâis blond haired and blue eyes and broadly built. Maybe you swiped through photo after photo, looking for a phantom of him, but thatâs nobody business expect yours, and your pillowâs. It knows better than anyone that thereâs only one way you can fake it.
Which is exactly what this game is. Faking it until you make it. Until youâre over Steve, and thereâs never any temptation to look back.
You dress up, telling your brain youâre going on a date with Steve himself so you put in all the effort. Another thing thatâs nobodyâs business. Youâre doing what you need to, and itâs going to get you over him. Youâve got lashes and glossy lips and heels that are going to hurt in the morning, and this guy doesnât seem strong enough to carry you like Steve would, but thatâs where you need to shut your brain up. Thereâs not going to be anyone whoâs like Steve. This guy looks like him enough to get you out the door, but itâs not him, and thatâs okay. Thatâs good. Itâs going to help you move on. Youâve got your jacket, and your purse, and youâre going to do this and move on-
You yank the door open, and freeze.
Steve stares at you, hands his pockets, mouth hanging open.
This is usually the part where one of you says hi, but you canât remember how to speak. Heâs here. Why is he here. Heâs been giving you space, because heâs amazing and polite, and it had been so much easier to pretend it was just because he didnât care when he wasnât right in front of you. Looking like youâd just punched him in the face, all pale with sagging shoulders and sad, dull eyes. As if heâs lost sleep.
He scans over you. Over your revealing outfit and makeover. His throat bobs, and you could swear he slouches further. When he meets your gaze, he doesnât smile. It makes you want to cry.
âSteve-â
âYouâve been avoiding me.â He mutters, the words thick and low. âAnd- Iâm not here to fight about it. I didnât think you were going to open the door, I didnât- I wasnât going to bother you. Just- Never mind.â
 You blink. âI- What are you-â
âYou got a date?â He nods to your outfit, and something in his pockets shift. Heâs fisting his hands.
âUm-â You glance to his pockets again, then back to his weighted gaze. âYeah. I do.â
âWith whom.â
Shit. You still canât remember. âSomeone I met on an app. Steve, what are you-â
âOn an app.â He echoes, the words sounding hollow. He chuckles under his breath. âYou know, Stark made me try those once.â
You swallow. You donât want to hear about his dating life. âHow did that go.â
âBad. And I tried, I justâŚâ He trails off, shaking his head, and you think you can feel his stare burrowing into your heart, shaping it even further in his name.Â
This is exactly what you were trying to avoid. Seeing him makes you love him more, think about him more, need him more. Heâs got a gravity over you, and he doesnât know it, and why is he here.
âIs he nice.â
Steveâs voice is low. Pained. You donât understand the question.
âWho?â
âYour date.â He grunts. âIs he nice to you.â
âOh.â You forgot about that part. âYeah.â
âGood.â
Neither of you speak for a second. Steve stares at you so hard our head spins, and you canât look him in the eyes.
âWhat did I do?â
His voice breaks suddenly, and you feel the crack in your ribs. It yanks your gaze up, and youâve never seen him so sad. Frustrated and annoyed, sure. Tense, all the time. But never just⌠Sad. Defeated. Like even he isnât sure what to do. It feels wrong. Like the world is bleeding together and caving over itself.
âYou didnât do anything-â
âI must have.â He scans over your features, his own so openly aching. âYouâve never been mad at me before, and- Now youâre-â
He waves to your outfit, and you frown.
âItâs just a date-â
âJust a date.â He mutters under his breath, and your mouth falls open.
âIâm allowed to date, Steven-â
âI know you are!â His voice raises for a second, but he quickly pushes it back down. âI- I know, but thatâs not- Why are you avoiding me?â
Heâs pleading. Itâs almost bleeding out of his voice, staining all over you, and you wrap an arm around your stomach like you can stop yourself from bleeding back. This isnât fair. Steveâs not stupid. He canât have just forgotten your mistake of expressing your feelings, heâs not nearly oblivious to be unable to put two and two together, and he certainly canât be dense enough to not tie together that youâre avoiding him, and going on a date. You donât go on dates. Youâre usually too busy trying to steal some love from his shadow.
Yet here he is. Looking at you like he really doesnât understand. Being so nice about it, when itâs clearly been bothering him. No demanding to understand. No shouting about how hurt he was. Just pleading.
Because heâs golden and perfect. All respectful, like youâre just another lady to him.
Like youâre not worth enough for him to fight a little dirtier for.
A lump is pressing up your throat. Itâs a battle to hold his gaze.
âWhy do you think Iâve been avoiding you.â You mutter, and he shakes his head.
âI donât know, thatâs why Iâm asking.â Steve rubs his face, working his jaw. âI canât fix it if you donât tell me what I did-â
âSteve-â
âAnd Iâll fix it, whatever I did, Iâll fix it-â
âYou canât fix it!â You shout.
He stumbles back like you slapped him, and tears burn at your eyes.
âYou- You canât fix it, Steve.â You whisper, staring down at his shoes. âJust- Stop.â
âStop what?â He rasps. âI- I know I messed something up, but-â
âStop being so nice to me.â
Heâs silent for a moment. You donât even know how to justify that one. It sounds pathetic to your ears.
âI... Iâd rather not.â He mutters, and you sigh.
âThen please leave me alone.â The words hurt, but you push them out like an apple lodged in your throat. âI- I tried, okay? I really tried, but I canât.â
âCanât-â
âCanât be your friend.â You whisper. The tears burn on your cheeks. âI canât be your friend, Steve, itâs too hard. I- I-â
You sniff, and Steve rasps your name. You have to shake your head. He canât talk right now. Itâs already too hard.
âI love you.â You say, barely a breath. It doesnât matter. Heâll hear anyway. âI love you too much, and- Itâs not your fault that you donât- That itâs not the same. But please.â You shift on your feet, hugging yourself tight. âI- I need space.â
Steve doesnât say anything. There isnât anything he could say to make it better, not anymore. But something in you still fractures, when he just steps to the side. Giving you a path out.
Letting you go.
You think itâs hope. The hope that one day he might feel the same, the dream that youâd tried so hard not to feed, but tended to bloom on its own. That one day heâd look at you and realize he made a mistake.
But he steps to the side. And thatâs all itâs ever going to be.
A dream.
You bow your head and shuffle past him, face burning and skin crawling with shame. Youâre going to go on this date and pretend like everything is fine, if you can even make it out of the hallway without breaking down. Your knees are wobbly and tears are coming faster than you can wipe away, but you just need to get out. Out of this hallway with its suffocating air.
Away from Steve, and your heart, broken at his feet.
Youâll get over it. Youâll get over it. Itâs hard to breathe right now but youâll get over it-
âGod- Screw it.â
A strong hand wraps around your wrist. It takes you by such surprise you donât even think to fight.
Steve spins your around, grabbing your jaw and picking you up in a single movement. You gasp as his lips slam over yours, sudden and demanding. He kisses you like he doesnât know heâs already got a claim on you. Like heâs trying to brand your lips with a bruising, hungry desire. All you can do is breathlessly kiss him back, scraping at his shoulders and trying to keep up with whatâs happening. Steve tastes a little like honey and salt, and youâre sure he ate something earlier but you donât really care what. His hair is just as soft as you thought, and youâre being crushed under the force of him but itâs intoxicating and exhilarating and you feel like youâre being remade-
Itâs over. Just as fast as it started. Steve stumbles back, fumbling with his hands like theyâre still trying to reach you against his will. He braces them on his hips, staring at you with wide eyes.
You gape at him, trying to catch your breath. You reach up to brush your own lips, trying to make sure the tingly feeling there is real. Maybe press it deeper in, until you can feel it forever.
Steve clears his throat. You blink at him through the slowly drying tears, not really sure whatâs happening.
Neither of you dare to speak. Or move. Youâre breathing shallowly, like anything too big is going to tip the whole world over, and it will all slip through your fingers.
He takes an uncertain step forward, and you should take one back.
But youâve never been all that good at moving away from him before. You have no interest in learning that skill now.
This time, you grab him at the same time he grabs you. You stumble into each other, uncoordinated and desperate, unbothered by bumping noses and smushed limbs. You just need to be close to him. To feel him as much as possible, as fast as possible.
Heâs never been a drug. Youâd been getting a secondary high, but this-
This is a hit.
And you need to have more.
You grab at his collar, pressing up to meet his every kiss, and youâre quickly making out with teeth and tongue in the middle of the hallway. Steveâs arm wraps around your ass, lifting you effortlessly off your feet, and you moan into his mouth.
He trips as he walks back into the apartment, and you end up pressed against the wall at least three more times before you make it through the door. Every time Steve slams you back, devoting all his attention to kissing you until youâre drooling and sloppy and just trying to push further into his open mouth. At one point he slots his knee between your thighs, and you start to shamelessly grind down as he sucks your lower lip between his teeth.
You giggle, dazed and sore with overflowing need for him. He kicks the door closed behind you, and you think youâre going to end up riding his thigh against the wall, but he starts down the hall. To your bedroom.
He makes it about five steps before you rake your nail through his hair and start kissing over his jaw. Steve moans into your ear, lagging a little sideways, and you shriek as you both topple down onto the couch.
It takes you a second to catch your breath, and thatâs all Steve needs to get the upper hand. He grabs your jaw, tipping your head back as he starts to suck and nip at your neck. You squeak, grabbing his head, and he moans against your skin. His knee pushes back between your thighs, and this angle is even better than before. You canât help the roll of your hips, down onto the muscle of his thick leg.
âSt- Steve-â You voice is high, and he hums, licking up your throat before making out with a soft spot under your jaw. âJesus fucking- God-â
âI know.â He mutters, dragging his hand down your thigh and grabbing under your knee. He squeezes gently, hiking it up to your chest, pushing his knee down even harder than before.
âFuck- You-â You gasp, your pussy clenching around nothing as your clit gets rubbed through his jeans, through your panties.
At this angle, youâre almost exposed to him. Your dress pooling around your tummy, the wet spot on your underwear growing bigger and bigger. You grasp at the skirt, trying to tug it down a little. Itâs one thing to be riding his knee, another for him to see you.
Steve grabs your wrist, pushing the fabric further down than it had been before. Your eyes almost cross when he starts to rub his knee back and forth, the pressure overwhelming and perfect. You didnât think you could cum like this, but thereâs a familiar pressure building up in your stomach, and you have to bite your tongue to stop a wanton moan from escaping your lips.
He sits up to look at you, and youâre sure itâs a shameful, lewd sight. Your makeup smudged, your hair ruined, a picture of depravity and sin as you chase pleasure on his leg. This isnât the kind of thing you thought heâd be into. Heâs too perfect, too good, and maybe youâve wanted to be put in a headlock and manhandled and used, but Steveâs all about honor. Youâd been so sure that, even if you got to have him, it would be lovely, vanilla sex that was filled with such emotion it would make up for the simpleness.
But thatâs not what you see in Steveâs eyes. Theyâre hooded and black with lust. His jaw is clenched as he watches you, and he pushes your leg further up with a gentle squeeze.
âOh-â You gasp, trying to reach up to grab him.
Steve grabs your second wrist without letting go of the first. Holds him in one hand, and leans over you as he pins them both over your head. Your mouth falls open, breathing fast and needy.Â
His own chest is heaving. He looks down to his knee against your core, and a deep sound rumbles from his chest. Youâre wound so tight youâre certain you could snap, sudden and fast like a rubber band. You strain against Steveâs hold, and his attention snaps back up.
âYouâre good, doll.â He coos. âRelax for me.â
You blink at him, shaking your head. You canât stop grinding against him, but you need him close. Need to be under the pressure of his body, to feel like thereâs nothing else in the world.
Steve picks up the speed of his knee, almost drilling it down into your cunt without touching you at all. You gape, head lolling to the side, and he grunts.
âLook at me.â
His voice is deep. Not a suggestion. An order.
You blink up at him, almost drooling, and he leans down until his lips are ghosting over yours. Â
âI donât want space.â He mutters. âI want you.â
You swallow, still rubbing your pussy up into his knee. âYou- You canât just-â
âShh.â He pushes further down, until it feels like heâs almost inside of you. You snap your mouth shut. âIs that all I did?â
âWha- Oh-â
He drags his knee in slow circles, and you make an incoherent, starved sound. Steve doesnât even break a sweat.
âYou and me.â He mutters, studying your every expression. âThatâs it. Thatâs what was gonna make me lose you.â
âYou- You didnât lose me-â
âAlmost did.â He squeezes your knee. âYou walked.â
You glare up at him. âYou let me-â
âNo, I didnât.âÂ
Steveâs lips slam back over yours, and you canât really argue with that. Your eyes flutter as you give into the kiss, your body sparking with a million, delighted nerves. Steve groans against your lips, fucking his knee against your core, and heâs hitting your clit just right, the fabric soaked and filled with rough friction.
Your back arches off the couch as you cum, and Steve lets go of your wrists. You grab his face, trying to pull his lips closer, and he wraps around your back, holding you up. Your toes curl, body shaking as the pressure becomes sensitive, your pussy gushing and clenching around nothing.
Steve rubs your spine, kissing along your shoulder, up your neck, over your cheeks. You hum softly, floating down and tucked into his arms. He leans back against the couch, taking you with him. You slump over his chest, burying your face in his neck as his hand slips under your dress. Thick, calloused finger pads gently graze your hips and waist, and you squirm.Â
âI- I didnât want to ruin something.â He murmurs in your ear, and you pause.
âRuinâŚâ
âUs.â Steveâs face presses into the curve of your neck, warm breath tickling your skin. âYou were my friend, we work in a lotta the same places, and I just- I didnât want to risk that.â
You swallow, leaning back and waiting until he meets your glossy, sad gaze. You take his face between your hands, and he covers them with his own.
âI was willing to risk it.â You whisper, and he sighs.
âI know. But-â He looks away, words choked and low. âI thought it was a crush. That youâd get over.â
You laugh weakly. âWell, it wasnât.â
âI know.â He sighs. âMine wasnât either.â
You lips part with a sharp breath, and Steve looks back to you with nervous, hopeful eyes.
âI love you.â He squeezes both your hands, guiding them to his lips. âIt is the same. So- Tell me that fixes it. Please.â
It does.
Just as fast as theyâd shattered, your dreams weave themselves back together. Theyâre clearer than before. More colorful. Itâs no longer like looking through a mist, or watching a reflection in the water. When you touch Steve, he doesnât ripple away. And thatâs more than enough.
You lean down and kiss him. Itâs slower than the other kisses. Steve grabs your hips, but lets you press his head down. You wrap your arms around his neck, tracing his lips with your tongue, and he hums in content. Drags you further forward in his lap.
Something thick and hard presses right against you, and you almost go limp. Like your body is already trying to get ready to take it. To take Steveâs cock that canât be as large as it feels, straining against his jeans and twitching when you drag yourself slowly back and forth.
âHey.â Steve grunts, grabbing your hips firmly. You hope heâs holding tight enough to leave a bruise. âEasy.â
You snort, leaning back to give him a pointed look. âEasy?â
âYeah, thatâs what I-â
âI just came on your knee.â
His ears turn a little pink, and he coughs. âI, uh- Fair.â
âMhm.â You hum, smiling smugly, and you take all the strength in your jelly legs and grind right now onto his clothed cock.
Steve hisses, his fingers digging into your soft skin. âJesus- Baby-â
You brace your arms on either side of his head, dragging back and forth as slow as you can. Steveâs eyes flutter, his tongue darting over his lips as he watches you move on him. His muscles flex with the effort not to grab you.
Youâd very much like to see him give up.
âDoes that feel good?â You whisper, making your voice sweet and innocent.
Steve grunts. Youâre going to have handprints on your body in the morning. The thought just makes you move faster.
âI donât want to go slow, Stevie.â You purr, and his chest heaves under you. âI want you to fuck me. Pleeease.â
You whine dramatically, thrusting forward, and Steveâs face drops against your chest.
âJesus, woman.â He lips graze over your breast, and you moan. âCome on, âs not playing fair-â
âDonât wanna play fair.â You hum, slowly reaching between your bodies. âWasnât fair how you turned me down.â
ââM sorry about that-â
âYou should be.â You kiss under his ear. âHurt my feelings.â
âThought-â He grunts as you palm his balls through his jeans. âThought I was helping-â
âYou werenât.â
âI got that now-â
âBut you know what would make it better?â You lean back up, holding Steveâs gaze with a lazy smile.
He nods quickly, and you giggle, wiggling down onto his bulge.
âFucking me.â
Steve looks down, and a rumble echoes through his chest when he sees it.
Youâd peeled off your ruined underwear without him noticing. Leaving your bare, sweet and soaked pussy pressed against him. You moan, watching him as you grind down, and heâs so close to snapping. You can see it in the tension of his jaw, feel how his fingers keep twitching on your hips. You smile at him, licking your lips, and that dark look flashes over his features. The same one from earlier, that had him overtaking you like a storm.
Steveâs a good boy. A sweet boy.
He also doesnât like things that he canât account for. Used to pick fights in alleys as a kid, always wanted to be the person everyone looked to for help.
Youâre sure that, between the two of you, you can let him have a little fun without compromising his moral compass.
He has to, if youâre begging him for it. Not very chivalrous, to ignore a lady in need.
âPleaseee.â You whine again, ghosting your lips over his. âFuck me, Stevie, fuck me until I canât walk-â
He mutters your name under his breath, and you just pout at him.
âMake me yours, make me cry, fuck-â You throw your head back, the teasing him going straight to your own core. âGod, fucking- Please, Steve-â
That does it. The explicit, wet cry of his name seems to snap something in Steveâs resolve, and heâs on you in a blur of hands and lips. Grabbing a fistful of your ass before hauling you up his chest, kissing you breathless as he stands. He keeps carrying like you weigh nothing, and you want to be trapped in his arms forever.
âSteve- Shit-â Your jaw drops he tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. âFuck, slow down-â
âYou said you didnât want to slow down.â He reminds you in a deceptively soothing voice, big hands rubbing on the back of your thighs. âSaid you didnât wanna play fair.â
âI- Um- Ooooh-â
You drop your head against Steveâs shoulder, biting at his shirt as thick, strong fingers tease the lips of your pussy.
âWet fuckinâ pussy.â He muses, spreading you open so the cold air hits your cunt. âKnew you got soaked for me, princess. Didnât know it was this bad.â
âYou- You-â He needs to stop humiliating you and touching you at the same time. It makes you feel like youâre burning alive in the best way possible. âYou knew?â You squeak, and Steve chuckles.
âAlways knew. Told you, thought it was a crush.â
You try to twist and glare at him. âAnd you didnât tell me-â
âLike you wouldâve wanted me to tell you I could smell how badly you wanted my cock.â Steve smacks your ass with a scoff, and you flop right back over his shoulder.
âFuck-â You whimper. Heâs right. You can barely even stand that right now. âSteve, please- Please-â
Youâre not even sure what youâre begging for anymore. Mercy, maybe. More mocking attention. Anything he can fucking give you, because you feel like youâre about to explode.
Steve spanks you again, this time on the other cheek, and you moan.
ââCourse you like that.â He mutters. âDirty girl, testing me every fucking day.â
He drags his thumb through the mess between your legs, and your pussy clenches, trying to drag him in. He laughs, pushing down for half a second before dragging down to your clit and rubbing in quick, tight circle. You gasp, pushing uselessly at his back, already overstimulated and still needing more.
âFelt that.â Steve flicks your clit, and your whole body shakes. âGreedy, princess. Youâve been waitinâ this long, you can hold it a little longer.â
âCa- Canât-â You gasp, pressing your cheek against the broad muscle of his back. âCanât, Steve- Canât wait-â
âYeah, you can.â He grunts. âChrist, youâre dripping all over my hand. Going to take me no problem, arenât you, baby.â
Heâs playing with your clit like itâs just a little button for his whims, and you have to bite your inner cheek to stop yourself from falling apart all over his hand.
âSteve- I- Iâm going to- Oh my god-â
Steve slaps right over your pussy, the wet sound echoing in your ears as he shoves those two fingers right into your pussy. He finds your G-spot in a second, crooking his fingers and dragging them over your sensitive walls. You cum with a cry of his name, sudden and harsh. White dancing at your vision, your body seizing up as Steve dumps you down onto the soft mattress.
He presses his wrist further, folding your body up. You grab his neck for an anchor, and he kisses your wrist as he slides a third finger into your dripping mess of a pussy.
âGetting you ready.â He mutters, wiping some hair from your face. âItâs okay, babydoll, youâre doinâ real good.â
You whimper, the orgasm still shaking through you. Youâre struggling to breathe when Steve finally pulls his hand away, and the loss makes you whimper.
Steve laughs softly, leaning down to kiss you all sweet and loving, like you havenât been turned to a puddle under his hands.
âBreathe.â He murmurs, squeezing your breast gently, and you take a loud, stuttering gasp. Steve kisses your nose, smiling like heâs being offered ice cream, and you watch him in a starry-eyed daze.
You hear the click of his belt, and as much as youâd like to reach down and feel him, you can barely manage to hold onto his shoulders right now. Steve pulls slowly up with one last chaste kiss on your lips, and your breath hitches in your throat.
Heâs massive. Thatâs the kind of dick youâve only seen in cartoons, because even the porn industry canât replicate it. Youâre not sure how he gets around so easily in his tight suit, with that fucking horse cock acting like a third leg. Thick and veined, already beading with pre-cum as he strokes it slowly in his hand, a sheepish expression on his face.
âI was⌠Endowed.â He mumbles, ears red. âBefore the serum. ThenâŚâ
He nods to his cock, and you laugh breathlessly.
âJesus, Steve-â
âIt wonât hurt you.â He says quickly. âI know there are those rumors âbout be being a virgin, but-â He sighs, pouting slightly. âGod forbid a man tell Tony Stark he doesnât want to talk about his sex life, suddenly heâs never even touched a boob-â
âDude.â You smile up at him, and he cuts himself off. âLook me in the eyes and tell me if I still think youâre a virgin after that.â
You tilt your head to the hallway, but Steve just frowns.
âDude?â
âUm-â
âDonât call me dude when Iâm about to fuck you.â He grumbles, and youâd laugh at him if that didnât make your heart skip. e
âSorry, sir.â
You say it half to mock him, half to test something.
Steveâs jaw ticks, and his already rock-hard cock twitches in his hands. You giggle as his eyes narrow, and youâre still laughing as he prowls over you, that dark, hungry look back on his face.
âYou think somethingâs funny?â He grunts, and you shake your head.
âNo, sir.â
Steve groans, dropping his face between your breasts.
âGonna be the death of me.â He mutters under his breath, and youâre still laughing softly.
âSorry.â
âNo, youâre not.â
You laugh again, because youâre really not. Itâs hilarious, and heâs adorable, and this is going to yield some fantastic results.
Steve assesses you like youâre a mission to be accomplished. And you know him.
He never does anything halfway.
âAlright, princess.â He mutters, tapping the head of his cock on your clit. âOpen.â
You squeak, still giggling, and spread your legs slowly.
The last laugh is pushed from your chest as Steve slowly starts to sink himself into your heat. Your mouth falls uselessly open as you bow off the bed, your body almost unable to rationalize how full you are.Â
Steve splits you open, his cock slowly driving through you and hitting spots you didnât even know you had. He grinds slowly down into your pussy, bullying you further open, and you think heâs found a button inside you that just makes you a limp, sensitive fuck-doll, because you whine out his name but it takes everything you have.
âI know.â He grunts, the tip of his cock pressing into your cervix. âYouâre taking it, baby, there you go.â
âSteveee-â
âFeels good, doesnât it.â He presses at sweet kiss to your lips as he bottoms out. His fingers lace slowly through yours, and you nod.
Youâve never had so many pleasure points being hit at once. Steveâs still got a hand on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers as you try to breath around him. Heâs patient. You donât want him to be.
âMore.â You push out, and he raises his brows.
âSweetheart-â
âMore.â You roll up into him, moaning loudly as he hits even deeper. âFuck me, Steve- Mmm-â
He kisses you, passionate and messy, and you almost scream in satisfaction as he starts to move.
Heâs unrushed. Completely in control of you, and aware of it. His dick pulls almost all the way out before slowly pushing back in, the torturous pace making you feel like a live wire.
âYeah, thatâs it.â He coos, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. âPretty girl, you like being stuffed up with my cock, donât you.â
âYe- Yes-â You tip your head back into the pillows, your free hand grasping at the sheets. âYes- Oh my god, yes-â
Steveâs started to grind against your g-spot whenever he hits it, letting his thickness press and drag over the sensitive, gooey spot until youâre moaning and writhing around him.
âFeel that, donât you.â He mutters, pushing in a little harder than last time. âFeel my dick inside you, baby, feels so good, doesnât-â
âSo good.â You babble, but who can blame you. âSo good, Steve, youâre so-â
Your words turn into a broken moan as Steve drives back into you, and heâs going harder and harder every time. Still pulling almost fully out slowly, letting your arousal gather and drip down your thighs and ass, but then slamming back into you so hard it makes you think the world is shaking.
A breathy sound escapes your lips, maybe a plea, and Steve moves your tangled hands between your bodies, pressing you down into the mattress as he rises up for a better angle.
âYouâre so fuckinâ wet.â He growls, pounding into your cunt like he owns it. âIf Iâd know you wanted me this bad I woulda had you all over this city.â
You whine, squeezing around him. Steve chuckles.
âOh, you like that. Like the idea of being my good little cockslut, letting me play with you wherever I want.âÂ
Big, steady hands press your knees up, letting Steve hit even deeper than before. A strange, tight feeling is building in your gut, but it feels good. All of this feels so good. Youâre spent and cockdrunk, but you feel used in the best possible way. The filth Steve is drawling in your ears makes your brain go all quiet. Youâre just a happy, humming bundle of pleasure, Steveâs massive body draped over yours, and youâd probably do anything he wanted, if he just fucked you like this after.
âYou were made for me.â He groans, lips wandering all over your face as his cock drills into you. âIâm gonna take such good care of you, baby, swear it, just sing for me, come on-â
You moan, long and loud. Steve grins, kissing under your ear.
âGood girl.â He coos. âThere you go, just like that. Come on, doll, I know youâre getting close.â
You are. Youâve been close the whole time, but this feels more and more different by the second. There are wet, sinful sounds filling the room as your skin slaps together, and Steveâs breath is hot in your ear as he starts to lose a little control of himself.
He moans when you start mindlessly humping up to meet him, forcing his cock into the tightest spot into you that makes everything all colorful and hazy. You gasp softly, chasing up from a little more, and Steve wraps and arm around your back.
âFuck- Fuck- You feel so good,â he groans your name in your ear. âSo good, itâs- Christ-â
That strange pressure in your tummy is going to burst. It feels like Steve is driving right against it, daring it come undone.
âSteve.â You breathe out. âSteve- I- Iâm gonna-â
He growls, deep in his chest and rolling through you. Steve grabs you and wrestles you down into the mattress, pushing your legs up to your chest and fucking you fast and brutal.
Itâs a sight above you. Steve, panting and moaning as your pussy sucks him in, glistening arousal shining all over his cock when he pulls out and smearing on your tummy. Your tight walls are starting to contract, and he doubles over, groaning your name as his thrust become shallow and unmeasured.
Tears start to stream down your face. Steve looks at you like youâre an angel, fucking you like youâre just a toy, and you canât even remember how to tell him how good it feels.
âSteveâŚâ You wiggle below him, crying out as he just fucks you hard. âSteve- Ooooooh-â
Your eyes roll back, the tears burning on your cheeks from the impossible to handle pleasure. Steve leans down and kisses them off your cheeks, the softness in such contrast with how heâs turning you into a bundle of nerves and tears.
âMy pretty girl.â He mutters, kissing your lips sweetly. âClose. Weâre so close. You can make it. Make it for me.â
You nod, almost hypnotized into agreeing. And Steveâs abusing that spot inside of you. Sensitive and overwhelming, making your toes curl and eyes cross.
âSteve- I- I canât-â
âYes, you can.â Not a suggestion. Steveâs thumb finds your clit, rubbing it back and forth as he ruts into you. âCome for me, now.â
The command rolls through you, and that pressure bursts. Heat washes over you, making you bow off the bed as a funny, wet feeling gushes out between your thighs. Steve groans, slamming his mouth back over yours, groaning your name as you start to milk his cock.
âFuck,â he groans, and you wrap your arms tight around his neck. Tight enough to strangle him, if he was a normal man. But Steve just splays his hand possessively over your back and moans against your lips, driving home into your cunt as his release rippling through him.
Itâs almost as good as your own orgasm. Youâre tucked into a shaking, flexing heat of muscle, his deep voice moaning your name in your ear, his cock still thrusting and twitching inside you. Over, and over, and over-
You can barely breathe in the best way. Youâve never had a man cum so much. It starts just hot and sticky, then itâs drooling out, down your ass and onto the sheets. You can feel it in your throat, almost taste it, and even after Steve pulls out itâs everywhere. Painting your pussy creamy and white, branding your abdomen, your tits, your thighs.
Steve stares down at you with a gaping mouth as you both come down from the high. You laugh, hoarse and breathy.
âWoah.â
âShit.â Steve mutters, grabbing at the remainder of the clean sheets and wiping them over your body. âI- I didnât- I usually pull out, you just-â
âSteve-â
âWe need to get you in the shower, itâs everywhere-â
âSteve-â
âIâm so sorry-â
âSteven.â You smack his shoulder, and he stops dead.
Youâre already bridal style in his arms, naked and covered in his cum, some of it dripping all over the floor. Youâre going to need to hire a cleaner. Or invest in really, really big buckets that youâll keep next to the bed.
âDoes that happen every time?â
He swallows, and nods.
âUh- Not that much.â He mumbles. âBut yeah.â
Pride glows in your chest. You get the most of him. âOkay.â
Steve blinks. âOkay?â
You nod, and he shakes his head.
âI ruined your room-â
âI liked it.â
He stares. You smile.
Steve rolls his eyes, and presses a kiss to your brow.
âYouâre impossible.â He mutters, and you giggle.
âYeah, but you love me. And you canât take it back now, you already said it-â
He grabs your chin, turning it so he can fully capture your lips.
âI do love you.â He mutters against your lips. âAnd no one could make me take it back if they tried.â
You smile. You have no plans to do that.
Steve is somehow more than you ever dreamed. And thereâs no way youâre letting him go now.
âŚEnd note: this was so fun for me to write i love a puppy dog man. i hope you enjoyed it!âŚ
âŚIf you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3âŚ
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one of my fav dean writers writing for my other husband (steve) this is like christmas for ME .. THIS WAS SO GOOD I LOVED IT SO MUCH I LOVE SWEETIE STEVE đĽşđĽşđĽşâ¤ď¸
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut (p-in-v & unprotected, oral - f!receiving, fingering, creampie, lots of dirty talk, edging, p-pronouns, light p-inspection, mentions of somno and free use), dom!Bucky, power imbalance, sugar daddy / sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader in mid-to-late twenties while Buckyâs in his early forties), money troubles, i.e., debt, bills, etc., alcohol consumption, no mentions of y/n
word count: 10.7k
part one - part two - masterlist
summary: The arrangement is simple enough: you give him friendship, he gives you a better life. But between the private dinners cozied up in a booth and the charity galas pressed to his side, itâs getting harder for you to hold up your end of the bargain when youâre starting to feel things for your sugar daddy that were not included in the contractâŚ
sammy speaks: wow Iâm at a loss for words again. thank you so much for the love on this series! itâs been so fun going on this ride with all of you, and I really hope you enjoy this final part!!! donât worry, sugar daddy Bucky will be back soon (;
Things areâŚdifferent when you return home.
Bucky is as charming and attentive as ever, but his touches have grown fleeting, infrequent, passive. Somehow he orchestrates a healthy amount of distance between the two of you whenever youâre next to him that reminds you of your early days together.
And what he lacks for in physical contact he tries to make up for with gifts. Youâve never had such an onslaught of surprises from him before: dresses, jewelry, shoes, handbags, a new laptop, a new phone; youâre forced to draw the line at a car, a beautiful red convertible that looks like one button could turn it into a space ship.
âBucky, I donât even have my license.â
âDoesnât mean you canât look at it, doll.â
It sits untouched in his parking garage for weeks.
He still dedicates most of his time to you, he still texts you every minute of the day when youâre not together, he still deposits money into your account and makes you promise him that youâll treat yourself.
But he doesnât stare into your eyes while holding you close anymore. His lips donât linger against your skin when he places a kiss on your forehead.
Itâs still him, still Bucky â just at an armâs length away. And itâs maddening. You miss him â even when heâs standing right in front of you, you miss him.
But you donât push it. Youâve done enough. Keeping him happy is the goal, and if an added six inches of space makes him happy, then thatâs what youâll do.
Unfortunately this means sleepovers have been very rare since returning from the Maldives. Your toothbrush sits untouched next to his in the bathroom for days, your side of the bed tucked in immaculately for weeks. Your heart throbs painfully each time you look at his bedroom door, so you start avoiding looking at it altogether.
Neither of you say anything â itâs the obvious elephant in the room, but you keep it in the corner and ignore it as if you both explicitly agreed on it, even though you didnât.
Instead, you end your nights by giving him a small smile and flashing your phone, declaring Bobâs arrived to pick you up, and he gives you a small smile back before riding down the elevator with you and walking you to the car. Before he shuts the door, a voice in your head screams at him to stop you, to ask you to come back up and spend the night cuddled up to his chest where you belong.
But he doesnât.
It hurts every time.
You know tonight will be no different. Youâll cook dinner, youâll sit a foot apart on the couch while you half-heartedly watch Below Deck, youâll make small talk about his work, and then youâll leave. Rinse and repeat.
Your night is off to a very bad start.
Bucky calls you when youâre five minutes from his place, slouched in your seat in the back of Bobâs car.
âHey,â he says, voice low and tired. âIâm gonna be late â Iâm held up at the office. The CFO quit today and our lawyers got a tip off that heâs been funneling deal information to Hydra Investment Partners for the last month. Fucking Rumlowââ He cuts himself off with a growl. âSo I gotta meet with them to go over the non-compete and start building a case.â
âShit,â you breathe. âIâm sorry, Bucky, thatâs awful.â
âYeah. Itâs a goddamn mess, and itâs only gonna get bigger.â He sighs. âIâm sorry, sweetheart.â
âWe can reschedule if you wantââ
âNo, I want to see you. I think itâs the only thing that could make this day better.â
You bite your lip. âOkay, if youâre sureâŚâ
âPositive. Iâll see you at home in a couple hours.â
The line goes dead. You catch Bobâs questioning look in the rear view mirror and summon a smile. âAll good, Bob.â He gives you a salute and drives on.
Buckyâs penthouse is dead silent when you step into it. A light is on over the stove, but the rest of the apartment is dark. A half-drunk mug of coffee sits in the sink, an unchosen tie is draped across the kitchen island, and a protein bar wrapper is discarded on the floor near the trash.
Bucky oozes out of every displaced item and unobtrusive mess around the place. You can picture him clear as day in your head creating these nuances: tossing papers to the other end of the couch when his eyes grow too tired, kicking his dress shoes off haphazardly as soon as he gets through the elevator doors. It makes you want to laugh as much as it makes you want to cry, being able to see him living his life so clearly just from an out-of-place wrapper.
Or maybe you want to cry because thereâs a part of his life that exists without you around.
You shake your head. There you go again with the dramatics. Youâve been seesawing between rational and irrational since finals â youâd think youâd be leveled out by now. But you suppose unrequited love might make a person a little imbalanced.
You start on dinner before the silence of the apartment can press too hard against your heart. You turn on the TV for some background noise and hum a nameless tune to keep you company. Thankfully, you fall into the motions of preparing the dish with ease, and time slips by unnoticed.
Youâre turning down the heat on the risotto when the elevator doors open and Bucky spills out of them.
He looks just shy of defeated, the color drained from his face and chosen tie askew. He shrugs off his suit jacket with a groan and it crumples to the floor. Your lip wobbles between a pout and a smile seeing it lying there.
âHey, doll,â he mutters, sliding in beside you to place a chaste kiss against your hair.
âHi,â you say softly. âHow did it go?â
âAbout as good as it could go, but that doesnât make it any easier. Heâs clearly violating the non-compete, but now we have to get the evidence that heâs been passing information along, and that could take months.â
âJesus.â
âItâs gonna be a long fucking spring,â he replies, slumping into a seat at the counter. He undoes the tie around his neck, tossing it next to the forgotten one from this morning. âSmells amazing,â he adds, voice warmer.
âYouâre just saying that, I told you Iâm not a great cook.â
He rolls his eyes, popping open the top three buttons of his shirt. You turn quickly back to the stove to avoid the sight of his chest hair. The fucking chest hair that started this mess.
âI donât think youâve ever cooked for me before.â
âYou never let me.â
âI find that hard to believe when itâs my job to give you what you want.â Your stomach does a filthy little flip.
âEvery time I offered, you told me to go study instead.â
âHmm. Well Iâd say thatâs a pretty valid reason to say no to you, then.â
âAlways taking care of me, arenât ya?â you tease.
âI try,â he says, and his tone is more serious than before. You gulp.
Bucky asks about your day because he always does, no matter his mood or circumstances, and you fill him in on the stream of trivial events that made up your schedule: breakfast at the cafe around the corner from your apartment, vet appointment for Lucky, lunch with a girl from your class who shows promise as a new friend, you started a book youâd been meaning to read, manicure and pedicure, and alsoâŚ
âI got an email from my Digital Marketing Analytics professor,â you say, stirring the risotto. âHe sent me some details on this position opening up at a marketing firm next month â he knows a few of the higher ups there and thought Iâd be a good fit for it. Asked if I wanted him to write me a letter of recommendation.â
Behind you, Bucky stays silent. You glance over your shoulder to find him on his phone, but his eyes arenât moving.
ââŚSo I took a look at it, and it seems like a great opportunity. The companyâs well respected, Glassdoor ranks it high for employee satisfactionâŚ401K, hybrid, four weeks paid time offâŚâ
Buckyâs still staring blankly at his phone.
âAnd the role seems fair. Challenging, but the good kind. Iâd be putting my degree to work, but thatâs why I got it, right?â you say lightly.
âHm,â Bucky grunts, barely audible.
You cut off the heat on the stove and turn to face him. âWhat do you think?â
He looks up at you finally, eyes distant, face neutral. âIt sounds great.â
You wait for him to say more â he doesnât. Your jaw falls open slightly. âOh. WellâŚgood.â
Heâs back to his phone. The lines of his shoulders are rigidly straight, a muscle in his jaw ticks. You play back every word you just said, trying to figure out where you went wrong with the conversation.
âI think Iâll tell him to write me the recommendation, then.â
âHm.â
You tilt your head. âWhatâs wrong?â
âNothing,â he says quickly, but his fingers grip his phone tighter. âIâm fine. JustâŚthinking about Rumlow.â
You pause before speaking, letting his words sit. âOkayâŚâ
You begin serving up the food, your mind still analyzing Buckyâs sudden change in behavior. He was perfectly fine when you mentioned the lunch with your classmate, and he seemed smug when you admitted you treated yourself to the nail appointment.
You watch him closely when you slide his plate in front of him; he barely looks up when you set down the fork, muttering a quiet âthanksâ thatâs nowhere near his usual praise.
âAre you sure youâre good?â you ask as you dish up for yourself.
His phone clatters to the counter. âI said Iâm fine,â he says quietly, picking up the fork and jabbing at his food. âJust stressed from work.â
You say nothing, your eyes falling to your plate. Slowly, you set it down on the counter, still empty.
âI can go,â you start, âif you need some space toâŚâ
His head snaps up, his eyes wide. He looks like you hit him across the face. âWhat? Why?â
Small embers of anger begin to kindle inside of you, patience wearing thin. âYouâre obviously in a mood about work,â you answer, irritation leaking into your tone. âYou seemed fine earlier but itâs clearly getting to you again. Iâd rather not force conversation out of you when youâre like this.â
He gapes at you, food falling from his hovering fork. He sets it down with a soft clink and closes his eyes.
âNo, thatâs notââ He cuts himself off, shaking his head. âIâm sorry. It is work, but itâs alsoâ itâs notââ
âWhat is it, Bucky?â you push.
âI canât justâ itâs hard to say, you wouldnât get itââ
You see red for a second. âTry me.â
His mouth shuts with a snap. Heâs got a hundred different emotions passing through his eyes, all of them unrecognizable to you. He says nothing.
âOkay, well.â You wipe your hands on the back of your jeans with crisp resignation and reach for your purse. âSounds like you need some time to yourself to process the Rumlow situation, so Iâll just call Bob and get out of your hairââ
âCome on,â he mutters, reaching out a hand that you ignore in favor of grabbing your phone.
âItâs fine, Bucky,â you answer airily, âyouâre dealing with shit, it happens to all of us. We can just reschedââ
âItâs notââ He cuts himself off with a groan and tries again. âItâs not Rumlow, itâs you.â
You whip around. Buckyâs got his head in his heads now, staring down at his plate, shoulders slumped forward like heâs facing a losing battle. Your body stills as you take him in, this deflated version of the confident man youâve grown to know intimately over the last eight months â youâve never seen him like this before.
âWhat do you mean?â you ask slowly.
He exhales deeply, and even that shakes.
âIâm sorry,â he says again, finding your eyes. âI shouldnât have treated you like that. You were talking about something important to you, and I blew it off. Please forgive me.â
Your anger is caught between growing into a roaring inferno, or dissipating into smoke.
âTell me what you meant,â you demand, standing firm on the other side of the island. âHow is it me?â
Bucky runs a hand down his face. He looks exhausted, conflicted, desperateâŚbut also resolute.
âI shouldnât have said that. Itâs not you, itâsâŚâ He takes another breath. âWhen you started talking about the job, I think it justâŚhit me. That you got what you wanted. And I panicked.â
Your lips part in question, but he continues on.
âThe night we met,â he murmurs, âyou told me that all you wanted to do was make it through school so that you could get a job, a job exactly like this one, and then youâd get things under control again, get your life back on track. And I said Iâd help you do it. Thatâs how this started.â The corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly. âNow youâre here. Youâve done it.â
âI donât have the job yetââ
âDonât kid yourself,â he interrupts softly. âYouâll get any job you apply for â youâre brilliant, youâre headstrong, youâre hardworking. Itâs not a matter of if, itâs when.â
Buckyâs head tilts, a sad smile stretching across his face.
âI think Iâve been secretly dreading the day that âwhenâ comes. The day you donât really need me anymore,â he says quietly.
Your breath stutters out of your lungs.
Itâs written plain as day across his face that it took a lot for him to admit that, and you understand; itâs a reveal of weakness, something you didnât think Bucky possessed, which youâre almost certain was by his design. And why should he have weaknesses? With his money, success and looks, thereâs nothing for him to fear.
Except, apparently, losing you.
The irony of it all doesnât escape you. But if he can be brave, so can you. Moving on unsteady legs, you come around to his side of the island.
âBucky,â you tell him. âIâll always need you. More than you know.â
His eyes flick across your face, his breathing deep.
âYes, we only found each other because of myâŚfinancial situation,â you admit softly, âbut itâs grown to be so much more than that. It â itâs crazy, how much Iâve come to depend on you. And Iâll be honest, I didnât think it would get this far, butâŚbut somewhere along the way, you became my best friend.â
Buckyâs shoulders sag imperceptibly. For a moment, relief crosses his face, and his eyes are the warmest youâve seen them all night. You keep going before he can say anything, though, before you can lose your nerve.
âSo I couldnât just leave you, even if I tried,â you tell him, meeting his gaze. âEven if the parties and the vacations and the gifts stopped. Even if all your money dried up. I still wouldnât dream of leaving you.â
Bucky releases a shaky sigh that slips into a shaky laugh. Wordlessly, he reaches out his hand, beckoning you closer; you take it, allowing him to pull you toward his chair slowly but surely.
âYou donât know what that means to me to hear that,â he murmurs, other hand folding over the one holding yours. âIâm notâŚI never felt like thisâŚwith my other friends,â he starts delicately. âWhen our time together was done, it made sense. I could wish them well and move on without looking back.â
He takes a deep breath that syncs up with your own, looking up at you through his dark eyelashes.
âBut with youâŚI canât even picture my life without you in it. Iâll do whatever it takes to keep you here for as long as I can.â
His words hit you like a battering ram. Your heart cracks from the effort of holding back every feeling youâve pushed down, every urge youâve suppressed. A voice floats through your head, soft but clear.
Tell him.
And for the first time since the floodgates opened, it feels right.
You take a deep, steadying breath before moving closer to him, slipping into the space between his knees. He quickly releases your hand in favor of holding onto your waist, like itâs instinct. His brow furrows in confusion, but he gives no sign of you crossing a line, so you find the courage to slip your hands into his hair, slowly, intentionally, threading your fingers through it on the back of his neck.
âGive me all of you,â your voice is barely a whisper, âthatâs how you keep me.â
You watch him process your words, and itâs like seeing the sun rise for the first time; realization dawns across his face and settles with a look of searing intensity. Your heart thunders in your chest. He tugs you closer before his hands carefully cup your jaw, eyes flitting down to your lips and back up.
âAll of me?â he whispers back, searching your face.
You nod, holding your breath. Bucky whispers your name reverently, and your eyes slide shut, waiting for the other shoe to drop. One excruciatingly long heartbeat later, his lips are on yours.
You melt instantly, meeting his mouth with a soft groan, your fingers tightening in his hair. He kisses you carefully, purposefully, like heâs writing the story of you and him in real time with his lips. Itâs greater than anything you thought it would be, and you vow to yourself to hold onto this moment forever.
With reluctance, he pulls back enough to allow a breath, lips tenderly brushing yours, pupils blown wide.
âAre you sure?â
You let out a shaky exhale, brain scrambling to process if the kiss was a dream or reality. âYes, I want this, Bucky. I want the last part of you that you havenât given me yet.â
His eyes flutter shut.
âHow long?â
âSince New Years,â you answer, a flush creeping up your neck. A dry smirk crosses his face.
âYou mean Iâve been holding myself back for nothing?â
You pull away further, forcing his eyes open to meet yours. âWhat?â
He chuckles, the sound somewhere between bitter and amused. His thumb pulls down your bottom lip, sweeping across the delicate skin.
âSweetheart,â he murmurs. âIâve been in love with you since the night you walked across the city in the rain just to make sure you werenât losing me.â
Thereâs a pressure growing between your ears, like the feeling that comes before you pass out; if your knees werenât weak before, they are now. Your hand slides down to his chest, over his heart, and you fist the fabric tightly.
âYou love me?â you breathe.
âYes,â he answers, strong and certain. His blue eyes honest and open.
So you kiss him, throwing all that you have into it. He gives it all back to you, mouth dancing with yours till you can taste every emotion on his lips. âI love you,â you whisper against them. âI love you I love you I love youâŚâ He groans, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss; his tongue brushes yours, and you let him in.
The room fades around you â itâs just you and him in the world.
He tugs you onto his lap, hands moving from your face to the small of your back. His body is warm and soft in all the right places, and you sigh into the kiss from the contact. A heat is starting to spread through you, starting in your heart but growing strongest in your core. It builds slowly, like a balloon filling up with air, and the more you get familiar with how Bucky Barnes kisses, you know itâs only a matter of time before it pops.
You pull at the collar of his shirt, he slides his hands under yours. Your skin is feverish beneath his touch, and soon enough youâre in desperate need of less clothing, less barriers between you and him. His lips chase after yours when you come up for air. âBuckyâŚâ you whisper, fingers dancing down the buttons of his shirt.
Simultaneously, you feel him harden beneath you, the mere outline of it sending a thrill down your spine while a flicker of nervousness darts across his face.
âDoll, IâŚâ he begins softly, âyou should know, I can getâŚcarried away in these moments. I donât â donât usually let my friends see this side for a reason.â He swallows roughly, brushing a hair from your eyes. âI say things, IâI do things...They can beââ He swears softly against your jaw. âThey can be a lotâŚâ
You draw closer, your nose bumping his. âI told you I want all of you. I meant it.â
Thereâs a quick pause as he stills. âPromise youâll tell me if itâs too much.â
Your core ignites, as well as your curiosity. âI promise,â you say.
Bucky seals your promise with a searing kiss, tongue pushing its way into your mouth; your surprised gasp is cut off and swallowed by him when he lifts you effortlessly from his lap, depositing you on the edge of the counter. His mouth parts from yours as he pushes you back gently, until your spine kisses the cool marble, his plate shoved out of the way and landing with a crash on the floor that you both fail to acknowledge.
Your brain spins as you watch him pant above you â you swear youâve seen him like this before in dreams â struggling to catch up to reality. But your body is already there. You can feel the effects of his kisses dripping into your panties, soaking them through. Youâd be embarrassed if Bucky didnât look like he was ready to devour you.
His hands run down your body appreciatively, gentle and tender. As he cups your breasts through your shirt, he releases a soft noise from the back of his throat. You arch into him, nipples visible through the fabric, and he circles them with expert precision with his thumbs.
âFuck,â he mutters. âIf you knew how many times Iâve thought about thisâŚâ
He trails off, but the message is clear. You move your hands on top of his, meeting his eyes. âIâve thought about this, too.â
He licks his lips, eyes dark with want, then moves his hands lower, reluctantly parting with your chest. His fingertips tickle your sides as they make their way to your jeans, hooking into the waistband and circling the edge until they meet in the middle. He pops the fly and drags the zipper down slowly, either to prolong the moment or to tease you brutally as his knuckle drags against the front of your underwear.
Your hands seize his again, âBucky,â you whimper. He shushes you with another rough kiss, his stubble rubbing the skin of your chin raw in a way that youâll never forget, even when it heals. Youâd like to drag that stubble over every inch of your body.
With ease and grace that you know you donât have, he peels your jeans down your legs; you kick them off your feet and they land on the floor behind him. Instantly, his big palms are pushing your legs apart; goosebumps erupt all over you when the cool air finds your slick panties.
Bucky stares.
But not in a way that makes you want to close your legs â in a way that makes you open them wider, any insecurities flying out the window just from the intention of his gaze. His breathing is heavy as he watches that adjustment.
âThis for me?â he whispers, dragging a finger along the edge of the dark patch, outlining your entrance through the fabric.
You bite your lip and nod. His eyes flash to your face.
âI need to hear it. Please.â
âYes, all for you, Bucky,â you sigh as he runs his other hand down your leg and to your ankle. He grips it for a moment before pulling your leg up against his chest, foot just angled off his shoulder; he steps closer, the bulge in his pants irrefutable, borderline painful-looking, aligned with your center. You moan softly when he palms it through his pants, obscene and without an ounce of shame.
âMy girl,â he says, âfucking perfect.â He curls his finger into your underwear. The tip of it slips down your folds, cataloguing how wet you are with his hands-on approach; he withdraws it and quickly sucks the finger into his mouth, holding your gaze. Your body sings for him in response.
âSweetest thing Iâve tasted,â he mutters, spit-soaked finger yanking your panties down your legs with a blind recklessness that you find incredibly attractive. He doesnât release your eyes yet. âTell me youâre mine. Before I eat you out on my kitchen counter. Wanna hear that youâre mine.â
Your exposed pussy clenches around nothing. âIâm yours,â you choke out, âfuck, Iâm yours forever. Wanted you for so longââ
He grabs your jaw and pulls you up for a bruising kiss, bending your leg back to your chest with a stretch that burns too good. You meet his passion with your own, tongues clashing and teeth knocking. When he pulls back, your head is floating from the increasing levels of desire, levels youâve never reached before with anyone else. God, if he just looked at you a certain way, you swear you could come on the spotâ
âNo going back,â he says against your lips, voice low. âNot now that I have you.â
He makes his descent back down your body, placing chaste kisses over your covered nipples. You whimper and writhe when he sinks to his knees, eagerly throwing your other leg over his shoulder so that heâs trapped between them. You prop yourself up by your elbows to better see the dirtiest, most breathtaking view in front of you.
Buckyâs chest heaves, his eyes drinking in your glistening, aching core. You move your hips in the hopes of enticing him closer, but his hands put a stop to your motions.
âLet me see her,â he mutters. Your heart beats in time with your throbbing pussy. He observes his newest possession like a collector observes his prized item. With awe and greed and devotion.
Slowly, so slowly, he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, shaky breath warming the skin. You sigh again, head tipping back. âBucky,â you whisper to the heavens.
God doesnât answer, but Bucky does.
His lips trail up to the juncture between your thighs, mouthing at your folds with light touches. You let out a soft wail at the sudden contact. Your hips buck in his hold, but he pins you down firmly and begins to eat.
His tongue finds your clit and attaches to it, flicking back and forth in tiny circles that awaken feelings youâve never felt before from your own hand or with others. Instantly, the sounds start falling from your lips, whimpers and half-curses and incoherent words; they seem to encourage him, because he doubles-down against your clit, pressing harder with his tongue as he continues to bring your body to life.
âFuck, Iâve wanted this for a long time,â he exhales on your core before diving back in. Your hips try to escape his hold when he does something special with the top of his tongue, but he forces them back down firmly, reinforcing the controlled way he explores your pleasure.
And when he sucks your clit into his mouthâ
âYes, yes â oh, right thereââ You bite down on your hand to cut off the whining; Bucky takes one glance at you and pulls away immediately, brow furrowed.
âDonât do that,â he says roughly, his breath warm against your folds, âI want to hear you.â
You obey without arguement. Your hand slumps down to the counter, nails sliding along the smooth surface.
He works you slowly, torturously, following the lead from your hitches in breath and involuntary noises until heâs found an enthusiastic pattern that sends pleasure to every nerve ending. Youâre impossibly close already, you can feel your arousal dripping down your ass and onto his chest, that cord in you threatening to snap.
But he draws back like he read your mind, meeting your eyes to create an image that will be burned into your retinas for all of eternity. The cord loosens from lack of attention, finding slack, and you whimper.
Bucky says nothing, opting to lick around the outside of your folds like heâs cleaning you up. Itâs cruelty in a new form, and you hate it and love it at the same time. For once, Buckyâs refusing to give you what you very clearly want, and it sends a rush of heated desire through you.
Youâre about ready to beg when his tongue slips across your folds and lands directly on your entrance with a gravely hum. You cry out, your spine defying all anatomical physics, but Bucky pays it no mind. His rhythm starts with languid strokes, getting acquainted with the tight hole that cries for him; he laps at it with care and concentration, allowing no corner unattended.
Buckyâs good at this â way too good. His hands press harder against your hips, leaving you at the mercy of his mouth, and itâs quickly becoming too much for you to handle.
Bucky notices it like a sixth sense once again, but decides to indulge it with a long, thick finger taking the place of his tongue. The air leaves your lungs with a choked cry. He grunts and nips at your leg.
âJesus, sweetheart, she wants it so badâŚâ
Your fingers find his hair and pull, just to keep yourself grounded when he moves his mouth back to your clit, sucking and swirling it around while his finger slides in and out of you at a deviously slow pace. He very quickly adds another finger, stretching you out as he curls them and strokes your walls.
They take their time exploring you until they come across the spongey spot that opens your stairway to heaven. Your jaw goes slack and a moan slips out, stars blooming across your vision.
âRight here, honey?â
You blink until you can see clearly, finding him watching you from between your legs with his mouth still pressed to your clit. âYes,â you breathe, âlike that, Iâm closeâŚâ
Thatâs when he releases you with a *pop*, fingers stopping inside of you. âNot yet,â he rumbles. âGonna make this last. You taste too good.â
He keeps you on the brink like this for ages â hours could have passed and you would have never known. Just as the cord begins to splinter, he slows his hand and releases your clit, breathing heavily over it like heâs catching his breath, like heâs the one being brought to the edge. Every time he does this, you whine his name through your teeth, tears blurring your vision, until he decides youâve been patient enough and resumes his assault.
âTalk to me,â he mutters, free hand pulling you closer to his face, then laps at the little button just above your entrance. You arch off the counter, skin on fire.
âFuck, Iâm so close, Bucky, so close â just wanna come, please â wanna come on your faceââ
He buries himself into your center with a fierce determination, fingers gliding in and out with brutal dedication and curling at the right places.
âBuckyâŚB-Bucky, Iââ
âGive it to me,â he growls, flicking his tongue rapidly against you.
You fall apart in seconds, your body tightening and releasing with a snap as the cord breaks. Slick leaks around his hand in a sudden gush that stains his sleeve. You curl into yourself as the orgasm wracks your body, legs closing around his head, keeping him in place, threatening to suffocate him.
Bucky works you through it, making soft noises against your flesh, pressing his fingers to the special spot inside of you while frenching your clit. He eases up when your legs tremble around him, your fingers twitching against his roots from oversensitivity, and pulls away to watch you come back down to earth.
When you finally get reacquainted with reality, you only see him.
Kneeling before you, he looks the part of a sinner at an altar, seeking absolution in the divine. From the look in his eyes, you think heâs found it.
He stands, holding your legs steady against his chest; the lower half of his face is soaked, glistening in the soft light of the kitchen. He licks his lips before leaning over you, dragging his mouth across yours with a featherlight brush. Your tongue eagerly reaches out to taste yourself on him, a surge of possessive pride running through your blissed out body.
He moans into your mouth at your boldness, giving you what youâre searching for. His tongue strokes yours from back to front, sharing the taste of your arousal. Itâs sweet and sour at the same time, new and surprisingly addicting; you understand why Bucky wanted to stay rooted at the source.
Just as your body begins to hum at the thought, you feel the length of him behind his slacks press into your center. It makes you jump, letting out a small squeak, but Bucky shushes you, sliding his arms around your back, setting you upright on the counter.
He finds your eyes, cups your jaw in his hand. âIâm gonna fuck you now.â
He says it so simply, like itâs a known fact the universe has held on to for a millennia. You frantically reach for him, arms winding around his neck as your lips meet.
In a blur of moving walls and flashing lights, he picks you up and carries you to the bedroom, laying you gently down on top of his bed. His hands find the hem of your shirt and tug it over your head efficiently, leaving you completely bare to him now. He leans back to stand at the foot of the bed, taking in your naked body splayed out for him and only him.
You imagine how you must look in his eyes, bottom lip bitten raw, nipples stiff, pussy swollen and wet with his spit and your arousal. You hope he likes what he sees.
Based on the hungry look on his face, you think he does.
Bucky places trembling hands on both of your ankles, rubbing at the bone before they slide delicately up your calves, the ghost of a touch that turns your core molten. When he gets to your knees he squeezes, pushing on a pressure point that makes your legs jump apart.
He lets go, restraint written all across his face as he begins to slowly take off his shirt.
âGod, look at you,â he mumbles, eyes half-lidded. âSheâs so pretty like that.â
The fact that heâs talking about your pussy makes your eyes roll back. Never has dirty talk sounded like music to your ears, until now.
âIâve been thinking about you like this for weeks â fucked my hand in the shower to you before youâd come over. I felt horrible for it every timeâŚturns out you were thinking about me like this, too.â
He meets your stare as he pulls his under shirt over his head, leaving you to ogle at the sharp angles of his chest, the hard cut of his abs. The dark chest hair expands across his skin, leading down to a trail that disappears into his pants. You want your mouth on it immediately.
You reach for him, one hand lifting in the air, but Bucky smacks it away with a light tap. Your eyes go wide.
âWhole time I couldâve had you like this, I was just imagining you instead. Iâll never forgive myself for all that time lost, spent picturing you spread out for me, or on your knees for me, or handcuffed to my bedâŚâ
Bucky trails off, watching you squirm from his words. He undoes his belt, the clink of metal interrupting the heavy silence; he lets his pants slide down his legs before he reaches into his briefs and pulls out his cock.
Your lips part, drool pooling at the corners.
Heâs thick and long with a flushed, leaking tip. His thumb runs over it to smear it down his shaft, hand moving slowly along the skin, just enough to keep him rock hard.
âAre you gonna let me know what the real thing is like?â
âYes,â you gasp, your fingers creeping toward your center. âYes, Bucky. I want it all, pleaseââ
He spots your fingers beginning to tease at your clit. In a flash, he has your wrists in one hand, the other picking up the pace on his cock. One look from him is the only warning you need.
âNext time Iâll hold you down any way I want,â he says, voice dangerously low. âIâll take my time. Make sure you never forget how I feel inside of you. Iâll make you come until your body gives out on me.â
You shudder underneath him, a sticky warmth dripping out of you.
âAnd in the morning, when youâre cooking me breakfast to thank me for the best fuck of your life, Iâll take you again on the counter because I can. The foodâll burn, but you wonât say anything, youâll just let me like you should.â
His hand tightens around your wrists.
âAnd when I get home late from work, and youâre passed out in my bed, Iâll wake you up with my cock inside you, because I havenât thought about anything else all day, and I wonât waste a second of finally being able to fuck you again.â
Your whimper is positively shameful, the mess between your legs growing worse by the minute. Bucky releases you. Your hands fall onto the bed with a hollow smack â you donât dare move them. Not when heâs watching you with those sharp eyes.
He loses the briefs, leaving him utterly naked before you. How many times have you dreamt of this? Too many to count. Slowly, he crawls onto the bed and over your body. You feel his cock glide up your thigh, rigid and hot to the touch.
âBut tonight I just wanna feel you,â he murmurs, his lips brushing yours. âDonât want to wait any longer.â
The hand around his cock moves to your core, expertly gathering your arousal and dragging it up your folds. You follow his hand with your hips, moaning, your fingers twitching to touch him but unsure of the consequences.
He plays your body like heâs known it his whole life. Fingertips rolling your clit back and forth before teasing your entrance. Your breath catches when he eases a finger in, making his lips curve up in a smile, open mouth hovering over yours; he watches your face with unwavering focus, learning your tells and tics as you come apart for him once again.
When heâs knuckle-deep in you, your spine locks up. You moan his name, hands flying up to grasp at his neck. He exhales heavily as he fucks you with his finger, warm breath fanning across your lips.
âThatâs it, baby, show me how it feelsâŚI wanna see what I do to youâŚâ
Your nails dig into his skin, bound to leave marks. You huff when he suddenly skips a second finger, going straight for three. âOh!â
âCome on, sweetheart, you can take it. Be my good girl.â
Buckyâs fingers are much bigger than yours, and reach greater depths; you feel full of him already, and itâs not even close to what his cock will do to you. The stretch burns around his fingers, the muscles protesting yet welcoming them at the same time.
âB-Bucky, itâsâŚtooâŚtooââ
âGotta open you up, doll, youâre not ready for me yet,â he murmurs against your cheek. âRelax and let me take care of youâŚâ
His words are your command; you sink into the mattress and tilt your hips up until he hits a spot that releases the tension from your body. Your pussy flutters around him, pulling him deeper.
âThere she is,â he whispers. âGod, you feel unreal like this. So warm and tight.â
You let out a high-pitched whine when the heel of his hand comes down forcibly on your clit. The stimulation rocks through you with an hedonistic effect, pleasure building quickly to the point of no return.
âFuck,â you cry out, biting at his ear. His answering groan is lewd.
âYou gonna come for me again?â he grits through his teeth, grinding his palm over your bundle of nerves.
âOh, God,â you sob, arching into him. You can feel the wave of pleasure building, building, growing in intensity. He leans back to spit directly onto your clit, then smears it with his hand, moving faster, fingers plunging in and out at a delicious tempo.
âLetâs see it,â Bucky says, âshow me you want my cock. You said you wanted it, show me you can take it.â
His fingers curl against your walls and you shatter as the wave crashes into you. Your whole body is a sea of live wires and nerve endings as you come for him, muscles tensing and relaxing and tensing again like your bodyâs hooked up to an electroshock machine. He breathes heavily over you as you convulse, thumb gently circling your clit to ease the comedown, until youâre panting and gasping and twisting out of his grip.
He releases you, nose nudging at your temple as your breaths even out.
âGonna take my cock so well, sweetheart,â he whispers. A whimper escapes you, a spent tear sliding down your cheek. He brushes it away with his lips.
His knee nudges your legs further apart, making room for his broad body to settle firmly between them. He lines himself up with your center, the tip of him just grazing your needy entrance. Bucky looks down at you then.
âYou want this?â he murmurs, voice low and soft andâŚvulnerable, the bravado from earlier stripped away now. His eyes ask for one last confirmation that this is real.
It sparks a set of real tears from you, and you have to blink quickly to keep them where they are. You silently grieve for the Bucky who thought heâd never get this with you, who thought itâd only ever stay a dream, just as you grieved the same thing for yourself, knowing how much pain lived within you each day just from carrying a silent love for someone.
But youâre here now, fitted underneath him like missing puzzle pieces reuniting, and itâs very, very real.
Your chin tilts up to brush a kiss on his mouth. âI love you, Bucky,â you breathe.
A shudder runs through him, a sharp exhale falling from his lips. He rolls his hips forward automatically and the first inch of him slides home. He splits you open on his cock with a finality that soothes as much as it burns. You gasp with him, open mouths sharing a breath and eyes locked together as he feels your pussy pull at him, adjusting to the size while asking for more.
âLove you,â he mumbles, pushing forward, his cock slowly dragging down your walls. âLove you so much.â
âOh!â you moan when the size of him makes its presence known by knocking against your sweet spot already.
A breathless laugh leaves him as he hovers above you. âOf course youâre this fucking tight. Like youâre fucking made for me.â He hisses as he slides fully in, you answer with a low whine. âFeel so fucking perfect.â
Buckyâs panting by the time his hips rest against yours, swearing under his breath. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other holds your leg open, seeking out a final nonexistent inch of space to get closer to you. Youâre clenching hard around his cock, testing his resolve, accommodating to the feeling of being stuffed full of him. Itâs all-consuming and disorienting and feels much bigger than just two people becoming one. Your face nuzzles into his shoulder, whimpers escaping your throat.
âOh, God, youâreâŚâ you whisper.
Bucky shushes you. âI know, baby. Doing so good.â
He draws back at a glacial pace, revering the feel of your tight walls against his cock, until just the tip is left and youâre already aching for him to fill you again. He pushes back in easily, fitting into place with a slow, deep thrust.
âFuck,â he mutters, kissing your forehead. You whine. He responds by starting a brutal pace, sliding a big hand down your thigh to hitch it higher around his waist. He pushes your other leg against your chest, opening you up to the steady, rhythmic motion of his hips. You feel the warmth sparking in your core again, growing hotter and hotter with each thrust, building in intensity every time he mouths at your throat or forces you to meet his eyes with a firm grip around your jaw.
Heâs commanding in the softest way possible, anchoring you to this moment with touches and kisses that sear your skin, some featherlight, some heavier, shocking your system each time with their contrast, until all of existence has been consumed by him.
Buckyâs cock hits every delicious point within your walls like heâs already memorized your body. He draws out whimpers and soft cries from you repeatedly, to the point that you think heâs become addicted to them, finding the right spot and honing in on it like a man obsessed. The noises you make layer over the muffled, wet sounds of your bodies joining, of heated skin moving against heated skin, and it sounds like a goddamn symphony of love.
He doesnât leave you guessing how good youâre making him feel either.
He groans his approval every time you arch up into him, meeting his hips with your own.
âThatâs it, sweetheartâŚtaking me so wellâŚâ
You let out a moan when his tip drags along your cervix, pussy fluttering around his cock. Bucky makes a choked noise, pace stuttering.
âFuck, sheâsâsheâs milking me, honey,â he gasps, pupils dilating till thereâs no more blue. âGod, you feel incredible. So perfect. My girlâŚâ His mouth reaches for yours, drawing you in for an earth-shattering kiss; the heat in your belly swells as your tongues dance, his words seeping deep into your soul.
âBuckyââ you whine against his lips, feeling the start of your orgasm begin to crest. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, his back, tethering yourself to him.
Bucky can feel youâre close. He speeds up, licking down your chest to pull a nipple into his mouth, sucking and biting to multiply the sparks dancing up and down your body. One hand locks itself into your hair again, the other slips down to your clit, thumb brushing back and forth just slow enough to draw the pleasure out.
âOh! Oh shit â fuck, Buckyââ
âLet me hear it,â he growls against your skin, his arm shaking beside your head where his forearm holds himself up on the mattress. You turn to bite into his bicep as the buildup inside of you finally explodes.
You shudder through a low groan, equal parts pained and relieved. Your orgasm crashes through you like waves on a beach, sending your brain tumbling to the brink of a dark abyss. Your eyes flutter closed.
Bucky takes every pulse and throb you have to offer him, riding it out with frantic thrusts that are borderline manic. His eyes are wild but eternally locked on you as he extends this moment for as long as possible, continuing his assault on your clit while you jerk and shake underneath him.
âF-fuckâ Jesus, babyââ
Through the heavy haze of your world-bending pleasure, you can feel Buckyâs cock twitch inside of you. He pulls at your hair to tilt your chin back.
âLook at me,â he begs lowly. You open your eyes to find him hovering above you again, eyes wide as they drink you in, pink lips shiny from his work on your nipple. âGood girl,â he breathes, thrusts faltering when he meets your gaze. âGood fucking girl. Keep your eyes on me while I fill you up.â
You arch into him again, a powerful aftershock of your orgasm ripping through you. Bucky groans, forehead falling to yours.
âYou like that, sweetheart? You want me to fill you up?â
His hips smack into yours, finally giving your clit a break as his arm pushes back both of your legs as far as they can go. You think you see another planet when his cocks finds a new place inside of you that you didnât know existed.
âOh, God,â you sob, feeling like youâre floating out of your body from the change in angle. âI want all of it, Buckyââ
âYeah?â he grits out between his teeth, slowing down to hard thrusts that push your body up the bed. âGreedy little thing. Iâll give you all of it, baby, you can take it.â
You nod because your words have turned into babbling cries â Buckyâs removed all coherent thoughts from your head. Youâre reduced to the five senses now, and all of them are overwhelmed with him.
âGonna give it all to you just like this,â he says, and brings you in for a desperate kiss.
Your body hums and vibrates through the final waves of your orgasm while Bucky nears his, pounding into you with a deep intensity that you feel in your bones. When he comes, he moans unashamedly into your mouth, broad body locking up as his hips still with a loud snap against yours.
âFuck, never letting you go,â he stutters out, words slurred, ânever giving up this pussy. All mineââ
You can feel the heat of his cum pool into your core, filling you up as it was meant to, leaving you satisfied in ways youâd like to explore deeper another time. Bucky breathes heavily into your mouth, a groan slipping out every now and then as he lets the pleasure wash over him.
When both of your breaths have evened out, he pulls back, far enough for those dark eyes â slowly changing back to the bright blue â to search your face.
âYou okay?â he asks softly, shyly. Your hands slide down his back, gentle over the nail marks youâve left on it.
âMore than okay,â you whisper. âThat wasâŚamazingâŚyouâre amazing.â
He shakes his head.
âThat was all you, my love.â
You smile, your fingers brushing the damp strands of hair on the back of his neck. âI think I like that nickname the best.â
A tender smile curls his lips, and he leans down to press a kiss to the space between your eyebrows, then the tip of your nose, then your lips. You keep him there, moving your mouth languidly against him until Buckyâs cock has softened enough inside of you for him to pull out.
You both hiss at the loss of contact, and thereâs a cool edge to the air as it brushes against your well-abused pussy. With a light groan, Bucky pushes himself back on his knees, your legs falling bonelessly to the bed on either side of him. You watch with love-drunk eyes as he ducks down to observe the slow trickle of his cum from your hole, and your cheeks flare up with heat when he bends over to place a kiss on your clit.
âBucky,â you mumble, legs closing on instinct, but he holds them open as he begins lapping at both of your releases spilling from you, cleaning you up while also stuffing it back into you with his tongue.
You cry out from the new sensations on your oversensitive pussy, a hand darting down to his hair to push him away or tug him closer, youâre unsure. Either way, youâre a panting mess again by the time heâs had his fill â literally.
He crawls up your body slowly, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand before settling over you. You can feel yourself relax once the skin of his chest meets yours again.
âHad to taste you again,â he murmurs, âsomehow yâtaste even better with me in you.â
A delicate shiver rolls down your spine. Heâs fucking filthy and you love it.
He kisses you deeply, the remnants of your combined releases waking up your tastebuds, then pulls away, leaving you alone on the bed. Your heart flutters as you watch Buckyâs naked figure disappear into his closet, returning half a moment later clad in briefs and holding another pair along with his comfiest, biggest sweatshirt and a wet cloth from the bathroom.
âCome here, sweet girl,â he whispers, kneeling on the edge of the bed.
You comply as best as you can, rolling yourself toward him with whatever strengthâs left in your body, which isnât a lot. He meets you halfway, hauling you close with his big, strong arms, and runs the warm cloth along your center, gentle strokes that only pull out the softest of sighs from you; he tosses it into the hamper once youâre clean before sliding the briefs up your legs gently, rubbing your skin along the way, and pulling the sweatshirt over your head, helping your arms through as well.
When youâre bundled up in his clothes, he climbs onto the bed and lays you across his chest like you weigh nothing, like youâre made of rubber, like thereâs not a thought in your head capable of doing it for yourself.
Thereâs a good chance there isnât.
Bucky tugs the covers up to your waists, entwining his legs with yours and pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. Your hand finds his chest and strokes the skin there, feeling his heartbeat with every pass.
âCanât believe we couldâve been doing this for weeks,â you mumble.
You hear a low rumble of laughter in Buckyâs chest. âLots to make up for.â He pulls you tighter against him as your eyes begin to droop, the feeling of a long, hard fuck rendering you exhausted. His sigh into your hair tells you he feels the same, and his cheek drops to the top of your head.
After a quiet moment, he says, âYou didnât eat.â
You giggle sleepily. âIt wasnât that good anyway.â
âNot true, it was justâŚa different take on Italian.â
âNice save.â
âSeriously. Do you want something?â
You hum into his chest. âMaybe pizza, from Luigiâs? Later, though. Right now I just want this.â
His heart skips a beat beneath your hand and he wraps impossibly closer around you. Youâre grinning like a deranged lunatic into his skin, the giddiness of your current predicament keeping you awake for a few moments longer.
âMy love,â he breathes. Not a question, nor the start of a statement. Just the name, new and bold and absolutely perfect.
Your brain recalls that first gala together, when he introduced you as his friend all night, and it made sense until it didnât, until your heart moved to a place your brain couldnât get to yet and decided that âfriendâ wasnât enough. Listening to him now, you know your heartâs been patiently waiting for this the whole time.
Then your mind conjures up another memory, more startling than the last: of the days leading up to the agreement, when you moved around your apartment like a ghost as you considered his offer, ignoring your bills and worrying a path into your hardwood floors. You had all but decided to say yes to Bucky, but the thing that gave you pause was your mom. Your brain couldnât help but wonder what sheâd think of you for agreeing to something like this, whatâd she say if she knew her daughter signed a contract with a billionaire for companionship.
As you listen to Buckyâs steady heart beat in his chest, as you feel his hands stroke tenderly down your skin, youâre struck with the answer you couldnât find then: sheâd be so fucking happy for you.
Smiling, you melt against him, basking in the dawn of something new, something beautiful that awaits you on the horizon with Bucky by your side.
His hand traces circles on your arm, his lips brush your hair, he whispers your name over and over and over until you fall asleep surrounded in his love.
Luigiâs comes much later than you planned. The two of you donât stir for a long time, until the early morning hours when the sky is still gray and traffic is just a trickle. Bucky shifts beneath you as your eyes flutter open, arms tightening around your waist.
âTell me Iâm not dreaming.â
You sigh, tilting your face up to his, a soft smile stretching across your face.
âWant me to pinch you?â
Heâs watching you with a sleepy, adoring gaze, hands creeping under your sweatshirt to press against your warm skin.
âHow âbout a kiss instead?â
Buckyâs drawing you closer before he finishes his sentence, gently capturing your lips with his in a slow, lazy kiss.
âStill think youâre dreaming?â you whisper against his mouth.
âMmm. Need a little more to make sureâŚâ
His hands slide up your back as he kisses you again, deeper this time, with intention, until youâre breathless putty in his arms. Buckyâs mouth moves down your jaw when you pull back for air. âBuckyâŚâ you breathe, feeling his leg slide between yours, and a certain hardness pressing into your stomach. But as his thigh reaches the juncture between your legs, you twitch, wincing, biting down on a moan. Youâre sore â very, very sore.
Bucky notices right away, leaning back to search your face. âYouâre hurt.â
You quickly shake your head. âNot hurt, just sore. The good kind,â you add when you see the beginnings of guilt cross his face. You take his jaw in your hands, keeping him close. âYou made me feel things Iâve never felt before last night, Buck. Worth it.â
Bucky stares at you for a moment, face blank, until his forehead drops to yours. He groans softly, thumbs smoothing the skin of your shoulders.
âNow I know Iâm dreaming. Youâre too perfect to be real.â
âYou know, youâre real corny after you get some. Should I expect breakfast in bed next?â you tease.
He buries his face into your neck, hiding the pink flush to his cheeks. He mumbles something, but you canât make it out.
âWhat was that? Something about rose petals in the bath?â
Bucky nips at your collarbone in retribution as you laugh. Eventually he shows his face to you again, still flushed, but his expression is somber.
âIâm sorry if I was rough with you. I can learn to be softer, ifâ
âDonât. I love you just the way you are,â you hush him, pulling him in for another kiss. He responds softly, lovingly, easing his leg between you gently until youâre crisscrossed together beneath the sheets, waiting for the first rays of light to shine on the first day of the rest of your lives.
âDonât forget to call me if you need me!â you shout to your assistant as she all but shoves you out the door. Her sarcastic salute tells you that she will not be calling you during your time off, even if the office burned down.
You slide your sunglasses on as you walk out into the September sunshine. Itâs a beautiful day, the first chill of fall in the air reminding you of why itâs your favorite time of year. Well, that and a certain anniversary.
Buckyâs leaning against the sleek red sports car at the curb (your gift is finally having its moment). Heâs devastating in a light blue suit with the button down open to give you a generous view of his chest hair. The smile breaks across your face automatically, instinctively, and you all but skip down the steps to him.
He wears his own smug grin as you approach, arms opening to catch you when you launch yourself into them; his mouth is on yours instantly, bringing you close for a searing reunion kiss.
âHow was your day, my love?â he murmurs against your lips. You smile, fingers sliding into the hair at the back of his neck.
âBusy. Long. Lonely without you,â you tease.
âMmm, same here. Feels like itâs been years since I last saw you.â
âYou saw me at lunch, babe.â
âToo long.â
You kiss him hard again, feeling the familiar planes of his body press into yours. He pulls back reluctantly with a groan when youâre good and dizzy.
âAs much as Iâd love to continue this, we have a plane to catch.â
You tilt your head. âIf itâs your plane, donât they have to wait for you?â
âDoesnât work like that, sweetheart.â
âI thought it works whatever way I want it to.â
He gives you a look as he opens the door for you, raising an eyebrow. âEager, are we?â
You slide into the seat. âCanât a girl celebrate a little?â
âWell, Iâve never had road head before, but Iâll try anything once.â He swings your door shut with a wink before coming around to the driverâs side; youâre still laughing when he joins you.
âNice try,â you say, âbut your driving would put an end to that real quick.â
âIâm a good driver.â
âHoney. No.â
âSays the girl without a license. Talk to me when you can drive.â
The words hold no real bite as he puts the car into drive and pulls into traffic. His free hand takes its place on your knee, squeezing gently; you cover it with your own, fingers threading together, in search of the soothing feel of skin-to-skin.
âWhatâs the first thing you want to do when we get to Paris?â you ask. He smirks, eyes on the road.
âPractice my French on your pussy. Ma magnifique amante.â
Your other hand reaches for his ear, giving it a quick pinch that earns you a tighter squeeze to your thigh.
âStop distracting the driver.â
You laugh. âIâm serious! What do you want to do?â
He glances at you, a twinkle in his eye. âI thought you had everything planned. You paid for this trip with your hard-earned, Senior Marketing Analyst money, after all.â
âI know,â you say, smiling giddily, âbut I thought we could decide together. Make it our trip. You only celebrate your one year anniversary of meeting each other once.â
Bucky rolls his eyes, taking a sharp right turn that has you careening into him; he takes advantage of the physics and presses a kiss to your cheek, making you blush. A year after knowing him, and four months of being ravished by him day and night, he still gives you butterflies from the simplest gestures.
âIs that what weâre calling it? Sounds like a mouthful. I could give youââ
âDonât you dare finish that sentence, James. Even the French can censor themselves,â you warn, wagging a finger in his face. He snaps at it, baring his teeth, and your heart explodes with warmth at his playfulness.
âAlright,â Bucky concedes, âweâll decide together. But this is still your trip.â
You reach over to caress his cheek softly, drinking in his profile as if you havenât already memorized it. âDeal. Only because I like taking care of you â when you let me.â
Bucky smiles, leaning into your touch. âIâll start thinking up some ways to thank you,â he replies.
âPlease donât. Itâll probably be something amazing that one-ups my trip to Paris,â you joke lightly, scratching at the gray in his beard. Bucky huffs a laugh, eyes finding yours and shining with something bright and mysterious.
âWeâll see,â he says, placing a kiss to your palm before he turns back to the road. You lean back in your seat, smiling gently, mind already in Paris, picturing the silk sheets youâll be tangled up in with your boyfriend in a matter of hours.
Bucky shifts in his seat with a small grin, feeling the weight of the ring box tucked safely in his pocket, bringing you closer and closer to your next adventure.
sammy speaks again: yeah Iâm emotional. sorry it took so long, I was on vacation!!! canât believe itâs over, but thanks for coming along with me on this ride. seriously it has been SO fun!!! canât wait to give you more soon (very soon lol)
i love the soldiers keeping SO much đ i read the whole thing in one go and now im re reading it again đ is there any chance youre going to continue updating ?
I totally get you, I love that story so so soso much. I have a whole playlist dedicated to it that I listen to regularly. And honestly I totally want to update it again!! Iâve just been so busy, but I want to find time for it.
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warnings: 18+ MDNI, eventual smut, fluffy!Bucky, power imbalance, sugar daddy / sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader in mid-to-late twenties while Buckyâs in his early forties), mentioned illness/death of parents (minor characters), money troubles, i.e., debt, bills, etc., alcohol consumption, one instance of smoking cigarettes, no mentions of y/n
word count: 12.5k
part two: coming soon
summary: The arrangement is simple enough: you give him friendship, he gives you a better life. But between the private dinners cozied up in a booth and the charity galas pressed to his side, itâs getting harder for you to hold up your end of the bargain when youâre starting to feel things for your sugar daddy that were not included in the contractâŚ
sammy speaks: so the rumors are true, I am in fact buckyâs sugar baby and this is my autobiography, thank you for reading it!! could easily say this is my magnum opus, I donât think Iâve put more time and effort into a piece of writing than I have this one. I hope everyone out there on the bucky x reader tag gets the chance to read it <3
Your shift is off to a very bad start.
The subway broke down â again â which means you had to sprint the last six blocks in your tiny skirt and sheer tights just to make it to work forty minutes late. Sweat pours down your back by the time you burst through the service door; the girls still lingering after the day shift give you wary looks while you lean against the wall, panting and brushing wet strands of hair from your face. You donât care.
All you want is some water and to clean yourself up before heading out onto the floor, but your manager decides now is as good a time as any to give you a lecture on tardiness.
Your lungs are still struggling for air as you endure his power trip, your teeth grinding together over the fact that he hadnât let you clock in before launching into his tirade. His ruddy face and the drool collecting at the corners of his mouth wouldâve made for a comical sight if you werenât already fuming over your situation. By the time he tires himself out, heâs eaten away at seven additional minutes you couldâve been paid for.
Safe to say, thereâs a black cloud over your head when you finally emerge onto the floor. Cleaning yourself up had been futile â there was nothing you could do about your hair, and youâre putting a lot of faith in the ambiance to keep the sweat stains on your uniform indiscernible. And not only are you sticky with dried sweat, smelling of the cheap drug store body spray and year-old deodorant you borrowed, but blisters are beginning to form after your uncoordinated run in heels earlier. You have a feeling youâll be cleaning dried blood from them at the end of the shift, and until then, every step will be torture.
That is until you see the floor map at the host stand, then you donât even register the pain anymore. The hostess fidgets nervously beside you as you double and triple-check what youâre seeing.
At first glance, it looks like it always does. You have the same tables every night with the same people filling them like clockwork, because this place thrives on consistency and itâs common knowledge that regulars have the deepest pockets. Everything looks normalâŚexcept for one table. And once your eyes catch on it, it makes your heart seize.
Your Friday night 8:30 p.m. regulars is missing â the group of eighty-something year-old men that like to compare you to their granddaughters and fuss over your wellbeing and always tip like itâs their last day on earth are no longer in their usual back booth. No, the long-standing reservation under âS. Leeâ is off in another corner of the screen. In Melissaâs section. In her booth.
âThis has to be a mistake,â you say out loud. The young girl playing hostess for the evening squeaks, curling in on herself.
âIâm sorry, he made me,â she whispers urgently, and you know she means your manager. âYou were running late and he didnât want them to wait, so he had me put them at Melâs table next to the pianoââ
You tune her out, a hand covering your eyes to block out every sensory input you could. The missing table of your best regulars feels like the death blow to your optimism, your hope, your last chance. With debt collectors clogging up your voicemail, you havenât thought about anything but this shift for the last week. A lot was riding on it, and not just the tips or the wages â tonight was going to be the night you swallowed your pride and pitched your sob story to the table of Warren Buffet clones. Itâs a gamble â one that risks your job if you donât play your cards right â but after months of buttering them up with winks and pats and an endless amount of patience for repeatedly-told stories, you figured at least two out of the six might crack open their wallets for a charitable cause of a motherless young woman with crippling medical debt.
But now you would never know. The thought hurts a lot worse than the blisters.
It takes great effort to slap a smile on your face and act like you didnât just miss the last lifeboat on the sinking ship, but every time you pass the empty booth, a cold chill runs down your spine. Deadlines, due dates, and late notices swirl in your brain while you take orders or fake laughter. Your mind has catalogued everything you think the repo men will take first when they come knocking next week. Itâs a dark and winding internal spiral.
But just when you think it canât get any worse, your black cloud becomes a roaring thunderstorm.
You know the hostess thought she was helping â youâve been catching her apologetic looks from the corner of your eye throughout the shift. But when she creeps over to you cautiously, a small smile on her face, and says she found the perfect replacement reservation for you, youâre about ready to dump a pitcher of water over her head.
âReplacementâ rings alarm bells in your head. âReplacementâ means reservations outside of the regularsâ time slots. âReplacementâ means snotty out-of-towners with connections or ignorant first-time club members. âReplacementâ means trouble.
And trouble they are.
You assess your new group of gentleman from across the bar. There are seven of them in the secluded booth, all of them spread out and lounging comfortably like theyâve been patrons of your table for years. You donât recognize any of them, and neither does the bartender, which confirms your biggest fears. Youâre at risk of cracking a tooth.
But your manager appears out of nowhere, giving you the evil eye, so you have no choice but to relax your jaw and make your way over to the newcomers.
Your forced smile could power a small generator when you sidle up to the table.
âWelcome to The Alpine, gentlemen. How are we?â
Seven pairs of eyes snap to you, and you know what comes next: the head-to-toe look over and appreciative smiles that follow shortly after. The tall blonde in the middle has a particularly disarming curl to his lips that raises the hair on the back of your neck.
âBetter, now that youâre here,â he quips, line of vision resting somewhere between your chin and your naval. The man beside him chuckles.
âWell, glad I could be of service,â you say brightly, eyelashes fluttering on command. Even if it kills you, youâll flirt like hell with them if it means better tips. âWhat brings you in tonight?â
The blonde one speaks up again. âOur friend here just bought another nightclub,â he says, gesturing to a man to his right. âSo we thought weâd celebrate him adding to his empire.â
Your smile never falters, but you feel your eye twitch.
âHow exciting,â you manage to say.
It takes you much longer than necessary to get their drink orders. The blonde man â whose name you learned is Walker â doesnât seem to know how to stop talking. Even if you shoved a dirty bar towel down his throat, you think heâd still be shooting off jokes. Probably about ball gags, after hearing the mouth on him.
As you walk away to put in their orders, you can just hear Walkerâs nasty little comparison of a bouncy ball and your ass. Your eyes roll so hard they hurt.
When you return with their drinks, he once again zeroes in on your neckline.
âHow long have you been working here, sweetie?â he asks your breasts, voice cutting through the othersâ conversations. Your smile is blank and placid as you hand him his drink, ignoring the purposeful drag of his fingers over yours.
âComing up on a year,â you reply. âLong enough to know when someone interesting walks in.â
You add a wink for good measure and he devours it. Sitting up straighter, Walker puffs out his chest.
âInteresting, huh?â he asks with a smirk thatâs probably meant to seduce but instead summons vomit. âSounds like I might be a new favorite of yours.â
Do not gag do not gag do not gagâ
âOh, I donât do favorites. I just like my clientele to feel special.â
God, you might make yourself vomitâ
âGood to know,â he drawls, âbecause Iâll be around a lot more soon. Barnes is getting me on the short-list next month, right, Barnes?â
Before whichever man named Barnes can reply, Walker continues. âSo donât go running off anywhere. Wouldnât want you breaking my heart before I even get settled in.â
The cliche of it all has you actively fighting the urge to burst out laughing.
âAnd give up the chance to have you as a regular? Wouldnât dream of it,â you soothe, smile cracking with your hidden mirth. The man at the end of the booth makes a noise somewhere between a snort and cough, but Walker beams like he won the lottery.
As the drinks flow, his audacity grows, which you find as shocking as it is endearing â which is to say, not at all. But you play along, because what other choice do you have? None when Walkerâs giving all the signs that heâll be footing the bill.
So you keep it up, the back and forth, the balance of flirty and dismissive responses; you can see the interest growing in Walkerâs eyes as his sobriety shrinks. His friends are right there with him, and soon enough the energy of the table starts to shift in Walkerâs direction.
âThat vest really does wonders for you.â
âI like it when a girl shows a little skin.â
âThat skirt looks like it was made for you.â
Your patience is wearing thin.
To their credit, a couple others at the table try to rein him in when they can, including the man of the hour, the club buyer, an attractive guy in his early forties called Sam. He makes pointed subject changes and laughs off the awkwardness when Walker makes a comment that lands just this side of perverted. Truthfully, you wouldnât mind Walker running his mouth until you had grounds to have him removed, essentially destroying whatever chance he has at the âshort-list,â or whatever the fuck that made up thing was. But you appreciate Samâs efforts all the same.
And then thereâs the other guy, the one on the end, who takes a more direct approach to shutting Walker up.
Walkerâs in the middle of a slurred proposition for you to accompany him home after your shift when the man at the end of the booth lifts his head.
âEnough,â he says bluntly, suddenly; his voice is low and rough, direct. The tongue-in-cheek comment about sharing a bed immediately dies on Walkerâs lips, his eyes flashing to his interruptor.
He doesnât even bother looking at Walker, staring at his drink as he slowly spins it on the table, still his first one when the others are on their fourth or fifth. Thereâs a brief flash of something black and gold peeking from underneath the cuff of his suit jacket â a brilliant watch, clearly high-end and probably worth more than youâll ever make in your life. A ring sits on his pinky, polished titanium. His charcoal suit fits his shoulders like every stitch and seam were custom made for his measurements â and maybe they were.
You see money in various forms all the time at this job, but occasionally youâll stumble across real money. Big money. Stupid money. The kind that expresses itself quietly instead of boisterously like Mr. Short-List. Itâs not always easy to spot, but youâve learned how to over the last year, and when you do, it doesnât fail to knock you on your ass every time.
One quick look and you know this man has real money. Your heart stutters in your chest, thoughts of your stack of unpaid bills wiping the smile clean off your face.
On the other side of the table, Sam disrupts the new silence by making a brave pivot to the stock market, something the rest of the group jumps on, even Walker. Youâre attempting to swallow the lump in your throat, scrambling to grab empty glasses and old napkins, when you feel eyes on you.
Itâs him, the man at the end of the booth.
His eyes are a startlingly bright blue that sends an electric shock down your spine. His face, looking like it was carved straight from Michelangeloâs private diary, stays neutral as you meet his gaze; you can see the years on him through scars and scruff and wrinkles around the eyes, but you wouldnât guess him to be older than forty-five. His thick dark hair is swept back, threaded with silver near the temples that matches the silver around his chin.
Heâs watching you like heâs waiting for something. Some sort of reaction maybe. His pink lips are parted like heâs about to ask a question. You have no idea what it could be.
Not giving yourself the chance to hesitate, the smile is back on your face with practiced ease. âCan I get you anything, sir?â you murmur quietly, trying to draw as little attention from the others as possible.
He blinks, breaking the undisclosed stare down between the two of you. âJust the check, please.â
âOf course. Can I get the name under the membership?â
âBarnes,â he says, holding out a black credit card for you to take. âJames Barnes. Thank you.â
âThank you, Mr. Barnes.â
His eyes find yours again and stare. You offer him one last smile before leaving.
Your fingers tap restlessly against the counter as you wait for the receipt to print. From across the room, you watch as the group at the booth begins to get up. Walkerâs foot catches on the lip and he stumbles into his friend; Samâs there immediately to usher them toward the door. You place the receipt in the black book and make your way back to the table, where James Barnes still sits, still staring at his drink.
Unfortunately, you have to pass Walker on your way over. With a sad excuse for a smile, you thank him for coming in tonight. He leans forward, into your personal space, reeking of liquor and leering at you.
âLeft my number on the napkin if you miss me too much. We can pick up where we left off when youâre done with work.â
Clearly he thought he was bestowing a tremendous gift on you, from the way he winks and struts away. Your smile drops as soon as you turn back to the table, where you see James Barnes staring at you yet again.
Feeling caught, you offer him a sheepish look, a small upturn of your lips, and hand him the receipt.
âThank you for coming in tonight, Mr. Barnes. We hope you come back soon.â
He hums, taking it from your hands; your fingers brush, and your brain has no choice but to acknowledge how different it feels from when Walker did it. He signs the receipt and offers it back to you before you have the chance to give him privacy, but when you grab it, he holds on to the other end, stopping you in your place.
âIâm sorry,â he says quietly, eyes boring into yours again, âfor what you had to put up with tonight.â
You blink. âOh, thatâs â itâs not a problem at all, your friends seem like a, uh â fun time.â
A smile flits across his face, crooked and devastating. âFun? So, you enjoy getting asked to go home with your customers?â
âIââ your blush lights up your face. âHe didnât mean it, Iâm sureââ
âHe did.â
âItâs fine,â you rush to say. âI get it a lot, comes with the territory. Call it a work perk.â
His eyebrow lifts.
âA work perk,â he repeats. âSure. Some places offer health insurance, but you get to be flirted with by married men.â
Fucking dick bag, you seethe internally, your mind conjuring up a scenario where you curb stomp Walker until his teeth fall out.
You try to smile but it feels like a grimace. âWhat can I say? Iâm living the dream.â
He chuckles, finally releasing the bill. His eyes sweep across your face.
âAre you?â
You pause. âAm I what?â
âLiving the dream.â
âIs anyone, really?â you say with a quirk of your lips.
âI donât know,â he allows, tilting his head. âMaybe not. But we keep pretending we are.â His gaze drifts around the room before settling back on you. âWere late nights and putting up with guys like Walker what you always pictured your life to look like?â
You chuckle, but thereâs hesitation in it. Images of your verbally abusive manager and meager paystubs flash through your mind. But thatâs the darker side of the club that customers arenât supposed to know about. As a server, your job is to slap a pair of rose-colored glasses over their eyes and keep them there. Yet heâs asking to take them off. It feels taboo.
Heâs looking at you like he can read your thoughts, but he waits for your answer like he has all the time in the world.
âUh, no,â you say slowly. âDefinitely not.â
You glance over your shoulder like youâre expecting your manager to be standing there, red-faced and spitting again.
âGood,â James murmurs, âI was starting to worry about your long-term goals.â
âIâmâŚIâm actually in school,â you admit before you can stop yourself. âGrad school. Masters in Business Analytics.â
His lips do something similar to a smile, but his eyes are serious as he leans your way. âImpressive. What are you hoping to do with this degree?â
You shrug, feeling the full weight of his undivided attention. It isnât uncomfortable, but itâs heavy.
âSomething with data. It kind of â I donât know â speaks to me, I guess? Iâm good with numbers. I can read an Excel sheet, which is half the battle. Interpreting data really isnât that difficult when you dictate the right models andââ You stop short and shake your head quickly. âIâm sorry. Iâm boring you.â
His smile returns. âYouâre not boring me.â
âI was rambling. You probably have better things to do than listen to me run my mouth about dictating data models,â you joke.
âOn the contrary,â he murmurs, âIâd like to hear what you have to say about data models.â
You look to the floor as the blush blooms across your face. âIt doesnât make for very thrilling conversation.â
âWeâre at The Alpine Club â Iâm pretty sure data models make up ninety percent of the conversations around here. Whatâs one more?â
You laugh, bright and unexpected. âYou got me there.â
He watches you for a moment, thoughtful.
âSo,â he says, twirling his empty glass, âwhat kind of data are you hoping to manipulate around when you graduate?â
You blink as his question lands. It isnât lost on you that heâs prolonging the conversation. Your weight shifts, you debate answering him; you have tables that havenât been touched in minutes, you have side work thatâs waiting for you in the back. Plus, your gut is screaming at you that this has gone a lot further than the average conversation between customer and server, especially when heâs already settled up. You should thank him for coming in and walk away.
âManipulating data sounds corrupt,â you say with a small smile. The side work can wait. âItâs more likeâŚmaking sense of it. Organizations collect all this information and half the time they donât even know what to do with it. I like the idea of being the person who can look at a mess of numbers and data points and say okay, hereâs the story.â
âSounds like an art,â he says.
âArtists donât use spreadsheets.â
âI think it still counts.â
Your hands tighten around the receipt book. âNot sure if Iâve ever heard someone call data analytics an art. Most people start disassociating when I mention Excel.â
âMost people are missing out.â
Your smile grows. âThat sounds like a line.â
âItâs not,â he says easily, placing both hands on the table. âIâm genuinely interested.â
âIn data?â
âIn you.â
The words are a shock to your system. You feel heat climb into your cheeks again. Okay, thatâs definitely a line.
That smile flickers on his face again, and he points toward his empty glass. âActually, do you mind if I get one more from you? Please?â
You hesitate for a moment before nodding, turning for the bar again. When you return with his drink, he takes it from you with gentle fingers that brush yours.
âDo you think youâd be able to sit with me? Just for the drink?â he asks.
You freeze.
âIf youâre busy, I understand,â he says quietly. âI donât want to keep you from your work.â
Chewing your lip, you chance a look at your section. Itâs died down considerably â closing time is near, but your last few tables have yet to pay. He watches you in that patient way of his.
âNo, itâs â Iâm not busy,â you mumble. Youâre about to move to the other side of the booth when he slides over deftly, leaving room for you to sit next to him with a healthy amount of distance left between. Your hesitation is quick, but obvious, although he says nothing when you eventually take the spot beside him.
âWhere do you go to school?â he asks, like there wasnât a break in the conversation.
âOâMalley.â
His eyebrows lift a fraction. âThatâs a great school.â
âHa. Thank you. Yeah, my mom nearly had a heart attack when I got my acceptance letter. Big school, bigger price tag.â Your nose wrinkles. âI guess you could say thatâs part of the reason Iâm here.â
Youâre not sure what made you bring up your mom â you havenât weaved her into conversation in weeks. While your brows furrow in thought, James shifts in his seat, suddenly, like a twitch but more intentional. He lifts the drink to his lips.
âPart of the reason?â he repeats.
âItâs a long story.â
He looks at you, eyes bright but calm.
âI have time.â
You exhale softly, unable to hold the eye contact. âIt â well, itâs not a very good story either.â
He doesnât say anything, letting you consider in silence whether or not to share. You donât tell your story very often â in fact, youâve tried running from it multiple times. Hence the reason the debt collectors were after you. Tonight was going to be a rare occurrence if you had actually ended up telling your table of regulars your tearful tale.
Sitting beside him, you canât deny the pull to James, nor the urge to tell him; you want to chalk it up to being prepared for another audience, but deep down, you know itâs something completely different.
With a sigh, you start.
âI had a lot saved up. A good chunk of it from my dadâs life insurance policy. Car accident when I was sixteen,â you add, when Jamesâ tilts his head questioningly. âIt wasâŚsad, but we got through it. My mom and me. I got the money when I turned twenty-two, just in time to graduate college. I worked at a bar part-time and made some money there, so I decided to take a year off before grad school. Travel. See the worldâŚâ
James clears his throat. âWhere did you go?â
âEurope. Mostly Italy. I love the food, the history, how the countryâs broken up by states and each one has its own cultureâŚâ You trail off, biting down on a smile. âI think itâs my favorite place in the world.â
Next to you, James shifts again, but heâs got a soft smile on his face as he watches the liquid swirl in his glass.
âBut then my mom got sick,â you continue, your voice lowering automatically. âStage 4 colon cancer. I came home right away, brought her to every doctor in the city, but they all said the same thing: that there was nothing they could do.â
Thereâs a sound like a hushed rumble coming from Jamesâ chest. He sets his drink down and meets your eyes.
âIâm sorry,â he says.
A stab of grief shoots through your heart at those two words. Youâve heard them a million times over in your life, eventually growing numb to them â especially when they came from strangers. But the way heâs looking at you, the simplicity in the way he said it, causes a reaction you havenât had in months. You quickly blink away the burn behind your eyes.
âItâsâŚthank you.â
He nods once, a gesture of acknowledgment and to continue. You take a breath.
âShe refused to give up. She was a badass, but I also think that was just her being a mom. She didnât want to leave me on my own in the world. So we used up every cent we had flying across the country, meeting with the best doctors out there and trying treatment after treatment. We spent a stint at the Mayo in Rochester, and for a moment, things were starting to look up. But she took a sudden turn for the worse, so we came back here. We came home.â
You rest your chin in your palm, eyes following his finger as it taps against his glass. You can feel him watching you closely.
âI tried to make her as comfortable as I could. Took the rest of my savings and poured it into her care. She hated that I did that, but there was no point arguing. Not when we only had weeks left. She passed last spring.â
Jamesâ free hand twitches in your direction. You pretend not to notice.
âAfter the funeral, I looked around and realized I had mountains of medical bills to pay, a mortgage suddenly in my name, and a future full of student loans.â You make a soft noise in the back of your throat, untitled in emotion. âDespite everything, my mom made me enroll in classes as soon as we got home â she wanted me to have something waiting for me on the other side of it all. I thought she was crazy at first because I couldnât think about anything but her, but now that sheâs gone, Iâm glad she made me do it.â
The silence after you finish is surprisingly light. It doesnât feel tense or heavy like it usually does, when your audience isnât sure how to reconcile all of that grief in one personâs lifetime. James sits beside you easily, absorbing your story with careful consideration and space.
âFor what itâs worth, I think your mom would be really proud of where you are todayâ he murmurs.
The corner of your mouth lifts.
âDonât speak too soon. I sold the house, but it barely made a dent in the medical bills. Whoever invented interest can suck my dick.â
James coughs and takes a large sip of his drink.
âTruthfully, Iâm â Iâm drowning,â you laugh breathlessly. âI canât study because Iâm constantly worried about having enough money to keep the lights on, and then that makes me worry that Iâll get kicked out of the program and lose my chance at a job that pays enough to make these bills go away. So I got a job here in the meantime because â well, everythingâs outrageously priced and that means you get outrageous tips, which is literally the only way to keep my head above water.â
Your voice has raised in volume, pitch and speed, but you plow on, too late to bottle it up now.
âI ran the numbers a hundred times, set them against average incomes of thousands of jobs in the city, calculated inflation and costs, and it came down to either this or stripping. Which I donât have anything against! But I canât move like that, I can barely do a push up â so tips would be beyond sad for me, if I get any, and then Iâd be back to where I started. So between that and The Alpine, I thought why not save myself the embarrassment andââ
You cut yourself off with a wince. You did it again.
You shoot a furtive glance his way. Heâs turned completely in his seat to face you, jaw tight and eyes unreadable. Like this, you get the full force of him, the piercing blue of his eyes, the sharp features of his face; itâs unnerving, but in a way that makes your skin tingle, like electricityâs dancing down your limbs. A brief look reveals a brush of chest hair peeking out from under his white button down, and your subconscious decides it would like to see the rest of it someday.
He appears to be considering something, mulling it over carefully in his head. He hasnât looked away from you since you stopped talking, but you donât find it creepy. Yet.
âSounds like you have a lot on your plate,â James mutters.
âYeah,â you say faintly, âsorry to unload all of that on you.â
He shakes his head quickly, throwing back the last of his drink in one large gulp. His lips press into a thin line. Youâre kicking yourself mentally, thinking youâve finally traumatized the poor guy with your unfiltered stream of consciousness, when he sets the glass down with a sharp klink.
âI could help,â he says quietly.
You blink. âOh, you donât â you donât need to do that. I promise I wasnât using my sob story to get you to kick me a bigger tip or anythingââ
âJust listen, please.â
Your mouth shuts with a snap. The air hums with a level of anticipation that wasnât there before. His eyes hold steadily onto yours.
âIâll only say this once, and if itâs not for you, I wonât say another word about it ever again.â He tilts his head. âI believe two people can come together in an uncomplicated and beneficial way, like friends do, to help each other out. Iâd like to make your life easier so you can focus on what actually matters to you. Iâd be someone you can rely on, who values your time and wants to see you succeedâŚwhile also helping you with any roadblocks in your way. I could take some of the pressure off â financially â so that you can focus on your future instead of struggling to make things work today. And in return, I get your company. Iâve had a better time talking to you for the last twenty minutes than Iâve had with that group of guys for years. Youâre sharp, youâre funny, youâre groundedâŚyour time and your attention is all I would want.â
He lets that sit between you with a short pause. Meanwhile, the air has left your lungs.
âThis requires trust. Discretion. Maturity. Itâs not about rescuing anyone or buying affection. Itâs moreâŚintentional than that. Mutual.â
He pauses again, longer, as if heâs waiting for his words to sink in with you. They certainly have.
âBeing my friend will never require you to be out of your comfort zone,â he continues softly. âItâs about making you comfortable. Youâll get support without strings, without owing anything, and without judgment. Itâs not complicated, and itâs not about control. Itâs about being a friend. Iâd like to be your friend.â
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. Not a whisper of a sound. The corners of his mouth twitch up as he searches your face â you suspect youâre not doing a very good job at concealing your emotions.
âYou donât need to give me an answer now,â James murmurs, leaning back against the booth; his voice has dipped into a lower octave, and the sound of it sends vibrations up your spine. âAll Iâm asking is that you consider it.â
Youâre silent as you turn his words over in your mind, your heart thrumming beneath your chest.
âWe donât even know each other,â you whisper.
âI know,â he replies, âbut Iâd like to know you. This is a way for me to do that.â
You bite your lip. âIf youâre saying all of this because of my mom, or â or âcause you feel badââ
âNo,â he says calmly, hand resting on the table near yours. âThis isnât because I feel bad.â
âThen why?â you ask.
âBecause youâre beautiful, and I enjoy the sides of you that youâve shown me tonight. And selfishly, Iâd like to be your friend that makes things easier for you.â
Your gut swoops low. He called you beautiful. But there was an innocence behind it, like he was stating a fact rather than making a move. This settles over you like a warm blanket after a long day.
James watches you for another moment before reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a card. He offers it to you.
âTake some time. Think it over. If you have questions, call me. If you never want to hear from me again, say the word and Iâll leave you alone. But if youâre interested in what this could be, let me know.â
You take the card without a word, absentmindedly pocketing it while you get to your feet. Your body has overridden your brain, moving you through the motions. James rises after you, and his frame towers over yours as you finally stand next to him. His bright eyes scan your face, assessing every detail. You swallow hard, his eyes track that as well.
âI hope to hear from you soon,â he murmurs, dipping his head down to your eye level. You nod breathlessly.
With a pointed look, he nudges the receipt book closer to you, where it had been abandoned on the table after he asked for another drink.
âItâsâitâs on me,â you say weakly. He raises his eyebrows, hands shoved into his pockets; you wave vaguely in front of you. âDonât worry about it.â
âThank you,â James says politely, and with a small dip of his chin, he turns away for the door. You watch as he crosses the room at a relaxed pace, dark hair bouncing gracefully, suit swishing perfectly. He doesnât look back as the door is opened for him like a king and he exits the room.
You let out a breath you didnât know you were holding. Holy shit.
Later that evening, when you stumble home with ruptured blisters, smelling of stale sweat and cleaning products, you collapse onto your couch and pull out the card.
James B. Barnes, Chairman of the Board
Barnes Group, Inc.
The last name should have given it away, but to be fair, you were blindsided by the smooth talking and how good he looked. Barnes Group, Inc. is a quiet but major asset management firm that dominates the Financial District. They hold their weight against the big ones despite being around for less than twenty years. Theyâre well-respected and popular, from what youâve heard around The Alpine. Your instincts proved correct once again â he really does have real money.
Your mind whirls. How cliche is it for one of the wealthiest men in the city to offer an arrangement like this to a younger woman? Very â thereâs no beating around that bush.
But the way he framed it had broken through your initial judgment, hitting you in a place that was dark and dusty and unused for ages. Friendship.
You couldnât remember the last time you spoke to someone you could call a friend. All of them had slowly disappeared after you buried your mother, and for valid reasons; you made it impossible to keep in touch, dodging phone calls and ignoring texts like it was your job. But youâre still human â even if you push everyone away, that doesnât mean youâre immune to loneliness. And with hardly any family left, that doesnât leave you with many options for human companionship.
His words had shined a spotlight on that gaping hole in your life, intentional or not. Maybe he could see that on top of flirting with poverty, youâre lonely.
Maybe heâs lonely, too.
You rub your eyes viscously with your knuckles, willing the day to seep from your bones. Your cat, Lucky, hops onto the couch and curls up beside you.
You canât believe it, but you think you need to consider this. While several true crime documentaries could show you the downfall of trusting the wrong person, you canât help but take Jamesâ words as they are. Perhaps that ity, bity, tiny sliver of hope you allow to live on inside you has taken charge of your decision making. It would explain your sudden deviation from enormous dislike for the rich.
You sigh, stroking Luckyâs back. âIf this is real, Iâd be an idiot not to,â you say to him, like you have no other choice. Lucky yawns his affirmation.
So you think on it. A lot. A lot a lot. Pretty much every minute of the next three days, youâre thinking about James. His words replay over and over in your head until itâs an automatic loop of noise.
Iâd like to be your friend.
Itâs distracting, thinking about him and his offer. Which means youâre distracted at work, youâre distracted on the subway, youâre distracted folding laundry. You even answer a debt collector by accident because your mind is in two places. Youâll never do that again.
âŚHe could make sure you never do that again.
It comes to a head when youâre taking your break during your shift. The August night is hot and humid, the sky bragging of potential thunderstorms. The cigarette in your hand shakes as you inhale greedily.
The same two things circle your brain: how long would you let this go on for? And what would your mom think?
Both questions hold great weight, yet both are unanswerable to you â at least for now. Just when you start going down that road, your brain screeches to a halt in some sort of self-preservation tactic, distracting you by throwing mental memories of Jamesâ soft smile, his quiet empathy, or â even worse â his chest hair.
It makes it a lot easier to pull out your phone than you think. The card is slightly crumpled from taking it out and holding it so often, but the numbers read clearly as you punch them in.
Heâs offering you a way out of this mess you call your life. Just because he wants to. And all he asks is for you to smile and thank him for it over dinner every now and then. Either heâs dealing with a lot of guilt over having money, or he truly wants to see your life get easier because of him. Maybe itâs both. Either way, itâll change your life.
For the better. Right?
The line rings three times before he answers. âJames Barnes.â
âJames,â you croak, exhaling a cloud of smoke. âItâs me. From The Alpine. Hi.â
Something shifts in the background, like heâs sitting up straighter or moving something around. It sounds like sheets against skin. âHi,â he says back, neutral. You glance at the time on your phone.
âShit,â you mutter, âIâm sorry. I didnât even think about how late it is. I can call you backâ?â
âNo,â he cuts in. âNowâs fine. How are you?â
You chew on your lip. âIâm good. Busy, butâŚIâve beenâ uh, Iâve been thinking.â
âOh, yeah?â he murmurs, soft and loose like itâs a knee-jerk response. Your gut swoops low.
âAbout what you said,â you choke out. âAbout beingâŚfriends. IâŚI have some questions.â
âI have some answers.â
âI was wondering if we could meet. Soon. So I can ask you the questions. And learn a little more aboutâŚwhat this will be like.â
Thereâs a pause on the other end, not even a rustle of fabric or a brush of his breathing against the receiver to be heard. Then he clears his throat.
âHow about tomorrow night? 8 oâclock at Pepperâs.â
âYeahâ uh, yes. That works,â you breathe. Thereâs a moment of silence where all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart.
âWould it be presumptive of me to bring a few documents? Unless youâd like to have a lawyer look over themââ
Your mouth goes dry. âNo. Thatâs okay,â you say. âYou can bring them.â
He makes a soft noise, something pleased. âIâm glad you called,â he says, voice low and warm. âI was starting to think I wouldnât hear from you.â
The hand holding your cellphone spasms. âIâm sorry,â you whisper.
He shushes you quietly. âItâs okay. Iâm glad you took your time. You seem like the type of person who wants to know exactly what she gets herself into. I admire that.â
You hum, because words are elusive as ever right now.
âAre you working?â he asks.
âYes.â
âItâs almost midnight. Isnât The Alpine closed by now?â
âYeah, wellâŚside workâs a bitch. Iâll probably be here until one.â
He grunts. âLet me send a car to get you home.â
âJames, Iââ
âPlease. Itâll let me sleep tonight. Worrying about you walking around New York at one in the morning in the rain will do the opposite.â
Your foot taps restlessly. âOkay,â you breathe.
âOkay, doll.â
A flush runs through your body, from the crown of your head to the tip fo your toes. It leaves behind a wave of tingles that tickle your skin.
âYeah, uh. Iâll let youâ uh, Iâll let you get back to it then. Iâll see you tomorrow, James.â
âTomorrow,â he vows. And the line goes dead.
You adjust the straps of your dress again, pulling them further back on your shoulders so that they frame your chest just right. Itâs your favorite dress â or, more accurately, your only dress â and your one item of clothing thatâs acceptable enough for the five star restaurant youâre meeting James at.
Heâs sending another car â he texted you this time, brokering no argument over it, just a time and the driverâs name. Youâd be put off if the ride last night hadnât cut your usual hour-long hike home down to ten minutes and saved you from a torrential downpour. Private cars have their benefits, apparently.
The driver, Bob, picks you up at half past seven. He weaves in and out of traffic flawlessly, leaving you with very little time to fix your makeup and call on every shred of courage you have.
When he pulls up to the curb, he hops out of the car and opens the door for you, helping you to balance on your heels that donât entirely cover the bandaids on the back of your ankles. You thank him for the ride as he ushers you into the restaurant.
James waits at the table tucked into a secluded corner at the back of the room, hair parted perfectly, scruff a little longer than before, and dressed in a suit of midnight black. His shirt is a shade lighter, the top three buttons undone and exposing even more chest hair than the last time. You take a deep breath as you approach.
He stands immediately when he spots you, eyes appraising you gently, like his favorite person in the world just showed up.
âHello,â he says, coming around to hold out your chair for you.
âHi,â you mumble, blushing as you sit. He holds eye contact as he resettles into his own seat, a small smile on his face.
âYou look breathtaking,â he admits, a twinge in his voice that could pass for pained, like the way you look is so devastatingly beautiful, it hurts.
âThank you. You look very nice, too.â
His smile grows. âIâm glad you could meet me tonight. I have to say Iâve been a bit restless since our talk last night.â
âOh?â is your dumb response. Your pulse flutters as his smile grows crooked.
âI guess you could say Iâm eager to hear your questions.â
âOh, umâŚyes. I have a fewâŚâ
He gestures to the table. âDo your worst.â
You were prepared for this, but it still makes you feel light-headed as you pull out the small slip of paper from your purse. He watches you carefully as you unfold it, pieces of the ripped edges fluttering to the floor. Maybe you were expecting a bit of small talk, but whatâs there to talk about when you hardly know each other? You can appreciate cutting to the chase, even if it makes your mouth dry.
âFirst, IâŚI just want to say thank you,â you begin quietly, shyly meeting his gaze. âFor listening to me. And for not making it a big deal. It was the first time Iâve told that story that I didnât feel like a tragedy after, and you made me feel that way.â
His shoulders seem to relax a little, his expression gentle. âYouâre welcome.â
âThat being said,â you continue shakily, unable to meet his eyes any longer. âIâm wondering what kind of help you want to give, and if there are things I can say no to.â
He nods, his face becoming serious. âOf course. I want to help, not intrude. If there are things you donât want me to touch, then I wonât. You get the say in that.â
âSo, if I say I donât want any help with my student loansâŚâ
âThen thatâs that. I wonât push you about it either.â
You nod, fingering the edge of the paper nervously. The silence stretches.
âWould it be useful to give you a summary of what I will and wonât help with?â he asks, leaning back in his seat. You nod again, motioning for him to continue. He settles into his seat, clearing his throat. âTo start, I wonât help with the circumstances of friends or relatives, unless theyâre direct dependents of yours, which it doesnât sound like you have anyway. This arrangement is for us, so it stays between us. And I wonât help with any legal troubles either. If you end up in jail, I wonât pay for bail, I wonât pay fines, and I wonât pay for legal counsel. If youâre charged with anything, this arrangement is void.â
His voice is level, almost monotonous, like heâs said this a few times. You gulp.
âBut I will pay for everything else, if youâll let me,â he remarks, growing softer. âYouâll get my card for the day-to-day things. Groceries, coffee, transit, take out. Anything you do when youâre not at work. I also want to pay for the things you couldnât do before. Expect appointments booked for the spa, massages, hair, nails â whatever you decide. My assistant will help with that.â
âOkay,â you breathe, feeling just a little dizzy. God, when was the last time you got your nails done?
âIâll also pay for your rent. Or, if you want to move, Iâll buy you a new place. Apartment. Condo. Brownstone. Up to you. I want you feeling comfortable and safe when youâre not with me.â
Your mouth falls open to protest. Buy a brownstone? For you? The girl he just met? You crumples the paper in a reflex reaction, but he holds up a hand before you can speak.
âYou donât have to, Iâm just giving you the option. Remember, youâll never have to go out of your comfort zone with me.â
He scans your face â youâre sure youâre a shade paler than before.
âWhere do you live now?â he asks gently.
âQueens.â He smiles.
âThen Iâd at least argue for you to use my driver.â
âMakes sense,â you murmur distractedly.
The server comes over then, placing a whiskey in front of James and asking what youâd like to drink. You order a white wine, cringing when he asks if you have a preferred bottle, but James answers for you, naming a brand youâve never heard of, his eyes on you the entire time. The waiter returns a minute later with your glass, and you take a greedy sip as soon as it hits the table.
âI also like to give gifts,â James says, picking up where he left off. âThat could mean jewelry, bags, cars, vacationsââ you choke on your wine, he politely ignores it. âWhatever Iâm feeling that day.â
âOh, is that all?â you say weakly. He chuckles, genuine and soft.
âIt may change, depending on what I think youâd like. And what you tell me you like.â
âIâm picky,â you attempt to joke.
âI like a challenge.â
The air shifts subtly, youâd miss it if you werenât paying attention. He crosses his legs effortlessly at the knee, looking every bit composed while youâre pinching yourself to keep from hyperventilating.
âIdeally, youâd quit your job,â he begins slowly. âNot for me, but because you wonât need to work anymore. You donât have to if you donât want to, but youâre in school, and itâs clear you love it. I want you to be comfortable enough to focus on that. Put your time into studying. Not dealing with men like Walker.â
You huff a soft laugh because you arenât sure what else to say. Quitting your job hadnât even crossed your mind through all of this, but now that the seedâs been planted, it takes root quickly, despite the voice in your head telling you not to let it.
James must be a mind reader, because he leans forward, making sure you meet his eyes.
âIâd like to spoil you, because I think you deserve it. Not because of whatâs happened to you, but because of what youâve done since it happened,â he says, voice pulling you in with the husky lilt to it. âI think youâve earned the right to feel taken care of. It can be on your terms, of course, but trust me when I say thereâs almost nothing I wouldnât help with. Including the medical bills and the debt. Including the loans. But I will respect whatever you wish to keep separate from this.â
For a moment, youâre not sure what to say, but you end up on, âThank you, James. IâŚIâll think about it.â
He nods, businesslike. âWhat other questions do you have?â
You blink, looking down at your list. âWell, you answered a couple of them, actuallyâŚum, I guess my next question isââ You feel the heat rise to your cheeks. âWhen you say friendship, what does thatâŚinclude, exactly?â
He leans back in his seat, taking a slow sip of his drink.
âI meant what I said about being friends,â he offers, âand I meant it in the traditional sense. This isnât a âfriends with benefitsâ situation. Holding hands, a light hug, or sitting close together are all reasonable to me. But touch isnât required by you â youâre welcome to do whatever youâre comfortable with, and I wonât withhold anything from you if you arenât comfortable with it. And I wonât touch you if you donât want me to, but I will say Iâm hoping to earn that right eventually.â
Something loosens in your chest, an unnamed tension releasing.
âI understand,â you say slowly. âI think those are reasonable, too.â His eyes flicker across your face for a moment. âI appreciate you clarifying that for me. It was on my mind a lot over the last few days.â
âThatâs why weâre here,â he answers calmly. âAny more questions?â
âYes, um. How does thisâŚstart?â
The smile returns to Jamesâ face, sweet and relaxed. He waves two fingers in the air, and a server comes hurrying over with an official-looking envelope, setting it before him. James pulls out a small stack of documents and finds a pen in his suit jacket.
âIt starts with a couple signatures. These are NDAs stating you wonât talk or publish anything about our time together, and the same goes for me. Iâm held to the same principles you are. If I say a word about us to anyone without your permission, you have every right to sue me for all Iâm worth. I hope it tells you how serious I am about this.â
It actually says a hell of a lot more than just how serious it is, but heâs already shuffling the papers aside, picking up the one on the bottom.
âThis is an agreement on what Iâm allowed to pay for. Like the rent â Iâll need to know where to pay to. Thereâs also a place for your bank account information, in the case of moving large sums of money. Iâd like it wired safely and securely.â
You must show signs of panic, because he quickly tucks it away and says, âYou donât have to decide on anything today. You can add whatever you want to this as time goes on.â
Your breathing evens. He taps the pen against the stack of NDAs.
âAnything else?â he asks quietly. Your pinching grows stronger.
âAre youâŚfriendsâŚwith anyone else right now? Or is it just me?â
His lips quirk like he was expecting this question. He leans forward, elbows on the table, and holds your gaze steadily.
âJust you. And I can promise that I wonât need any other friends as long as I have you.â
Oh.
âBut youâveâŚhad other friends before. In the past.â
His eyes go blank for a moment. âYes, Iâve had other friends before. A few.â
âTheyâre not still your friends, though?â you ask.
âNo,â he answers. âThere came a point when it was time for them to explore otherâŚfriendships. Start different lives. It always ended amicably.â
You hesitate. âSo, if one day I decide I want toâŚstop being friends, that would be okay with you?â
âOf course. Iâm here as long as youâll have me. Or until we both decide itâs time.â
âOkay,â you whisper, meeting his gaze. Thereâs a roaring sound in your ears, like the ocean on a stormy night, but your hands are surprisingly steady as you reach out your hand toward him. âOkay. Can I borrow your pen?â
James smiles, the biggest smile youâve seen from him yet. He offers you the pen and the first document, pointing out where to sign and initial. You do so quickly, conscious of your climbing blood pressure, but the adrenaline leaves a sweet aftertaste as you write your name with a flourish. Or maybe itâs him, beaming at you while you sign up for this new chapter of life with him.
Once the documents are signed, he proposes a toast. âTo friendships,â he says. You clink your glass to his. âAnd, by the way, call me Bucky.â
âBucky?â you ask, eyebrows raised.
âItâs what my friends call me.â
It starts immediately.
The next morning, youâre greeted with a jungle of flowers waiting outside your apartment door. Flowers of all shapes and colors, some tropical, some simple, and all of them make you smile. Youâre placing the last of them on the counter when thereâs a knock on your door â a dozen freshly-made croissants from the Parisian cafe in Midtown. Impossible to get into, impossible to order out from, yet hereâs a box full of their best-selling pastries, still warm from the oven. You indulge in one too many, but itâs worth it.
Throughout the day, Bucky texts you. Itâs something he mentioned off-handedly, probably meant to give you a choice, but he likes to talk during the day. A lot. He likes check ins, he likes updates; he wants to hear about anything and everything.
At first, itâs odd having someone to talk to so consistently again â the last person you spoke to like this was your mom.
But Bucky keeps it unforced, easing the conversation along with the right questions and dry comments that actually have you smiling at your phone. When you get to work that night, he wishes you a good shift. No mention of you quitting. You appreciate this so much that you have half a mind to quit anyway.
Not today, you tell yourself. You need to wait to see if Bucky actually puts his money where his mouth is first.
It isnât long before he does.
Less than a week after you signed the papers, he asks you to join him for dinner on your night off. He makes the reservation early because he knows you have an exam in two days that youâre stressed over, leaving you with the rest of the evening to study. Youâre grateful for his mindfulness, but equally grateful for the distraction heâs providing. Heâs waiting outside the restaurant when Bob pulls up, offering his hand to help you out of the car.
âYou look beautiful,â he states plainly, like only an idiot would argue with him. Your answering smile is wide and uninhibited.
Inside, the two of you are seated at a booth mostly concealed from the other diners. He sits beside you, much like he did that first night, close but with enough space for you to breathe easily. He asks you about your day, he encourages you to try something strange on the menu, he compliments you again and again and again.
Your whole body is flushed from the wine and his attention by the time the desert arrives. Youâre licking chocolate syrup off the spoon, regaling a work story involving your meathead manager and another server.
âHe just chooses to ignore anything that makes us seem human to him. No emotions allowed. No personal problems allowed. You show up for your shift, you do your job, and thatâs it. Leave your life at the door, God help you if you donât.â
You sigh, your spoon clattering loudly onto the plate. Bucky fidgets with his own spoon, eyes on the corner of your mouth. He shakes his head a little, like he thought better of something, then points to the corner of his own mouth, smiling. You blush, taking the hint, and wipe a dab of chocolate away from your skin. Buckyâs still smiling as he takes another sip of his drink.
âMight be because he lacks his own personal life,â he muses. âPeople are always going to project what hurts them.â
You consider this. âNow that you say it, I donât think Iâve ever seen him take a day off.â
âThat can do some fucked up things to a person.â
âTell me about it,â you whine. âI havenât taken a day off in months.â
His eyes slide lazily to you, glass held loosely in his hand. He smiles wryly, and you understand what he means before he says a word.
âI know, I know. I justâŚâ You take a breath. âI need to know this is real first. Before I start cutting ties.â
Heâs quiet for a moment. âTomorrowâs the first of the month,â he says. âHave you thought more about allowing me to help with your rent?â
Your breath hitches.
âYes,â you whisper. He hums, eyes sparkling with something bright and ambiguous.
âAnd what have you decided?â
âI thinkâŚit would be a show of good faithâŚif you helped me out.â
âGood faith,â he laughs. âSweetheart, Iâll buy you the moon if it means youâll believe me when I say Iâll take care of you.â
The next morning, you get the email at 9 a.m. â your rent has been paid, utilities as well. Your stomach had been in knots when you wrote down the information for him, but seeing the confirmation makes you feel like youâre floating.
It only takes you another week until youâre calling your manager and quitting. To celebrate, Bucky rents out the Met for the night, and you explore and observe and admire to your heartâs content as he stands quietly and steadily by your side. He knows an impressive amount about art, surprisingly, but then he starts making things up when a specific piece stumps him, and the rest of the unguided tour is spent inventing made-up artists and their tragic backstories. By the end of the night, you canât resist anymore. You quickly lean in and wrap your arms around his waist.
Itâs clear heâs shocked, that youâve caught him off guard. But he recovers quickly, mirroring your grip and resting his cheek on top of your head. Itâs strange, itâs new, but itâsâŚcomforting.
Quitting your job means a lot more free time, but Bucky is adamant about you dedicating much of that time for school. So to keep a balance between time spent studying and time spent with him, Bucky proposes you come by his office between classes. Sometimes for lunch, sometimes to take a break, sometimes to set up camp on his leather couch, nose to your laptop screen as you research data sets and monitor the market while he quietly works at his desk.
Itâs calming and oddly motivating â heâs the perfect person to work next to.
When youâre not studying, Buckyâs supplying you with appointments that fill up your calendar. You have a new contact saved in your phone â Inga, Buckyâs very Dutch, very cheerful assistant â because she calls you at least twice a day, arranging your schedule and finding time you didnât know existed to fill.
A certain Thursday brings a yoga class from 7:45 to 9, then a massage from 10 to 11:30. After that is lunch with Bucky at his office (take out sushi from a place youâve only ever dreamed of going to), followed up by a nail appointment from 2 to 3 and a virtual meeting from 3:30 to 4:30 with your old therapist that you had to abandon when money got tight.
Once you get past the catch up, your therapist says you seem a lot better than you were the last time you saw her. Crazy concept, to agree with a therapist, but you actually do.
Youâre about a month into the arrangement when Bucky clears his throat at dinner, making you pause while twirling your pasta on your fork. Youâve slowly graduated to sitting closer, and his arm rests on the back of the booth behind you, its presence warm and obvious around your shoulders. You look up at him, waiting.
âIâve got this thing tomorrow night,â he begins, voice a little on the gruff side. Youâre shocked to realize heâs being shy, and poorly hiding it. âItâs a gala. The black tie kind. Itâs for charity â Childrenâs, I think. If youâre up for it, I was wondering if youâd like to come with me.â
You smile slowly. âIâd love to. Just need something to wear.â
A stack of hundred dollar bills is on the table in seconds. Inga accompanies you the following morning to ten different stores, all designer, all with prices that make you feel faint, but she is quick to shoo you away from the price tags and push you to try on the dresses that make you sigh dreamily. Maybe thatâs the reason Bucky wanted her with you.
You pick something bold, something youâd never see yourself in unless you had it on your body. It fits like a glove and reminds you that youâre a woman, not just a cog in the wheel of the working class. You only panic a little when you hand over the entire wad of cash Bucky gave you.
After that, youâre dropped off at the salon, where a facial and a blowout get you glowing like the sun. Bob picks you up and brings you to your apartment where your dress is waiting for you, courtesy of Inga. At 9 oâclock, Buckyâs waiting for you outside. The late September breeze ruffles his hair and swishes your dress as you come face-to-face.
He takes in every inch of you, from your painted toe nails to your shiny hair, and he sighs.
âYou lookâŚunbelievable.â
Later, when youâre buried deep into a crowd of people you donât know, Buckyâs anchoring you to him with a hand on the small of your back, thumb brushing the skin there. He leans in, nose nudging your temple, and whispers, âIâm very lucky to have you here with me.â
Just like that, something inside of you breaks. Not in a sad way, but in a revolutionary way. Like a floodgateâs been cracked open, and whatâs been locked inside is beginning to trickle out.
When he pulls back, your eyes linger on him. He flashes a movie star smile for the people that approach, but when he meets your gaze again, he gives you his crooked grin. Meant only for you. His warm hand pulls you closer into his side.
And thatâs when it begins, right there at that gala. Your appreciation for Bucky has opened up into something larger, still undefinable, but growing in magnitude.
You find yourself sweating under the lights of the ballroom, not from the heat, but from the unknown shift. It shapes itself a little more when Bucky runs into a colleague and introduces you as his friend. Heâs been doing it all night, but this time, it doesnât feel right. It feelsâŚoff. Generalized. Misplaced.
Not that youâd ever tell him. Bucky was clear about your arrangement being a friendship â to question what he calls you would be to question where you stand, and you donât want to make it seem like you canât hold up your end of the bargain as his friend.
So you smile through it, focusing on the feel of his hand on your skin, and push it down. For now.
Youâre a couple months into the arrangement when Bucky opens his home to you. Itâs a penthouse suite hundreds of feet in the sky, offering breathtaking views of the city sprawled below. The apartment is big and modern, with plenty of low lighting and soft colors. You find out right away that heâs messy, which you think is more endearing than it is a nuisance, even if that means throwing sweatshirts and belts and books off the couch just to find a place to sit.
He apologizes constantly, but it never gets better each time you come over. You donât mind.
With classes gearing up for finals, your time is more limited than before, leaving you with just a few windows of opportunity a week to be with each other. Most of these fall late at night, past 10 p.m., or early in the morning before he leaves for work.
So you start staying over.
It happens accidentally the first time. He picks you up and takes you back to his place for Chinese take out and binge watching trashy reality TV (of which he is a secret super fan), but you end up passing out minutes after he turns the show on.
The next morning, you wake in a soft bed, surrounded by oversized pillows and silk sheets. Bleary eyed, you stumble into the kitchen to find him dressed for work, sipping a coffee at the kitchen island and scrolling on his phone. He sets both of them down when he sees you, standing as you shuffle over.
âMorning,â he says, stretching out a hand to catch your sweatshirt clad waist.
This is par for the course these days â soft, grounding touches that donât linger for too long, cuddles on the couch that donât get too pretzel-like, barely-there kisses against the forehead when you say something that makes him smile a little too hard. All friendly, all innocent.
âDid I â did I crash?â you ask, suppressing a yawn. He chuckles, offering you his coffee.
âDidnât even make it to the elimination. Steve R. went home.â
âFuck, I liked him.â
âMe too.â
You look up at him, suddenly shy. âIâm sorry. Thanks for carrying me to bed.â
âOnly threw out my back for it. No worries.â
You slap away his hand on your waist, but itâs teasing, playful. He withdraws, taking a seat again so youâre eye level with him. A look takes over his face, something caught between serious and hopeful.
âYou know, that room can be yours, if youâd like.â
You pause mid sip of coffee. âWhat?â
âThe room. Itâs yours. For when you want to crash. Or just donât want to go home.â
âReally.â Itâs not a question.
âReally,â he repeats. âDonât ever feel like you have to stay, Iâll take you home any time of night. But if you do want to stay, itâs there for you.â
âThatâsâŚreally sweet of you.â
He smiles a little. âNot too much?â You shake your head. âGood. âCause I like knowing youâre close. Think I slept better. And I like waking up with you here.â
The feeling from the gala returns with renewed force. It almost drowns you, leaving you reeling in its tidal wave of emotion. It defines itself a little more as you picture sharing mornings with him, pouring travel mugs of coffee and shoving pieces of toast in his mouth as he races out the door.
But heâs watching you closely, expecting an answer, so you beat the feelings down until youâre numb. Sending him a smile over the mug, you say, âOkay.â
And thatâs that.
The first time you sleep over intentionally, Buckyâs not in a great mood. Which is a rare occasion in and of itself. You know heâs only human, but youâve barely seen him annoyed, let alone upset.
He makes an effort to hide it from you, greeting you with a soft kiss to the top of your head when you step out of the private elevator that opens to his floor. He all but forces you to relax on the couch while he cooks dinner, so you do, cracking open your textbook and stretching out lazily while he cooks. But even from the living room, you can feel the negative energy radiating from him.
He throws pans into the sink with a little too much force. He answers a call with a sharp bark of âwhat now?â He mutters to himself like a cranky old man.
His face is drawn and stony when he hands you a plate and joins you on the couch â pasta with red sauce, simple, and a family recipe, he claims. But the way he eats it, youâd think he hates it.
âBucky,â you say after watching him stab his food with homicidal intent. He grunts. âBucky,â you try again.
âWhat?â he snaps, sneering. Immediately, his eyes go round with guilt before you even have the chance to react. âOh, God â Iâm sorry. Iâm so sorry. I didnât meanââ He pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply; when he opens his eyes again, his expression is calmer, more open. âJesus. You didnât deserve that. Forgive me.â
âAlways,â you say like itâs second nature. âWhatâs going on?â
He sighs, setting down his plate. âWork,â he mutters, âis killing me. Someone fucked up a deal with a really, really important client. They arenât happy, so I had to step in to clean up the mess. But now theyâre playing hard to get, so all day I had to suck their dicks and call them pretty just to get a reply.â
You giggle. He tilts his head at you.
âYou think thatâs funny?â
âA little. But I canât imagine anyone not getting on their knees for you immediately.â
Something flashes in Buckyâs eyes, something darker that doesnât fit the conversation topic. Itâs quick, brief, but you see it. He smiles before you can think twice about it.
âNot these guys. They like to test me. And I donât like being tested.â
âI can tell,â you comment. âWant me to help?â
He side-eyes you. âHow?â
âYou can take all your anger out byâŚrubbing my feet?â Your smile is saccharine as you slide your legs into his lap. He laughs, one loud sound, but takes your left foot in his hands anyway.
âHow sweet of you,â he coos. âHowâd you know this is exactly what I needed?â
His mood improves for the most part, although his phone buzzes a few times and sets his jaw ticking. But whether itâs to keep him sane or to keep the easy vibe of the night going, he ignores it. Reality TV is watched, cookies are eaten (he has five), and youâre feeling satisfied for having turned his night around just as you start to yawn.
He notices it immediately.
âAlright, doll. Youâre tired. Iâm taking you home.â
âI might stay here tonight, if thatâs okay with you.â
He freezes as he reaches for his keys. Slowly, his arm lowers, and thereâs a slightly dazed look in his eye.
âSure, yeah. Whatever you want,â he breathes.
He sets you up with a tooth brush and towels, an old shirt of his and boxers. While youâre brushing your teeth, you wander over to his bathroom and find him doing the same. You stand beside him, laughing through the toothpaste as he gets his all over his mouth and chin. Unintentionally, though heâll deny it.
He walks you to your room like heâs dropping you off at the end of date. You try not to think too much about that.
âSleep tight,â he says softly, leaning against the doorway, smiling at the too-big shirt and boxers. You smile back, sleepy and content.
âGoodnight, Bucky.â
Heâs gone before you wake up the next morning, but the note on the counter thanks you for being there with him last night. It makes your heart flutter much too fast for having just started your day.
When you get back to your own apartment, your phone alerts you to a new email. The name on it makes your stomach sink: the debt collectors. Theyâve been quiet for a while since youâve been able to offer them bigger scraps of money, so what do they want now?
Thank you for your payment. Your bills have been reconciled and your current balance is at $0.00.
The room tilts. Your breathing stops. Hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical bills, gone overnight.
Bucky.
It was only a week ago that you had shyly asked to amend the document on what he could help pay for. You werenât even sure that he looked at it yet.
Well, now you know he has. And in one fell swoop, he banned the debt collectors from ever bothering you again. Your mind can hardly wrap around it, can hardly wrap around Bucky, and his generosity, and his promises, and his follow through. All of it is a murky, muddy emotional mess inside of you. For the first time in months, you break down and cry.
Later that night, when the tears have finally dried and youâre sitting next to him at your favorite little Italian spot, you place a hand over his and just squeeze. You meant to say words, but theyâve disappeared on you.
But Bucky doesnât need the words. He knows everything that youâre saying with the simple touch. He squeezes back, smile soft, posture relaxed as he nudges your shoulder with his.
The floodgate inside of you swings open wider.
sammy speaks again: wowowowowow ok thatâs a wrap on part one. part two coming almost immediately! I tried to fit it all into one but tumblr doesnât like 30k word posts I guess :/ donât forget to let me know what you think, I appreciate all of you for making it this far đ¤
pairing: professor!bucky barnes x college student!reader
summary: mr. barnes is your clumsy, timid, and definitely too hot professor. you donât know what pushed you to start teasing him. maybe itâs the way those adorable blue eyes sparkled at you every time you raised your hand to answer one of his questions. or maybe itâs the urge to see him stuttering and whimpering under you.
warnings: age gap (buckyâs mentioned to be in his 40s); college student!reader; professor!bucky; shy and kinda insecure!bucky; blink-and-you'll-miss fluff; smut; mentioned blow job; first time together; exhibitionism (reader stuffs buckyâs mouth with her panties bc heâs fucking loud); whiny!bucky; reader teases him a lot & calls him professor and mr.barnes; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, pls); eager & âquietâ sex; slight overstimulation; creampie.
word count: 4.3k
a/n: Iâve been leaning too much into the exhibitionism thing, I know. writing has been hard lately, so I thought that revisiting this one shot might help me ease back into it. it was previously posted under the title after-class activities, but didn't get much traction. the smut is definitely not the best Iâve written, but I did my best today to edit it a little. Iâll try to finish editing baby-girl-69 next. hope youâll enjoy it!
Mr. Barnes is your clumsy, timid, and definitely too-hot professor. He might be nearly twenty years older than you, yet he still blushes the moment anyone shows even a hint of interest in his course.
You donât exactly know when you began pushing at that invisible line between student and professor, curious to see how easily heâd lose his composure. Maybe itâs the way those adorable blue eyes sparkled at you every time you raised your hand to answer one of his questions. Maybe itâs the thrill running through your veins when you stayed behind after lectures, holding his gaze just a little too long to witness how easily the poor man turned red.
Or maybe itâs the urge to see him stuttering and whimpering under you.
You took a risk, even if his gaze would linger on your exposed skin after you started wearing more revealing clothes. Even if he couldnât bring himself to meet your eyes whenever your fingers accidentally brushed against his while handing him your paper. Even if he stumbled over his words when you softly greeted him with a small âGood morning, Mr. Barnes.â every time you oh-so-coincidentally bumped into each other in the campus hallway.Â
Although those signs were very clear to you, you still took a risk when you knocked on his office door to ask for clarification about your last quiz. You stood up to round the desk, pointing at a question you didnât understand and consequently answered wrong. He mumbled something about mounds, his eyes fixed on your chest as he looked up at you, then quickly shook his head, staring at his desk with a frown, his cheeks lighting up with a beautiful shade of red.
âMâMountains, I meant mountains.â He stuttered out. Thatâs when you grasped one armrest, swiveling his chair until you could comfortably set yourself on his laps.Â
âMissââ Mr. Barnesâ eyes widened, but you simply wrapped your arms around his neck, whispering about how much you needed him. His lips parted, not knowing what to do. He panted at the sight of the body who had been appearing in his sweetest dreams so many timesâ too manyâ since the beginning of the semester. Waking up, he would tug at his hair in despair, a wet patch soiling on his underwear and shame curling hot in his stomach. How could he be sexually attracted to one of his students? His best student, nonetheless.Â
But his resolve melted like ice cream under the scorching summer sun once you started moving, humping his half-hard cock straining against his black pants.Â
âWe are doing nothing wrong if we arenât touching skin to skin, right professor?â You mumbled, grazing his lips with yours. Mr. Barnes shook, gripping your waist hard enough to bruise, and moaning prayers for forgiveness in your ear until he came in his underwear with your name on his lips.
As soon as he got inside the safe walls of his home, Bucky swore to avoid you for the rest of the academic year. No, for the rest of his life. He was terrified of how easily you could unravel him. The lightest brush of your fingers against his bare skin was enough to make him forget who he was supposed to be, all the lines he thought heâd drawn for himself crumbling with a quiet inevitability. Every glance, every curve, every soft, dangerous smile... You consumed him utterly, and the way you made him ache for more was almost unbearable.
Two days later, you tugged down his zipper, kneeling to hide under the desk as soon as the class had completely emptied, and Mr. Barnes could only sputter your name before your sweet lips engulfed him and his head fell back, letting you play with his cock until he came down your throat with a ferocity that left you with a hoarse voice for the rest of the day. You left with a filthy kiss and a playful pat on his pec just two seconds before the door opened for the next lesson to begin.Â
After two months of teasing gazes thrown between a power point slide and a raise of hand, and an alarming number of orgasms in the privacy of his office, Mr. Barnesâ or Bucky, as he told you to call him when you were aloneâ finally confessed he wanted all of you. No, needed.
He couldnât take it anymore; even if you sucked the soul out of his dick, your soft kisses and your passionate cuddles sessions left him craving for more. He always ended up with a hand around his stiff length just before sleeping, imagining how good and warm your pussy would feel.Â
Last week Bucky stopped you after class, and oh, you would have kissed your professor right there on the spot as he clumsily asked you on a date, before his voice dimmed towards the end, suddenly self-conscious at the lack of any reaction from your part. Bucky was definitely being an old fool. Why would a girl so beautiful and so confident like you, moreover younger, want to go on a date with a forty-year-old man who still couldnât look a pretty girl in the eye without stuttering?
His doubts were dissolved by an eager kiss that left both of your cheeks hurting from how hard you smiled.
Now, in the quiet, dimly-lit ambience of his office, his plans go up in smoke the moment you start making out on the small leather couch by the sturdy oak bookshelf. Gone are the loud echoes of avid chatter in the halls, just like the pressing fear at the back of his head of being caught by some noisy colleague trying to get into his office to bother him about the latest gossip. On the contrary, you seemed to thrive in it, always whispering about how scandalous it would be to be caught with shy and professional Mr. Barnesâ cock down your throat. And itâs already humiliating enough that Bucky ends up coming at the sole thought.
It began with you staying behind in the campus library to finish an essay for his course, when you noticed his car still parked outside. After a confirmation via text that Bucky was indeed still locked up in his office to finish grading some tests, you decide to surprise him. As soon as you crossed the threshold, he attacked your lips with his eager mouth, taking you to his couch so he could finally indulge in you after a long day spent in abstinence.Â
The only audible noises are the whirring of the old ceiling fan slowly spinning on the ceiling, and the squeak of leather under you. You hump his sturdy thigh, and your hands gently cup his cheeks covered by a sexy, grey-ish stubble.Â
âBucky.â He usually wouldnât initiate anything remotely sexual, rather opting to intertwine your fingers together, or leave gentle kisses on your neck. He only let himself go after you expressed your interest in going further. Tonight, itâs like Bucky doesnât care about propriety anymoreâ maybe because you had agreed to go on a date with him, finally. Or maybe he finally understood you desire him just as much as he desires you.
You donât know and honestly you donât care, you just want this man to finally stick his dick into you and fuck you until you are forced to stay in bed all day.
Your fingers wrinkle his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer. Buckyâs chest heaves against yours, his hands firmly resting on your hips as he tries to preserve that miserable crumb of self-control he still prides himself to maintain around you. Thatâs literally the only thing that keeps him from fucking your mouth with his tongue in the middle of his lessons.
You let out a soft mewl. âMr. Barnes, please. Just fuck me.âÂ
âSweetheart, we canât.â Bucky strains out, squeezing his eyes shut as your sweet melodic moans get closer and closer with you leaning in, nuzzling your nose in the hair along his jawline. Your lips leave a trail of soft kisses on his skinâ kisses that feel far too innocent in comparison to the lewd movement of your hips. Buckyâs chin tilts up to let you do whatever you want to his throat, from sucking to delicately biting, until your mouth reaches his, and the kisses turn hungrier, filthier. His heartbeat accelerates under your palm as your other hand slides down, finally cupping his erection. Buckyâs hands land on your ass, his grasp on the soft flesh strong but still adorably hesitant, afraid of doing something that could disgust youâ or worse, hurt you.
Youâre pretty sure he would be the one to run away if he knew the things you'd want him to do to you.Â
âYes, we can!â You exclaim, kissing his cheek before you make sure to look him in the eyes. âI donât need a fancy restaurant, orâor a bed. I only need you.âÂ
Buckyâs cheeks turn pink at your honest yet fierce admission, the red blush spreading to his neck and ears as well. His limbs, albeit trembling, lead you down to lie on your back. Your smile is contagious as you realize what heâs doing, and your fingers promptly go for his white shirt, impatiently ripping it apart, the buttons flying left and right as you part the two halves to expose his broad and slightly hairy chest.
âSweetheart.â Bucky balks, before your arms wrap around his neck, and with a harsh tug, your lips connect again. You glide your tongue along his bottom lip, silently asking for access, and of course he obeys at once.
âWhyââ You pant, gasping as Bucky, spurred on by your eagerness, trails a path of enthusiastic kisses down your throat. âDo you always act so surprisedâ oh!â
His lips travel lower, finding a sensitive spot of yours, just beneath your ear. Kissing and sucking repeatedly, he elicits moans and whimpers out of you that lewdly echo into the open space of his office.
Your lustful sounds encourage him to grind his clothed bulge over your pulsing core. Bucky is still so clumsy, especially when he allows himself to drop all the doubts and uncertainties that hold him back, but thatâs when you adore him the most. When he loses himself in your shared pleasure. He groans into the soft skin of your neck, finally reaching his ultimate destination.
Grabbing a hold of the hem of your sweater, he pushes it up until your torso is exposed for his eyes to feast upon. He is too eager to remove your bra, simply tugging the cups down until your breasts spill out. A sound that is dangerously close to a whimper falls from his lips at the sight of his favorite part of your body. Each spot is incredibly gorgeous in his eyes, don't get him wrong, but your chest is simply spectacular. And after that time you let him come all over your tits, Bucky can't look at it without getting hard.
You let him bury his face there, your fingers softly petting his hair as his lips latch on your nipple. His hands shoot down, groping your thighs to keep them open. His fingers knead the soft flesh there, mimicking the slow yet intense pace of his mouth sucking on your turgid nub.
âGood boy, Mr. Barnes. Such a good boy.â You sigh, grinning as a soft, pathetic sound claws out of his throat at the praise, shuddering under your wandering palms. Pulling off with a gasp, he caresses his way up to fondle your breasts, pushing them together against the sides of his face so he can nuzzle the soft skin. You giggle amused, remembering the time he fervently told you that he would not mind suffocating between them.Â
Bucky licks both nipples until theyâre shiny and swollen, before his shaky fingers reach your bottom half. Your panties fly somewhere on the headrest of the couch, carelessly discarded aside as the sight of your bare pussy short-circuits his brain.
Itâs not the first time Buckyâs seen you naked, having already been blessed with the permission to finger you. Yet, his body stills for what feels like eternity, just staring at your glistening core with the same devotion one would feel while admiring an invaluably precious treasure.Â
Bucky brings his hands to either side of you, using his thumbs to gently part your folds, as he brings his head closer. He plants a soft kiss on your clit, before licking a long stripe from your hole to the throbbing nub.Â
Your thighs jerk close around his head. âNo, no! Need your cock, Professor. Now.â
You watch as Buckyâs eyes squeeze shut, forehead resting against your hipbone as he sighs, probably to calm himself down as your taste lingering on his tongue has his cock throbbing painfully. Then he stands up, quickly fumbling with his belt. His pants and underwear are removed in a single tug, and you both chuckle when he almost trips, his hand shooting forward to grab onto the couch.Â
âIâm a mess.â He mumbles half-embarrassed, kneeling back between your parted thighs.
âHm, a hot mess.â His pulse jumps, blue eyes slowly following the way your hand reaches down to rub your clit. âNow câmere and make me yours.â You unconsciously lick your lips, staring at his stiff length standing proud and leaking against his abdomen.Â
A nerd with a big cock, that's professor James Barnes for you.
âYou can lick me clean after, if you want.â
âShit.â Panting, Bucky wraps his fingers around his cock, stroking it a couple of times before lining the engorged tip with your entrance. Your hips squirm at the action, eager to finally feel him inside.
Until his eyes widen, body stopping short. âWait, IâI need to prepare you first.â
How could he forget to stretch you open? He was so close to hurting you!
âNo need to do that.â You breathe out, caressing up and down your torso in a way that almost hypnotizes Bucky.Â
Your smirk makes his next protest die in his throat. Spellbound, he lets you guide him lower, until you can plant a heated kiss on his lips. He follows your mouth with a whine when you gently push his chest back, giggling at his restlessness.Â
âYou have a big dick, professor, yes. But,â your hands tenderly cup his face, tugging him down again until your hot breath tickles his ear. âI always finger myself in the bathroom after your lessons.â
Bucky almost chokes on his own spit.
âNeeded to do that before studying as well, I was so horny I couldnât focus.â
âEvery time you say things like that⌠My brain justâŚâ He trails off, forgetting what he wanted to say. He didn't even have a speech ready, his thoughts are just roaming free when he's with you, unable to stop himself from following his instincts.
Right now, he can only feel the warmth of your body under his, and the softness of your hands on his face. You always claim every inch of his attention, an irresistible angel wrapped in lace and sin.
âI know, professor.â Your little giggle prompts him to bury his face into the crook of your damp neck, his chest heaving as his cock gets impossibly harder at your confidence. Bucky whimpers when your hips buckle up to coax him, your folds inevitably brushing against the sensitive tip of his cock.
âCan I?â His eyes land down, and he gapes at how marvelous your pussy looks, so wet and ready for him. You simply nod, a quick, eager movement, anchoring yourself to his shoulders as he starts breeching your hole.
The small room is filled with the sound of your heavy breath. Your hold tightens on the ruined shirt precariously hanging from his shoulders when you gasp in unison at the feeling of your walls involuntarily clenching around him. Your own eyes close in bliss as he keeps pushing deeper inside you, his hands clasping your hips and holding you there with the fear that a single movement from you might make him come embarrassingly fast.Â
âShit.â Bucky breaks the religious silence, finally bottoming out.Â
âItâs so big, oh my God.âÂ
âI know!â He whimpers. âSorry.â
âDonâtââ You huff out a delirious laugh at the absurdity of this hot and smart forty-year-old college professor whining apologies for having a big dick. âYouâre so cute, Mr. Barnes. Wanna move?â
His eyelids flutter shut in concentration, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows as they knit together. âYes, yes please.â He nods eagerly, the words leaving his mouth in a strangled plea.
The first pull of his cock is torturously slow, leaving you mewling for him until he forces his way back fully inside you. Tipping his chin up to kiss your lips, Bucky is interrupted by a loud moan escaping his lips without his permission.
âFuck.â He grunts, forehead falling against yours at the feeling of your warm, tight walls squeezing him again.Â
Once Bucky sets a steady rhythm, disrupted from time to time by stray, shallow thrusts, the slightly painful sensation of being split open by a huge girth quickly shifts into pure pleasure. Your body lies now pliant on this cheap couch, clenching around Bucky as his cock seems to reach deeper and deeper.
âWait!â He gasps at some point. âLâLet meâŚâ He halts his movements all of a sudden, shifting until your knees are pushed to your chest. The new feeling has your eyes rolling back, his cock slamming in and out of you at an even faster pace, his pubic hair grinding against your sensitive nub.
âYou're really, really tight.â He cries out. âFuck!â
Your legs are burning because of the physical strain but you donât pay them any mind, too lost in the way his tip abuses your sweet spot. His big body blankets you completely once your arms wrap around his neck, dragging his torso closer to yours. The sight has Bucky bruisingly grab your thighs in an attempt to stop himself from coming. The couch is squeaking so loud under your weights, but even that is not enough to distract you from this heavenly feeling.
âCanât hold back anymore.â Bucky cries out. âSo tight, so warm⌠My pretty girl⌠Need to come. Please, please, please.â He blabbers on and on, the muscles of his stomach tensing as his impending orgasm threatens to hit him any moment.Â
âClose? Already?â You tease him with a condescending yet breathy tone. Fuck, he gets so whiny when heâs on the verge of coming you canât resist poking him a little. âSuch a pathetic old man for your student, Mr. Barnes.âÂ
âGod!â He wails, hiding his flushed face in the slope of your neck. His hips stammer for a second, coming to a sudden stop.
âWhatââ
âWas about to come.â His whisper is so hot and dejected against your chest it almost makes you feel bad.
âI didnât tell you to stop, though.â Your hips harshly jerk up, making him whimper.
âSorry, sorry.â He rushes out a string of barely coherent apologies, before heâs moving again. âSorry, sweetheart.â
âHm, âs okay.â You gasp, not expecting the brutal pace. ââM close too, you can come, Mr. Barnes.âÂ
Bucky realizes that you don't understand his concern, and he isn't sure how to tell you about it without bursting into flames of embarrassment.
âBaby,â his voice breaks, hips twitching forward at the thought. âIâI donât think I can pull out.âÂ
You had talked about it before, in the heat of the moment as you humped his bulge only for him to spill in his underwear, moaning about how you would take him so good, how you craved to feel his cock completely bare in your pussy. You are both clean, and definitely exclusive. But Bucky had briskly promised you he would pull out. Of course, that was before being inside you. Now, all reason has been hurled out of the window as the only thought in his mind is pumping you full of his cum until you canât keep it in anymore, shamelessly soiling the couch with your arousal mixed together.
Bucky is pretty sure heâs going to cry if you ask him to pull out, but he would do it immediately, of course.
But then, your wanton moan breaks through his worry, arching your back as if his words had physically grabbed you. âThen donât.â You sob, tightening your hold around his shoulders.
âFuck, yes! Thank you, sweetheart. Thank you thank you thank you.â With renowned energy, Bucky's thrusts become downright animalistic. Heâs so deliciously close, the knot in your bellies almost on its last threadâŚ
When a slow, creaking noise echoes from the outside.
Bucky stops cold, still buried deep inside of you, heart hammering against his ribs as if warning him of unseen eyes. The sound slices through the melody that are your wanton moans.
You wait with bated breath, still unsure if the sound was real, or just a figment of your imagination.Â
Unfortunately, it happens again.
The creaking continues, steady and closer. His eyes land on your wide ones. âThe janitor.â He gasps, realization dawning on him like a bucket of icy water. Cold sweat coats your back as your brain travels to a few moments before.
Did you lock the door when you entered?
It should be a reflex by now, youâre so used to doing it every day that it should come natural. However, Bucky dragged you to the couch as soon as his eyes found your form.
And now youâre not so sure anymore.Â
Heâs still motionless above you, now shielding your body with his as the janitor stops a few feet away from Bucky's office. A door opens, and he drags his cleaning cart again, the sound getting slightly weaker. He probably got inside a nearby room to start his cleaning round.Â
Bucky's cock doesnât soften through it all. As a matter of fact, his hips involuntarily keep their humping motion into you, shallow, almost imperceptible. Your hole clenches at the realization that heâs probably been affected by your constant teases about getting caught, and now heâs fucking excited. He will never admit it, you already know that, but his actions speak louder than words, and that's enough for you.
âKeep going.â You whisper. Bucky's head snaps toward you, staring at you as if heâs just seen a ghost. His eyes are telling a completely different story though, now darker and wild as you grind on his cock once. He chokes on a breath, his hands flying down to grab your hips.
âLetâs see if we can really get caught, professor.â You giggle, thrusting your hips up.Â
âWait, baby.â You simply smile at him, noticing how his eyes are gradually growing hazy. Gaping, his hips thrust into you. Brutally. And before you know it, heâs fucking you again, faster and harsher than before.Â
Thereâs only one problem: Bucky is fucking loud. That same man who had paled at the faint noise in the hallway, has now completely forgotten about the fact that the janitor is literally a few rooms away.
He is at your mercy now, too drunk from the feeling of his cock snuggled deep into your pussy. A red flush takes over his neck as he gets so close to falling over the edge, and right when his chest puffs out, lips opening around an embarrassingly loud moan, your hand shoots up, grabbing your pair of panties and stuffing them right into his mouth. It takes a moment for the professor to understand whatâs going on, but when his tongue tastes your slick on the gusset, and his nose catches the scent of your core, his eyes roll back.Â
Bucky tenses above you, desperate sounds now flowing freely, muffled by your panties. You realize youâre sweating too, closing your eyes as you pray that the squeaking of the couch goes unnoticed to the outside world.Â
Your pussy spasms, and then your own eyes are rolling back while Bucky fucks you through your orgasm, finally pumping into you with abandon, hitting that sweet spot that makes you cry out against his neck. He releases his load, whimpering and groaning in both pleasure and pain, slamming into you even though his poor dick is overstimulated, his balls having nothing left to give you. He refuses to let this moment of pure, unaltered pleasure come to an end.Â
âBucky! Bucky, stop!â Itâs only your meek squeak that pulls him out of the delirious state he fell in. His hips slow down, reluctantly coming to a stop, while his limbs tremble and his cock warmly sits between your walls. The moment his jaw relaxes, your panties land on your chest, completely wet with his spit. Then, he grabs your face to crash his lips against yours, hot and needy, as your hands refuse to let his shirt go, clinging onto him for as long as your lungs permit.
âFucking hell.â Bucky gasps out, flopping down on your body. You are still dizzy by the intensity of your climax, but seeing him so unguarded and content makes a tired chuckle bubble up from your throat.
âSo you really like the thought of being caught, huh?â Your eyebrows wiggle up and down, the left corner of your mouth lifting in amusement.
âShut up.â
âMh-mmh, want me to use my panties to do that?â
His cock twitches.
I don't do taglists anymore. thank you for reading đ