You blink. Once. Then twice.

Well, that was definitely not on your bingo list for customer requests... Or just things you thought you'd ever hear in your life for that matter.

Slightly concerned and a tad surprised by the request, you take in his features again - noticing the beads of sweat on his forehead, the tightness in his jaw, and the furrow of his eyebrows - clearly, he's not having a good day.

Despite all that, you can't deny how gorgeous he is -  skin the colour of peonies, the vast expense of freckles on his skin akin to dewdrops, and the exertion from running creating the loveliest shade of rose on the apples of his cheeks.

To your credit, the sight of his pretty face only slightly distracts you from your task. You force your eyes back to the flowers in front of you, and wrack your brain on how to fulfill this complex order.

"Um, well... To be honest, there's no one singular flower to really convey that message, but maybe we could create a bouquet with like some geraniums to symbolize stupidity, foxglove for insincerity... and a few meadowsweet flowers for uselessness." You talk as you move, searching and collecting small bunches from the respective flowers.

The gentleman in front of you seems impressed, judging by the arch of his eyebrow and how his lips part in surprise.

As your eyes conduct another scan over the flora in the emporium, you find a few more flowers to add.

"Oh!" you exclaim, startling the both of you.

"Technically, you could also add in yellow carnations for disappointment ! Plus, you can never go wrong with some orange lilies to express hatred."

"It would be quite striking and full of loathing honestly - it'll definitely get the message across for someone who knows and loves flower language." You smile, angelic, a definite contrast to your words while neatly arranging all the flowers together on the counter.

"Or if all else fails, you buy a pretty bouquet and throw it at them... Although, personally, I don't think the flowers deserve that." you add, looking up at him and grinning.

He's speechless, shock written across his face.

Fuck.

Did you go too far? Did you literally manage to scare someone coming in to buy flowers of all things ?

Worried that you overstepped, you open your mouth to apologize, when-

He bursts out laughing, shoulders shaking as he looks at you, his eyes alight with joy.

"That's perfect." he smiles, a real smile this time - one that illuminates his entire face. It's a rather nice smile actually, you think to yourself.

You beam. "Great! Shall I wrap these up for you or ..?"

He nods, one hand reaching into his back pocket to grab his wallet.

"Ok, that'll be $16.50." you inform, pruning the stems off the flowers.

"Yeah, that's fine, thanks." He chirps, evidently in a much better mood than five minutes ago when he burst through the door.

The pruning takes a little longer than usual - partly because there are a lot of different flowers to get through and partly because his brown eyes are watching you remove the thorns with such keen intent, making you feel slightly flustered by his intrigue.

"Have you ever cut your fingers on a thorn while doing that?"

"Uh, recently ? Not really.. but when I was first started out, I definitely ended up with way too many cuts - you'd have thought the shears were enchanted or something." you chuckle, the memories fond and mildly traumatizing in your own right.

The stranger hums in contemplation. "Yeah, that makes sense - I remember when I first started coding, it was a disaster. Errors and bugs constantly kept popping up like it was the reckoning or something."

"Oof." You mutter, wincing in sympathy. "I'm sorry, that must've sucked."

He sucks in a breath. "Yeah, it definitely wasn't a fun time with my crazy boss breathing down my neck - every time an error notification popped up, I just wanted to quit."

"Oh no, I meant that it must suck being a coder - I had no idea." You tease, beginning to organise the flowers into an aesthetically pleasing arrangement.

The gentleman chuckles, shaking his head in amusement.

"Surprised you couldn't tell with the outfit and everything." He teases, gesturing to his clothes - a blue flannel jacket over his Spiderman t-shirt, jeans, and red sneakers.

You bite your lip in an attempt to hold in your laughter. "I try not to hold people's fashion choices against them." you quip. "Plus, that's an excellent t-shirt, I'm kinda jealous - where'd you get it from ?"

As he responds, and your conversation flows, you find yourself quite enjoying speaking with him, his sense of humour and quick wit pleasant company while you work.

Setting the shears aside, you reach out to grab the soft, silky wrapping paper you generally use for orders.

"Uh, wait.. do you have any other wrapping paper that can be used ?" He interrupts, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Um.. I mean, we have different colours of this material, but that's about it."

He taps the counter lightly, weighing his options.

"Do you have any old newspapers with you ? Specifically ones with the crosswords on them." He requests, brown eyes earnest, a hint of something mischievous and juvenile reflecting in them.

"Um, I can check in the back - gimme a sec."

Moments later, you shuffle back to the counter, 3 week's worth of newspapers in your arms.

"Here!" You exhale, dropping them all onto the desk. "Any of them do the trick?"

He grins, devilish and angelic at once. "Oh, this is brilliant. Can you wrap it up in one of these please ?"

You nod, laying out the paper and smoothing the edges before placing the flowers.

"Thanks a ton...Oh, I'm Keys, by the way." He offers, watching you work, the traces of his smile still evident in the crinkles near his eyes.

You offer him your name in kind, and he enunciates it out loud, something soft and precise in his tone.

You rather like how it sounds from him actually, his voice carries a particular cadence to it, making your name seem like a secret lost to the night.

"Sorry for being so particular about the wrapping paper, it's just that, Millie, my ex ? She loved those sparkly, silky wrapped bouquets.." Keys explains.

"And a) I don't want to give her any reason to think I still care and b) most importantly, she despised doing the crossword with me - said I got too competitive, so I figure it'll be the cherry on top in pissing her off." He smirks, winking at you.

"Damn, it must've been a hell of a break up." You chuckle, setting the foxglove and yellow carnations together, a canopy of metaphorical insincerity and disappointment. Such a shame the flowers actually look so pretty next to each other.

"You have no idea.." He sighs.

"Let me guess, she cheated ?" You question, unable to keep your curious nature at bay.

"Worse." He states, frame slouching.

Your eyebrow raises in intrigue. "Worse ? What's worse than cheating ?... Wait, did she murder someone ?! Are you sending flowers to a murderer ?!" You faux gasp in horror, abandoning the entwined meadowsweet and orange lilies.

Keys snorts, his frames glinting in the light of the sunset.

"Nah, nothing of that kind. She just stole all of my life's work and sold it to a greedy corporation without my consent." He shrugs, picking at a corner on the desk.

"What ?!"

"Yeah, she and I were co-creators of this game called Free City, and- "

"Wait.." you squint, something about the name seeming familiar. "Free City ? ... Isn't that that game that was stolen by that psycho CEO like three years ago ? The game where one of the NPCs became sentient?

"Yup, that's the one." Keys admits, now tapping his fingers on the counter.

"Oh, my nephew plays that all the time!" You exclaim. "Well, I mean he used to, but he's kinda moved onto Minecraft now..." you trail off, wincing. Finishing the arrangement of the bouquet, you move to wrap the flower bundle with the newspaper.

Keys chuckles, "Can't blame him - there are some insanely good builds in it.. I actually play that a lot when I'm stressed, it's fun to just relax and unwind to - nothing but infinite exploration and falling off of cliffs."

You giggle, "Well, it's good to have hobbies, as they say...Wait, but what happened to your game though ?"

Keys exhales defeatedly. "Over the past few months, Millie mentioned that our game wasn't gaining enough traction and that she was growing tired of having to constantly add new aspects to the game to compete with the bigshots in the gaming industry."

"And it was difficult, I agree - but I didn't want to give up on Free City, that game was like my first-born... So I kept making revisions day and night, trying to improve the game and I... probably didn't spend as much time with Millie as I should've."

His shoulders droop slightly, causing your heart to pang with pity at his despair.

"I-, it's just that words aren't really my strong suit, and instead of telling her that I was trying to fight for us, for our game... I just kept working non-stop - in hindsight, I should've seen the break up coming." He sighs, running a hand through this hair.

"But I accepted it... Not that it was easy because she was my first love, but over the past 5 months I've been trying to move on and I finally though I was getting somewhere... And then 3 days ago, I get this letter informing me that our game is now legally the property of Freud Entertainment. She's handed over the intellectual property rights to them."

Your eyes widen in surprise. "Oh my god, that's terrible. I'm so sorry, Keys... Isn't there anything you can do to get it back ?"

He shakes his head dejectedly, "I can't - I had my lawyer look through everything to find a loophole, but since the game was her concept technically, she has more say in the rights of it. I'm just the guy who did the code." He shrugs, lips downturned.

You want to reach out to comfort this, stranger essentially, but you refrain from doing so - recognising that it would probably not help resolve matters.

Lightly humming in thought, you walk over to his side of the desk - plucking a buttercup from the various flora, and offer it to him.

His eyebrows furrow in confusion, accompanied by his soft, full lips turning into a pout.

"It's a buttercup." You respond, smiling slightly at how clueless he looks.

His hand reaches out hesitantly as he accepts the flower, the tips of his fingers lightly brushing against yours - sending a small buzz of electricity through your nerves, which you promptly ignore.

"Um... Thank you ?... I don't really know what this is for, to be honest." He replies, free hand rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

You giggle. "Buttercups are a symbol of joy and happiness - so this is me wishing you good things in your future that you can look forward to."

Key's hand curls around the flower more gingerly, smiling softly at you.

"Thanks... I'm sorry, by the way, for dumping all this on you - I usually don't unearth my life story to strangers." He exclaims, sheepishly.

"Ease of a florist." You reply, rounding back to the counter and grabbing the bouquet. "You'll probably never see me again, so it makes it easier for you to divulge your soul to me - think of it as me being a temporary therapist."

Keys frowns as he places the fee on the counter, with the exact change. "Hmm, I don't know if I'd say that." He announces, tilting his head.

"No ? Honestly, I think I'd actually make an excellent good cop, I just listen and the secrets spill out." You wink, grinning deviously.

He mirrors your expression, hefting the bouquet into his arms. "Ok fair, that you probably would - but I meant the part where you said that I'll never see you again."

"Oh, yeah no, I didn't mean that in a bad way - it's just that it's rare that people come in here unless for special occasions or if they exceptionally fucked up with someone else."

"Which category do I fall under ?" Keys questions cheekily, gesturing at the 'unique' flower bouquet in his arms with his chin.

"I think... Honestly, you basically created a new category. You're quite revolutionary." You quip, winking at him.

He chuckles, shaking his head in amusement. "I did mean it though - like if you don't mind, of course, but if you're ok with it, I'd like to come back here. I mean, who else am I gonna share the aftermath of this whole scenario with, right ?" He grins.

"Hmm..let me think." You pretend to consider it, before clasping your hands together and proceeding to nod in a very grave manner. "I think we'll allow it."

Keys lets out a faux exhale of relief. "Ok, thank god. The fate of the world depends on it."

You roll your eyes, despite the smile playing on your lips.

Suddenly, the bell at the entrance chimes, indicating the arrival of a new customer. You peep at the clock to see the time, and somehow it's been an hour ? You didn't even notice the time pass by so quickly.

"Hi, welcome to Sage's Flower Emporium. I'll be right with you in a second !" You exclaim, acknowledging the lady who just entered the store with a polite smile.

"I better get going." Keys responds. "Don't want to infringe on your time - thanks for the flowers and, uh, the reassurance." He states, dimples prominent with the grateful smile accompanying his words.

"Anytime, it was nice to meet you, Keys." You exclaim, extending your hand to him.

He smiles, shaking yours with his free hand.

"See you around, Buttercup." He winks, waving the flower at you.

You can't really help the smile that makes it way onto your face this time.

You don't expect him to come back.

Why would he ?

The both of you are essentially strangers and sure, you had a good conversation, but why on the earth would a customer come all the way back to your shop to give you the details on his revenge plan towards his ex ?

That's just absurd - besides it's been nearly a week already since Keys came to buy flowers, so if he hasn't dropped by yet, obviously he wouldn't come by again.

It's just one of those things people say and never follow through on, you muse - not that he should have to, because after all you don't even really know each other.

Shaking your head at your naivety, you head into the inventory unit to get the new stock of the soil you imported from Denmark - you'd heard that it helps flowers stay in bloom for longer, and were quite excited when it was delivered last night.

You drag it back to the counter, placing it against the wood and searching for the scissors to open the bag. Just then, you hear the trinkling of the store bell and you turn to tell Maddie to take care of the customer - only to remember she ran out to get some coffee for the both of you since the autumn weather was reaching its chilly phase.

Sighing, you leave the bag on the floor and dust your hands, back facing the counter. "Hi, welcome to Sage's Flower Emporium- "

"Hey, Buttercup." A voice chirps from behind, the distinct lilt of his tone instantly familiar.

You still for a second.

Huh, he actually came back.

Who'd have thought ?

You turn around only to be met with the sight of sparkling caramel eyes behind sharp frames, and a few wisps of hair peeking out from a beanie like fresh sprouts at the end of winter.

"I got the tea." He grins, emphasizing the last word - lightly rocking on the balls of his feet as he holds up two drinks to you.

"Well, technically, neither of these are tea - it's hot chocolate. But I come bearing gossip, hence why I got the 'tea'." He explains, still smiling cheesily.

Annoyingly, your heartbeat starts picking up, barely discernable, but present. You clear your throat - urging yourself to get a grip and schooling your features to resemble something a little less 'surprised' and more 'nice to see you again'.

"Keys, hey.. How'd you know I like hot chocolate?" You question, reaching out and gently taking a cup from his hands - the instant warmth of the beverage seeping into your bones, a relief you didn't even realize how badly you needed with the autumn chill.

He shrugs, the movement causing his scarf to shift forward slightly - the design appearing to contain a multitude of adorable sewn turtle-duck-esque creatures.

"It's a bit chilly out today, so I figured nothing better than a cup of hot chocolate to warm with." He reasons, taking a sip of his beverage.

You nod, thanking him for the drink and taking a sip of yours - the smooth flavour and heat melting into your mouth, making you let out a small sigh of contentment.

Keys chuckles at your reaction, murmuring under his breath, something fond in his tone.

You exhale, before eagerly taking another sip, your body automatically leaning closer to hear him better. "So, what's up ? How'd she react? Gimme all the info and spare no details."

As Keys opens his mouth to divulge the events following the fuck-you bouquet, the store door opens with a bang, Maddie coming back into the shop, holding two cups: one hot chocolate for you and a matcha frappe for herself.

She does a double take, eyes narrowing in suspicion at how friendly you and Keys seem. You can already tell from her expression that she's up to no good.

"Soo... Who's this guy-" Realization passes over her face. "Wait, are you that Keys guy ?"

Keys crooks his eyebrow at you, something amused in his expression. "Uh yeah, hi, I'm Keys - nice to meet you.." His eyes rove over her name tag. "-Maddie. Nice to meet you Maddie." He finishes, offering his free hand to shake hers.. before promptly realising that her hands are full with the drinks and moving to help her with them.

She beams, winking her approval at you over Key's shoulder while he places the drinks on the counter. You jerk your head in a quick motion, telling her to shut up, which proves futile when she smiles like a tiger about to devour its prey.

"So Keys, heard about the whole ex-situation, that must suck.. I'm guessing you're new to town then, right ?"

"Maddie!" You hiss, sensing where she was trying to lead the conversation to.

Maybe this was the universe trying to mock you for having told her about your encounter with Keys and his interesting flower order - because, in all honesty, how often do you get that kind of a request from a customer ? Maddie being Maddie managed to needle out additional details about Keys from you - enough to make sense of and put 2 and 2 together: you were intrigued by Keys and maybe, just maybe, you found him kind of cute.

In your defense though, who wouldn't ? One look at his boba ball eyes and the array of freckles across his skin, and not to mention his quick wit - he could probably get out of a parking ticket for all you know.

"Uh yeah.." Keys responds, nervously chewing on his lip - likely thrown off-guard by Maddie's awareness of his situation and her abrupt question. The slight inflammation and redness in the centre of his lips suggest it might be a frequent habit of his. Realising you're essentially staring at his lips like an idiot, you direct your gaze elsewhere before he notices.

"I, uh, moved here a couple weeks ago, after the whole fiasco - been trying to go out there and explore the city, but so far all I've managed is mostly going to and from the grocery store." He finishes sheepishly, inhaling a few sips from his drink.

"And well, this flower shop too, technically." He admits, brown eyes finding yours.

Maddie's gaze sharpens, latching onto her metaphorical prey. She hums, making her way over to the counter and swinging one arm over your shoulder.

"Yeah, it's probably overwhelming moving all of a sudden and having to adjust to a new city.. luckily we got a Chicago expert here." She says, tilting her head at you. "Born and raised here, so she knows all the best spots - I'm sure she could show you around."

If you could, you would step on Maddie's foot right now... Unfortunately, being your best friend for over 14 years, she's definitely expecting it, angling her feet away from you with her upper body leaning on yours for support.

Keys turns to you. "Oh, that's cool, I didn't know you were born here."

You shrug, offering him a small smile. "My grandpa migrated here when he was young and opened up this flower shop. A few years ago, he handed it to me when he retired.. I basically grew up surrounded by flowers."

Cocoa eyes widen in surprise, the sight simultaneously comical and endearing under the cover of his slightly oversized beanie and the tufts of copper hair escaping it.

"Wait, this is your store ?"

Maddie chimes in. "Right ? She takes such good care of it, doesn't she ?"

Keys nods in agreement, observing the store. "I didn't get the best of looks when I rushed in the first time, but it looks really pretty in here - like a still from a Barbie movie or something."

Your ears burn, the warmth from his earnest compliment travelling down your neck.

Maddie nods enthusiastically, "Exactly! Plus, since she's the boss, she decides her own hours so she'd be the perfect person to show you around town!" She chirps, expression innocent, despite her intentions being very much not so.

Honestly, it's both impressive and terrifying what a dedicated wing-woman she is.

Keys being oblivious to your friend's true intentions looks at you with a shy smile. "Would that be okay with you ? I don't want to intrude on your free time."

Damn it. You know you're going to regret this, but before you know it, you're waving your hand in dismissal. "Nah, that's fine, I'll get to introduce you to the best hotdogs in the world. I think it's my duty as a local to do so, it would bring grave shame upon my ancestors if I didn't." You state solemnly, eyes twinkling as you place your drink on the desk.

He rolls his eyes, amused. "Noted. We mustn't disappoint them." He jests, tongue in cheek.

A loud honk outside interrupts the moment, and Maddie takes that as her cue to leave - mumbling something about needing to check the fertilizer quantities and trying to pretend as if she's not leaving immediately to go flirt with the delivery girl.

Keys chuckles at Maddie's antics before turning back to look at you, leaning against the counter. "You know I didn't think I'd be this famous already." Keys remarks, leisurely finishing off his drink and placing it on the desk - proceeding to then clean his glasses before putting them back on.

Your brows furrow in confusion. "What ?"

"I mean, I didn't think you'd have told others about me this quickly." He smirks, hands shoved in his pockets, something so utterly boyish and pleased etched on his face.

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. "Ok, calm down, Casanova.. a) It's only Maddie and b) it's not everyday you get to see someone walk in and be like 'how do I say fuck you passive-aggressively in flowers'." You retort, crossing your arms, eyebrow arching in challenge.

"Touché." He returns, smile widening.

The glimmer of the sun's rays spread across the concrete and pavements, following the direction of the setting sun slowly - adding a spark of colour to the otherwise gloomy Chicago evenings.

Keys and you have been talking for around two hours, leisurely walking along the street  -  Maddie having ushered the both of you out of the store saying she can handle any customers that come in during the evening rush.

Initially, you were hesitant to leave her alone to attend to all the customers, but when she started to resort to telling Keys stories about your teenage adventures, you guide him out of the store yourself.

"Safe to say, she's blocked me on every possible platform now after the flower fiasco." Keys declares, a hint of pride in his voice.

"Damn, she must've been pissed, getting something like that during a board room meeting is just brutal."

"Yup." He replies cheerfully. "Lilies are some of her favourite flowers too, so the orange ones symbolising hatred must've cut a little deep."

"You're a menace, Walter McKey." You announce, shaking your head in amusement, using the name he had revealed earlier in the evening as his actual name.

"Why, thank you." He bows with fanfare.

The melody of your laughter echoes, the moment almost suspended in the light of the orange glow painting the streets of Chicago, bringing a smile to Key's face automatically.

"... S- so, do you have any particular pl- places or sights y- you wanna see in Chicago ?" You ask, shivering lightly from the cold and rubbing the sides of your arms for warmth.

"Not really... I do wanna see the landmarks and everything but I don't have a set list of places in mind - Mouser and I kinda moved here on a whim to start our own game, so I didn't really pay much attention to what I should do outside of the business and coding aspect." He shrugs, gently untangling his scarf from his neck.

You hum in thought, trying to mentally figure out a few places Keys might be interested in seeing, when you suddenly feel something soft and woollen draped around your shoulders. Your steps halt slowly, recognizing the sudden fabric wrapped around your neck, sewings of turtle ducks visible across it.

"You good?" Keys asks, realising you've stopped walking alongside him, tilting his head down to meet your eyes.

"Uh yeah, yeah... I'm fine - won't you be cold without your scarf?"

"Nah, I run warm anyways." He exclaims, nudging your shoulder in jest.

You murmur out a quiet 'thanks', drawing the scarf tighter around your neck. Warmth courses through your body, although you're not certain how much of it is solely attributable towards the fabric, and not the gesture of the man walking in tandem with you.

It's weird, really - despite his confessions about not having grown up with many friends and struggling to get close to people sometimes, he seems comfortable with you. Entirely at ease, as if the both of you were long-lost friends that are able to pick up conversations from eons ago - you're not entirely sure how you feel about that.

Rather you are, you suppose, but you don't want to acknowledge how comfortable you feel around him too, that it's easy to just be with him. The banter and the silence feels natural, as easy as breathing - and it should scare you honestly, but somehow you find that you can't really bring yourself to dislike being cared for. Being allowed to just be you.

A while later, you head back to the store, Keys walking you back, despite your protests. You try to explain to him that you were literally raised around these streets, he retorts saying that information is irrelevant since he was raised a gentleman.

As you walk, footsteps creating their own set of unique harmonies, you and Keys finalize your plans to meet at the local farmer's market next Friday and exchange each other's contacts.

You glance at your phone screen, a small smile escaping you at the sight of what that honey brown-eyed goof saved his contact as: Keys 🗝️.

Dork, you think to yourself fondly, as you turn down to the street the emporium is located at.

"And... Done!" He states, shoving his phone screen near your face, tongue poking out in concentration - the contact reading Buttercup 🏵️ above your number.

You arch your eyebrow, unimpressed. "You do realize I have a name, right?".

His hand finds the back of his neck again.

Fuck, you really need to stop cataloguing his behaviours.

"Yeah, but Buttercup is kinda iconic in its own sense - you're basically like my happiness icon." He expresses, tone slightly bashful.

Your breath catches, heart feeling like a hummingbird buzzing around in your ribcage.

"You're such a sap, McKey. I know you're just buttering me up so we go visit the Griffin Museum of Science."

He grins. "Is it working ?"

You relent, fighting back the grin on your face and sigh in faux exasperation. "Fine, fine. We'll go there first thing in the morning, you nerd."

He gives you a two-fingered salute, eyes sparkling. "Yes ma'am!"

You find yourself struggling to squash that annoyingly fluttery feeling in your gut - one that seems to have no intention of going away anytime soon.

As the familiar cobblestones of the store come into view, you sigh in relief - the chill of the evening rather prominent now and the promise of the heater inside the flower shop drawing you in like a moth to the flame.

"Damn, didn't know you were that eager to get rid of me, Buttercup." Keys quips, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"Yes, unfortunately, I am more eager to get home and re-watch the next episode of Criminal Minds all cozied up in my blanket than stand outside, freezing my feet off, Walter. So sorry if that hurts your feelings." You pat him sympathetically on the shoulder, a teasing pout on your face.

He chuckles heartily, glasses sliding forward a bit with the movement. Your hands itch with the urge to move it back.

"Y'know what ? That's fair, I can't blame you - seeing Spencer Reid on a screen sounds miles better than staying outside right now."

You stare, gaping at him. "How'd you know I like Spencer ?"

His gaze sweeps over you from head to toe, and he winks, hand coming up to move his glasses back. "Just a hunch."

Your face warms. Why ? You're not really sure, but it's definitely warm: Keys basically checking you out not helping matters at all.

In an attempt to draw focus away from your flustered state, you change the conversation, stammering out a 'So, Friday ?' and he nods, turning to head back to the train station.

At the retreating figure of his back, you start to head back inside the store - hand settling against your cheek at the still lingering warmth in your body, when you feel a different texture near your face. His scarf. Shit. You forgot to give it back.

You whip around, seeing that he's still in your vicinity thankfully, and jog up to him, calling out his name.

"Keys!"

He whirls around in surprise at the sound, removing his headphones.

His face shifts to concern immediately upon seeing your face, hands reaching out to steady your shoulders. "Hey, hey - you ok ?"

"Y-yeah, just y-your scarf." You exclaim, catching your breath as you go to untangle it from your neck.

"Keep it."

You pause, hands hovering in the hair slightly.

"What?"

"Keep it." He chuckles. "You still need to walk back home in this chilly weather, you can just hand it over when we meet on Friday, ok ?" He tilts his head down at you, his gentle gaze on you.

"Are you sure ?"

He nods, puffs of air visible from his breathing. "Catch ya later, Buttercup."

When you finally reach your apartment after locking up the store, feet tired and aching, but soul full - the only thought on your mind is the soft whiff of cinnamon emanating from his scarf.

Maddie is surprisingly considerate enough to not pester you for details that evening, but the next morning, she immediately sets to work on drawing information from you.

"So, it's a date." She concludes, nodding to herself, completely disregarding the nature of the upcoming hangout.

"It's not a date." You sigh, as you wrap up the bouquet for the elderly man in front of you, who looks extremely bemused at the conversation topic.

"Here you go, Mr Finch." You beam, handing over the flowers to him. He nods his thanks, smiling at you. "Good luck on your date, kid."

You groan, slumping forward on the counter in defeat as Maddie howls with glee in the background.

Friday arrives sooner than expected, most of the week having passed by in a blur of the daily rush of customers and a few pre-booked orders for December wedding arrangements.

You stand near one of the stalls at the farmer's market - not too far off from the GPS coordinates you sent to Keys yesterday - examining the condition of the pomegranates in front of you.

The weather is pretty sunny and warm today, making you all the more grateful that you're dressed pretty casually - donning a blouse and some jeans, because like you've repeatedly been telling Maddie, it's not a date. But if anyone happened to point out the slight difference in how you've styled your hair and the more prominent fragrance of vanilla perfume exuding from you, you probably wouldn't have a very believable response.

"May I get those two please ?" You ask, pointing to the extremely juicy and ripe fruit in front of you. The seller nods, putting the pomegranates in a bag. "One each for you and your boyfriend, dear ?" She questions, head gesturing to the side with a smile as she hands the bag to you.

Your face twists in confusion. Boyfriend ? Who does she mean- ?

Oh. You turn around, seeing Keys approach the stall upon spotting you. He's dressed a little differently today, sporting denim cargo shorts with an unbuttoned linen shirt over his tanktop, strapped in by his messenger bag.

He jogs over to your side. "Hey." He greets, waving as he joins you.

"Hi" you answer, offering one of the pomegranates to him with a smile.

He accepts it, munching on the tiny red pieces happily.

"So, you ready to start your official Chicago tour ?" You question, gazing up at him.

He nods. "Yeah, even Mouser is more familiar with the area than I am and he hates going out even more than me, it's getting embarrassing at this point."

"I mean... You technically have been here for a while." You shrug, throwing one of the red arils into your mouth.

"Hardy har har." He deadpans. "I'm aware, thank you very much."

"Glad to help" You jest, elbowing him gently.

"We can cover about three places today, other main landmarks and areas will have to be an adventure for another day 'coz of time."

"Aw, Buttercup.. y'know you can just say that you're looking forward to spending more time with me, right ? I'm flattered honestly." He grins.

You roll your eyes, chucking an aril at him. He blows a raspberry in retaliation, truly resembling every bit of the dork he is.

"I literally said it was because of time limitations, dumbass."

"Or... Maybe it's because you wanna be my friend?" He teases, eyes twinkling with mischief. "It's ok, I understand, I'm awesome. He nods solemnly, like this is a fact of the universe.

You snort. "Don't delude yourself, McKey. I-,"

"Oi! Can you two lovebirds move outta the fucking way ? You're blocking my goddamn view!" Someone yells out from behind you.

Keys and you quickly disperse from the stall, apologies slipping from your mouths.

"Damn, I guess some people are really passionate about pomegranates."

You chortle. "Apparently... I guess we do learn something new everyday, huh? Anyways, as I was saying, on today's agenda, we have the farmer's market, the Chicago Riverwalk, and obviously the Griffin Museum - saved that one for last so you'll have ample time to explore the place. That ok ?"

Keys nods in agreement. "I like how you've styled your hair, by the way - it suits you." He says, looking around at the multitude of colourful stalls.

Your cheeks warm. "Thanks, I just figured with the heat and everything, it-, it'd probably be easier to wear it this way."

He hums, chewing on some more pomegranate seeds. "Hmm, makes sense."

"So... O' wise tour guide, what are we doing here at 'Chicago's most beloved farmers market' ? Keys reads off of a banner in the distance, eyes squinting due to the harsh rays of the sun.

You chuckle. "Supermarkets are good and everything, but the produce you get from places like these taste better and last much longer. Plus, you get an opportunity to mingle with more people here."

Key's face sours a bit at the last sentence, his reaction making you snort. "I just mean that it's helpful to know a few locals here and there, many of the people I've gotten to know at this market over the years have also been some of my most loyal customers. It helps, you know ? Community and stuff. " You lower the volume of your talking slightly before continuing.

"But some of these people, especially the older folk, are a bit nosy, so I would recommend coming here occasionally and not all the time. Otherwise, they'll start unravelling your life's secrets."

"Gotcha."

You and Keys explore the market for a while, going to different stalls and trying out a few fruits and delicious baked goods. You end up having to pry him away from buying way too many Palmer Brownies for a person with lactose intolerance to consume in one sitting. He then decides that he's now a plant guy and tries to buy 10 ferns. You ask him if he gets enough sunlight in his room and how his prior history has been with watering plants - his resounding silence is loud enough for you to paint a picture.

"Look, if you really want to grow plants, how about we start off with succulents ?" You offer. "These are pretty low-maintainance and don't require a lot of water either - that way even if you get caught up in coding or gaming, it's not going to immediately die the next day."

He chuckles, ending up buying one succulent before you both start heading towards the tram station to get to your next destination.

"I never thought you'd betray me like this, Walter McKey." You announce gravely, tone flat.

His gaze finds yours in a heartbeat. "What ?"

You exhale defeatedly. "I mean, here you are, having a friend who literally owns a plants shop, and yet you buy your succulents from a stranger ? Tsk tsk tsk." You chide.

His gaze sharpens. "First off, you called me a friend, Buttercup. This is now established and cannot be rescinded."

"I-"

"Uh, bup bup !" He admonishes, booping you on the nose. "It's part of the ancient texts, you cannot take it back, madamoiselle."

You sigh, hefting your tote bag onto your shoulder more securely, a defeated 'fine' leaving your lips.

Keys grins before continuing. "Secondly, I'm just supporting and being a part of the community like someone told me to." He returns, a smirk tugging on his lips.

"You little shit."

"I take quite a lot of pride in that title, thank you." He beams, lifting the succulent near his cheek like a mini trophy.

You roll your eyes, an increasingly common accompaniment in your friendship with him. "What are you gonna name it ?"

"Do I need to name it ?"

"Well no, but some people like doing that - it gives them a sense of personal connection."

"Hmm.." he mutters, contemplating. Five minutes later, he snaps his fingers, grinning deviously. "I got it!"

Something about his expression gives away what he's thinking.

You sigh. "You're gonna name it Yoda, aren't you ?"

The incredulity written across his face is instantaneous. "W- what ? N- no.. That's crazy."

"Keys."

"How did you even know that ?!"

"Just a hunch" you wink, mirroring his words from the day as you look him up and down before walking towards the tram. He follows along shortly, the tips of his ears a light pink that was not present before.

Several people who recognize you come to greet you, their curiosity about a new face evident.

Keys, surprisingly, is really good at keeping the conversation flow with the elderly folk, his usual wit taking on a softer tone. Later, as the crowd disperses and you both wait for the arrival of the tram, Keys catches you staring at him, raising an amused eyebrow.

"You seem surprised at my ability to be charming regardless of the demographic, Buttercup." He leans in, tucking a strand of hair that's fallen into your face behind your ear.

"I used to visit the elder's centre a lot when I was in high school to care for my grandma." He confides, something melancholic in his voice at the memory as he continues. "She got into a car accident a while back, and it was really bad - she had to go for physical therapy for about 2 years just so she could walk by herself again."

You stroke his arm tenderly, hoping the touch helps. "I'm so sorry, Keys... That must've been terrible - how is she now ?"

His sad smile speaks volumes. You surge toward him instantly - mindful of the succulent - and embrace him. Ironically, the steady sound of his heartbeat grounds you instead.

A watery chuckle escapes him as he awkwardly pats your back, careful to not let the succulent prick you. "It's ok, she recovered well from the accident, and ended up passing of old age."

You gently untangle your limbs from his after a final squeeze to reassure him - remaining within his general proximity, and gaze up towards his eyes. Those warm brown eyes which hold so much fondness and affection, it was like a cesspool of its own.

"What about your parents? How did they feel when she passed?" You ask, thumb caressing the inside of his wrist like it was instinct. The glint in his eyes immediately sharpen, the warm and comforting cocoa brown shifting to a steely gaze.

He scoffs bitterly. "They didn't really care at all, they didn't even want to help with caring for her after the accident. Just sent me money to pay for her medical needs and washed their hands off of any real responsibilities - I haven't been in contact with them for a while... That day I learned that people can make all the promises they want, but ultimately words mean nothing in the face of action."

Silence envelopes the moment, his statement settling around the both of you.

He glances back to you, your thumb still rubbing soothing patterns on his skin, and his entire demeanour softens instantly.

"Uh, sorry. Didn't mean to bring the mood down - this has got to be one of the most depressing stories ever shared while waiting for a tram, huh ?" He forces a laugh out, peering at the sign above depicting the duration until the tram arrives at your stop.

Both your hands goes up to his jaw, cradling it, gentle and reverent in its nature as you turn his face to yours. His eyes are so so soft, looking like he might crumble in your arms.

"Hey, no. That was a fucked-up situation and I'm sorry you went through that. You didn't deserve that and neither did your grandma, ok?" His gaze searches yours, and whatever he finds there makes him nod. You smile slightly, bringing your hands down. "Good. I'm sure your grandma would've been so proud and grateful for having a grandson like you by her side."

The side of his face lifts up slightly, glasses moving with the motion. "She used to say that we were like Peter and Aunt May - she started saying with great power comes great responsibility everytime I went there just so those could be her last words to me." He reminisces fondly.

You stifle a giggle. "Iconic behaviour honestly. I see where you get your sense of humour from, but she seems infinitely cooler."

He nods in affirmation. "She was." The tram arrives then, the both of you clambering onto it with the other passengers. As it heads towards the Chicago Riverwalk, you turn to Keys.

"What was her favourite flower?"

He hums. "Would you believe if I told you it was buttercups ?"

Your eyes narrow in suspicion. "No."

He beams, booping you on the nose again. "Correct - it was pink carnations."

"Oh, those symbolize devotion and gratitude! I could pick out a couple from the emporium the next time you're there. That way you can have something to remember her by... Only if you want to though, of course, I'm-, I'm not trying to force you or anything!" You ramble, feeling like an idiot for overstepping your boundaries.

He lightly bumps your hips with his, smiling, a grateful expression on his face.

"I'd like that."

Hours pass by as you and Keys walk about, exploring the vast expanse of the Chicago Riverwalk. You point out a few of your favourite cafes and restaurants on the bridge, dishes that you'd recommend - Keys jots it all down on his phone, tongue poking out in concentration as he does.

After having walked for a while, you both settle down on a nearby bench, gulping copious amounts of water to bear the harsh rays of the afternoon sun.

"Hey, what time is it ?"

You glance at your watch. "It's a quarter to 4, why ?"

Key's eyes widen. "Shit, we're gonna be late! We gotta go." He stands up, ushering you to follow.

"Wh- what ? Keys, it's hot as fuck. The Griffin Museum isn't going anywhere, let's go in like 20 minutes."

He shakes his head vigorously. "No, no, not that - we can go there on another day - but we need to get going now." He grabs your hand, running towards the main road.

You squint in confusion, huffing as you go. "What ? Wait, where are we going then ?"

He skids to a halt near the pavement, letting go of your hand to holler a taxi. You hate that you miss the warmth of his palm despite the unbearable scorching heat.

"Keys." You try again. "Where are we going ?"

He turns back to you, sweat-slicked hair and a visible sense of excitement thrumming through his body. "Do you trust me?"

The next thing you know, you're at Wrigley Field.

"How'd you even get the tickets for this ? It was sold out last week!" You ask Keys as you both inch your way towards your seats, finally locating them amongst the crowd.

He turns his head back, yelling over the boisterous noise of the stadium. "Mouser knew a guy!"

Exhaling deeply from the exertion of your arduous journey, you both drop down onto your seats - the players still warming up on the field.

"How do you even know if I like the Chicago Cubs ?"

A grin stretches across his face, smug and knowing. "First time I went to your shop, there was a little lion plushie wearing baseball merch at the back of the counter... It was a pretty solid hint. Consider it my way of saying thanks for offering to show me around."

Your heart warms at how attentive he is to your interests.. But, this is also too good of an opportunity to pass up on messing with him.

You gasp, hands covering your mouth in horror. "Keys, oh my god, that was my grandpa's, not mine! He's been a fan of the Cubs since I was a child - that lion was a souvenir from the first match he went to!"

His smile drops immediately, the painful realization that he basically spent a small fortune's worth to express his gratitude for no reason etched across his face.

You snicker obnoxiously, nudging him with your elbow. "I'm kidding! God, I can't believe you actually fell for that, you dork."

His chest heaves with relief, eyes narrowing as he glares at you. "You're a fucking menace."

Beaming, you reach over to grab a handful of popcorn from the bucket in his lap. "Why, thank you! So sweet of you to say!"

He rolls his eyes playfully as he throws a kernel at you. You catch it with your mouth, pretending like you don't notice the way his eyes follow the sight of your tongue darting out to lick any remaining residue of the popcorn on your lips.

The game is underway with the Cubs leading 8 - 6 against the Guardians. The tension is palpable, with many - including yourself - standing up and cheering for the team. Keys joins in a few times as well, whistling and applauding the plays like a proud uncle. Around the halftime mark, the announcers call for a break until the players revive their energy, and the Kiss Cam segment begins. As always, the crowd cheers much more loudly for that than when either team scored.

Thankfully, with the night approaching soon, the heat becomes a lot more bearable, yet still humid. You unravel and drape Key's scarf that you had brought along to return, over both of your knees - providing some solace against the harsh rays of the setting sun.

"So, how are you liking your first baseball game in Chicago, Mr McKey?" You question, shoving an imaginary microphone under his chin. He chuckles, the sound going right through you.

"Well, I gotta say I'm quite enjoying it so far-" the words die off Key's lips instantly, his mouth frozen mid-talking with his eyes wide. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion as you try looking around to see what prompted this reaction - not realising the sudden sounds of excitement and cheering emanating from the crowd, solely directed at you two.

Your eyes catch sight of the Kiss Cam, only to find yours and Key's faces displayed on the giant screen. You both gesture awkwardly at each other, mouthing that you're just friends, and making X's with your hands. All that proves futile as the crowd roars for you two to kiss and the camera operator refuses to switch to another couple. Your cheeks heat, nerves buzzing with anticipation.

You feel Key's hand splay over your knee, helping to minimise how much your leg is bouncing - the touch grounding despite the situation. He leans in, next to your ear, voice softer than cotton, repeating his words from earlier. "Do you trust me ?"

You pull back to look at face, eyes sweeping over the earnest look in his. To no one's surprise, you're starting to realize that you're very bad at finding reasons to stay away from Walter McKey. You nod once, and he cups your jaw gently - thumb close to the corner of your mouth, caressing your skin tenderly.

His head tilts, the mop of shaggy chestnut hair cascading, covering the side of your face visible to the giant screen. His lips ghost over yours, and you find yourself wanting to know what he tastes like, consequently leaning towards him.

A soft pressure makes itself known against your mouth, and you move your lips in tandem... But, as the seconds trickle by, you notice that it doesn't really feel like a pair of lips against yours, despite feeling his breath against your cheek.

You slowly open your eyes to find Key's mouth close to yours. Close but not touching - having placed his slender, long thumb against your lips, mouth pressing against his finger instead of actually kissing you.

From the corner of your eye, you can see the screen and it looks like he's genuinely kissing you. You feel your stomach settle with mild disappointment. Heart aching, you withdraw your face from his, throwing a shy wink at the camera for good measure. The crowd erupts with cheers and the camera operator, deeming the kiss satisfactory, finally shifts the Kiss Cam to other unfortunate souls.

"You okay ?" He asks, his eyebrows furrowed in worry.

"Y-Yeah." You rasp, not trusting yourself to speak.

"I'm sorry, I didn't want to make you uncomfortable, but that was the only solution I could think of." He mutters dejectedly.

"No, it's ok." You reassure, fingers coming up to your lips - the warmth of his breath still fresh in your mind. "It was a good strategy, otherwise we would've actually had to kiss and that probably would've been awkward as hell." You chuckle forcibly, not quite sounding genuine but you couldn't really bring yourself to care at the moment.

Keys searches your face for any trace of discomfort. Finding none, he nods, settling back into his seat, expression blank with a faraway look in his eyes.

Neither of you really speak until the game ends.

Three weeks. It's been three weeks and you and Keys haven't spoken to each other at all.

Well, that's not entirely true.

He had asked you that night to let him know whenever you were free so you both could hangout and explore a few more places. And you hadn't reached out.

You did intend to, but each time you think of meeting him again, the memory of that almost-kiss plays in your mind, with far too much clarity for your liking.

Days turned into weeks and before you know it, it's been nearly a month since the Cubs game and you haven't spoken to him.

Weirdly enough, he hadn't reached out either. You're unsure if it's because he also felt extremely awkward after that night or he's just waiting until you offer, not wanting to toe the line of your friendship.

Maybe this is for the best, you think as you count the bags of fertilizer in the inventory. Because this is already reaching dangerous territory - you don't want to start anything with someone who just broke up. And you're not sure if you could avoid falling for Keys in the future, considering how much he's already taking over your thoughts.

Plus, it's not like he even likes you like that, so this would just be you hurting yourself for no reason at all. The only plausible answer at this point to protect yourself is to keep avoiding him.

Do you feel bad for doing so ? Of course you do, Keys is a sweet guy and he doesn't deserve this, but what alternative is left ?

"Y'know, I'm starting to think that you're avoiding me." A familiar voice remarks, startling you out of your thoughts.

You look in the direction of the sound, only to see Keys leaning against the wall of the storage unit, arms crossed.

Fuck.

You must've not heard him walk in with the construction noise coming from down the street.

Well, at least your dad was right about something, the universe does have a fucked up sense of humour sometimes.

"Keys!" You exclaim, plastering on a fake smile to your face. "H- hey, how have you been ?"

He stares at you, scoffing in disbelief. "How I've been ?" He calls out your name then, tone sharp, yet the hurt underneath it obvious. "Cut the bullshit."

You inhale sharply, not used to this side of Keys.

"Keys, I- "

"Did I make you uncomfortable that day ?" He asks suddenly, tone hushed as if he were afraid of scaring you off.

You shake your head vehemently. "No, of course you didn't."

"Then what is it?" He pleads, stepping hesitantly towards you, before thinking better of it and remaining rooted near the wall. "Did-, do I make you nervous ?"

You pause, not knowing how to answer that. Technically yes, but not in the way he thinks.

"No, Keys, I've just been busy with the upcoming wedding arrangements, I swear... I wasn't trying to intentionally avoid you."

His expression remains dubious, brows furrowing.

"... Ok, yes, I may have felt slightly awkward after the game, but that was because the situation was inherently weird, not because of you."

Something in him eases at your admission.

"Ok.. You're sure though?"

You groan, ushering him out of the storage room. "Yes, yes, McKey, I'm certain. Now get out of this room, employees only."

He snorts. "Maddie let me in here, I think that waives off the requirement."

You sigh, dropping your head in defeat. You were seriously considering the possibility of killing Maddie at this rate.

So, out goes your plan of avoiding Keys indefinitely. He's far too observant for your liking for it to have continued anyways.

The Griffin Museum is ticked next off on Key's list - an entire day spent wandering around munching on churros and him sipping on blueberry Redbulls.

The blue lighting in the hallway catches on his cheek, illuminating his plethora of freckles, making you think of how pretty he looks having constellations on his face - only to realize at the immediate flush that spreads across his face that you definitely said that out loud.

Thankfully, he then starts narrating random facts about the different inventions and technologies in the room - one of the explanations in which you get really caught up and interested in, only to realize he was bluffing the entire time. He chuckles as you walk off, miffed. The pearls of his laughter echo around the chamber like an annoyingly pleasant melody, and he catches up to you a minute later offering to buy you all the hot chocolate and baked goods you like later. Suffice to say, you're marginally a little less angry with a bag full of goodies in your arms.

The next three months go by fast, a culmination of Keys and you meeting up to go explore new places, Maddie's never-ending teasing about you and Keys, and immense work stress from one of the customers deciding to change her wedding flowers from chrysanthemums to lilies a week before the wedding.

A. Week.

How are you supposed to acquire enough lilies - which are only in season during spring and autumn - for a December wedding in a week ?!

Keys finds you sitting on the floor of the store one night, having cycled over after work. Him and Mouser recently established their office headquarters, beginning the preparation on his new study gaming app - the office being nearby meant that he generally walked you back to your apartment despite several insistences that it's not necessary, cycling back home afterwards.

One look at the severe panic on your face tells him that you probably won't be going home anytime soon.

"Hey, hey, hey.." He coos, slinging his messenger bag off his shoulder, placing it on the ground. He comes over to you, crouching down to your height. "What's wrong, Buttercup?" His hand finds your jaw, cradling it like it were something precious.

You lean into it, recounting the story of the bride changing her mind, and how worried you are about the whole thing. He pulls you into a gentle hug, caressing your back softly. "I'm sorry, ba- Buttercup. Is there anything I can do to help ?"

You pull back slowly, not noticing the slip up as you use the heel of your palm to wipe your nose. "N-no, not really... Unless, you know someone who happens to have 100 lilies on-hand and is willing to deliver to this town, I guess."

He smiles at you sadly, shrugging his shoulder. "I'm afraid not... But I can check with Mouser and see if you'd like ? You never know with him honestly."

Nodding, you bring your hands to your face, trying to wipe away your tears, only for more of it to flow down your cheeks. "I'm sorry you have to see me like this." You scoff at yourself, annoyed and frustrated with this whole situation.

"What - having a very normal and human reaction to a situation beyond your control ? Oh no, how absolutely devastating." He deadpans.

You glare at him half-heartedly, a smile threatening to make itself known on your face.

He daintily plucks a buttercup from the floral collection on the shelf and hands it to you. "You'll figure it out, ok ? And I'll be here right beside you while you do... I mean, hell, you managed to figure out a way to say 'fuck you' to someone through flowers, I'm sure you can figure this one out too."

You chortle, a broken laugh escaping you despite the torrent of tears cascading down your face. The feeling of his thumb, calloused but warm, brushing away your tears makes you still for a moment, before you relax into the feeling.

And against all odds, you do somehow manage to string out the 230 flowers required for the wedding, all your contacts and connections with the people at the farmer's market allowing you to acquire 40 lilies in addition to your own inventory: Maddie's close 'friendship' with the delivery girl helping to obtain another thirty. Not to mention, Mouser did actually know a guy - well, several guys really from different cities and states who were florists, thereby amassing the remaining 100 flowers required in a matter of three days and the wedding going smoothly.

"How does Mouser even know this many people ?" You ask, rearranging some of the pots to make space for the new flora delivered earlier this afternoon.

"I genuinely think he's a modern Gandalf at this point." Keys answers from the counter, typing away at his laptop. The sun rays radiate through the emporium windows, bathing his fluffy hair in streaks of coffee and caramel.

You choke out a laugh, momentarily halting your current activity as you turn to look at him. "What ?"

Keys shrugs, absentmindedly pointing a pen at you as he elaborates. "I mean, think about it - he appears out of nowhere, always has some riddle-esque yet wise thing to say, and then just vanishes into thin air. But he also just seems to know everyone and everything, like he just has a bunch of allies and contacts in his pocket, ready to be deployed upon command."

You roll your eyes, but you can't deny he's got a point - you've only met the elusive Mouser a few times, mostly when you stopped by Key's office so you both could grab lunch together. It's quite entertaining though, seeing how much him and Keys rib each other constantly.

You bring your gaze back to Keys, only to find him already looking at you fondly. Your cheeks heat as you turn back to arranging the shelves.

Just then, the bell rings and Key's voice chimes with glee before you can say anything, "Welcome to Sage's Flower Emporium. How may I help you today ?"

Before you can chastise Keys, you hear your name called out alarmingly and the next thing you know, you're on the ground.

!Oof!

The perpetrator, a familiar face, grins, tiny arms still wrapped around you.

Maddie sighs from a few feet away. "Nathan, what did we say about tackling your favourite aunt ?"

"... Not to do it ?"

"Exactly! So, maybe we should let go of her, yeah ?"

His arms untangle from around you, an apologetic expression on his face.

"Sorry."

You grin at him as you sit up on the floor. "For what ? That was an excellent tackle, bud! I didn't even see you, you were like a ninja!"

His face splits into the biggest smile, dimples visible and eyes sparkling.

"Really ?"

"Yeah!" You get up, ruffling his hair.

Maddie stares at you with fond exasperation written all over her face. "You're not supposed to encourage him."

You give her a sheepish look. "Heh, sorry Mads - but he's just so cute, how can I resist ?" You exclaim, squishing Nathan's cheeks.

He swats at your hands in an effort to look cool - honestly, kids these days - and points at Keys, who's watching this entire interaction with an amused expression, brows slightly furrowed in confusion. "Who's that?" Nathan whispers, inquisitive as ever. He probably gets it from his mom now that you think about it.

You smile, walking with Nathan up to the counter. "Nate, this is Keys. Keys, this is Nathan."

Keys rounds the counter, coming up to Nathan, and squats down to his height, offering a fist bump. "Hey, little man, what's up ?"

Nathan returns the gesture, albeit hesitantly, still puzzled at who Keys is.

"This is the guy that built that game you used to play all the time a while ago, Free City." You offer, grinning.

Nathan's eyes widen in excitement. "No way!!"

Keys grins. "Yes way!", tousling Nate's hair.

Maddie walks up to you, twin smiles on your faces at them bonding.

"And Keys, this is Nate - the most awesome 7 year old in the world and the best nephew." You add, nodding solemnly.

Key's eyebrows scrunch, bewildered, as he looks between you and Maddie. "... Nephew ? Are you guys siblings?"

Maddie laughs, slinging her hand over your shoulder. "Can you imagine ? I would've loved having her as my sister, but alas, we're not siblings. We just grew up together, and when I had Nate, I asked her to be his godmother and she said yes, and here we are now." She exclaims, nudging your hip with hers playfully.

Understanding settles in Key's eyes, gaze softening. Simultaneously, a mischievous glint appears in Nathan's - historically not a great sign.

"Is he your boyfriend?"

You freeze. Keys stills. Maddie looks like she's planning her own funeral.

Silence fills the room.

"W-what? Nate, no! Keys and I are just friends... I-, what made you think that ?" Great. That was as smooth and subtle as an elephant ice-skating.

He points to Maddie, unassuming and innocent. "Mom said so."

You glare at Maddie, who looks extremely timid and is slowly inching towards the exit. "Heh, N-Nate probably misunderstood - anyways, I'll come and pick him at 10. Love ya!" She disappears behind the door, the bell signaling her departure.

Keys chuckles at her antics, nudging your shoulder. "So, you heading back home ?"

You hum. "Yeah, gotta take this rascal back and watch him beat me at Mario Kart yet again." You lean closer to him, whispering so that Nate doesn't here. "She probably has a date with the delivery girl and doesn't want Nate to know just yet."

He nods in understanding, extending his hand to Nathan in farewell. "Well then, kiddo, I'll see you around. Until next time, champ."

Nate looks up to you, eyes pleading as he tugs on your arm. "Can't he come along too ? We can play Mario Kart together!"

You glance at Keys, gauging his reaction. You've haven't really invited him over to your place yet - worried that being in an intimate, enclosed space might cause you to blurt out the thing you keep repressing constantly these days. But with Nate, it'll probably be fine - you'll be in aunt mode, not your usual rambling, nervous self.

"What do you think, McKey ? Ready to get your butt kicked in Mario Kart ?"

He smirks, an eyebrow raising in challenge.

"Bring it on, Buttercup."

Surprisingly, you survived. Nathan manages to beat you and Keys each time, grinning smugly throughout... Initially, you thought Keys was going easy on Nate, but seeing how he was gaping at the screen during the last few rounds, a perplexed expression on his face, maybe a seven year old really did manage to demolish a genius coder. This became the highlight of your week, asking Keys if he'd fancy a rematch every now and then - his constant pouting the epitome of free entertainment.

Over the following months, as spring approaches, Keys and you hang out more, exploring the more mundane, hidden aspects of Chicago like cafes or arcades.

And for a while, it's good. It's really, really good. Until it's not, because despite every possible attempt, you realize that you really like this, you really like him. There's no denying that you like Keys, and that scares you - because before you could've chalked it off to him being charming, or just the rush of something new, something exciting. The inherent curiousity that follows when someone makes such a lasting first impression on you. But now, you're not sure if you can really hide behind those excuses anymore, not when you want him by your side even if he's quiet, when he's curt and sarcastic, and being a little bit of a prick.

You want him in a way where your soul craves to know him in any capacity it can, in a way where you know that even if you were childhood friends, coworkers, or even sworn enemies, fuck, even if he were Spiderman, it would only be a matter of time before you fell for him.

Because that's who Keys is - your Keys, soft and warm, who notices things. Whose affection you can feel from just one look at his eyes, whose care is undeniable in how he brings you hot chocolate whenever he's nearby, volunteers to walk you home because he wants you safe, who reads the books you mention offhandedly because he wants to understand you. Who never presses for information about you against your will, but never forgets what is revealed - explaining why he knows your favourite pizza flavour, how you love eating strawberries but hate eating strawberry-flavoured things, who knows that you were raised mostly by your grandpa because your parents were always stuck up in their work and never really brings that topic up. Who's the only other person, apart from Maddie, to encourage you on your plans to turn the flower shop into one with a cafe attached someday.

And it's terrifying, letting someone know the most intimate parts of you, the things that keep you up at night, your fears and your dreams...

Or rather, it's really them seeing you in your entirety, the good and the bad, and choosing to stay anyway that's really more frightening.

And when good things happen, you've noticed it doesn't last for long, bad things always following in tandem.

So, you draw back. But this time you don't avoid or ignore him, you just make yourself less present in his life - saying yes a lot less to hanging out and exploring the city, giving rainchecks on going to watch movies, closing up the shop on time instead of keeping it open a few extra minutes so he could come visit after work.

Disappearing and blending into the shadows has always been second nature to you, it's more so being finally seen for the first time that's making you hesitate. It hurts doing this, but it's not really hurting your own feelings that feels unbearable surprisingly - it's knowing how much he's hurting and that you're causing that hurt that feels like torture. You can feel it already, the way his usual ramblings or texts about fun facts diminish, all the banter drained out of him - only short, lifeless messages from his end now. You suppose he'll probably give up soon at this point, you hope in all honesty - it's killing you to see him like this, a husk of his former self.

It's for the best it's for the best, you chant repeatedly, hoping you'll believe it soon enough.

All that comes to a screeching halt on a Thursday night.

The rain is pouring heavily outside, the street looking like a mini lagoon. You were staying back to recount the floral arrangements for some upcoming events, when suddenly the bell on the door rings, loud and sharp. Eyes still on the inventory list, you yell out. "Sorry, we're closed-"

"Did I do something?"

Keys.

You whip your head back to look at the entrance. He's standing there, looking like the picture of despair - clothes drenched and soaked, and eyes red, pain etched upon his face.

Your eyes shift down to the floor, unable to bear how hurt he seems.

"No." You don't recognize your own voice, the answer barely audible, but sounding like it was torn from your throat nonetheless.

"Then, why are you doing this ?" He pleads, stepping closer to you, only an arm's distance away.

"Why won't you let me even try ?" His voice is full of anguish as he begs, the hurt seeping into your bones. You still refuse to look at him, your heart feeling like it's being throttled from the inside.

"You gave me a buttercup, wishing me joy and happiness, but it's you who brings me joy - making my days brighter and you who's made me laugh so much over these past months making me enjoy being a real person besides someone again ? I see flowers, I think of you. I hear a song in a grocery store at 2 am , I think of how you'd hum along to it. I see it's raining, and all I can think of is the day when you ran under the rain purposely, and how radiant your smile was and how soft and delectable your lips looked, drops of water sliding down, mocking me in how it gets to touch you, to feel you, while I can't."

Your breath hitches, heartbeat picking up dangerously.

He continues, exhaling sharply as he runs his hand through his hair, the corners sticking up in the back.

"Sometimes I see an old couple in the street and I think of us in the future like that, me probably saying something stupid and you indulging me and laughing regardless. Us visiting farmer's markets and sharing churros, seeing you smile at me - that soft, gentle smile you get when your face can't contain how happy you are... All I can ever think about now is you, Buttercup."

He calls your name then, voice barely above a whisper, like it's hurting him to not reach out to you, to hold you.

And despite everything, you look at him. How could you not when every atom in your body yearns for him ?

"You are my happiness, you are joy to me, so why can't you trust me when I tell you that it's you that I want ?" He prays, lips trembling.

"Why won't you let yourself give us a chance ?"

The resounding silence in the room only amplifies things - the pounding in your head, the tightness in your chest, the overwhelming affection in his eyes despite everything. Despite you breaking his heart even at this very moment, he still looks at you with those earnest chocolate eyes, soft and tender in ways that should not be possible for a mortal to possess.

"I'm sorry, Keys. I- I can't... You and I just wouldn't work out, ok ?"

"Why ?" His tone is dark, sharp in a way that feels like foreshadowing.

"What ?"

"Why not ?"

"Keys, I- "

"No. If you're gonna stand here and pretend like this isn't real, that it doesn't mean anything to you and you don't want this, I at least deserve to know why."

"Because it won't work out, Keys!" You snap, breathing becoming ragged. "It never does, people come and go out of our lives all the fucking time, and they don't stay! They never do!"

Tears are working their way down your cheeks, the wet yet warm sensation only spurring your outburst. "People are so difficult and complex and so unpredictable, they change all the time - from day to day, across seasons, across the span of a few months."

"How are we supposed to survive all that, Keys? What if I change tomorrow, huh ? What if I no longer act like me ? What if you change, reverting back to your workaholic ways, and we end up staying in an increasingly deteriorating relationship because we're both too stubborn to let go ? What if we no longer recognize each other ?"

The rage and pain in your voice are entwined, a ghastly sound punctuating the air. "You wanna know why I became a florist ? Because dealing with flowers is easier than dealing with people! If a flower dies or doesn't bloom well, it's a shame, but there's way to deal with it - you can try out different soils, you can control the amount of lighting and water it receives, you can replant the seeds... but you can't do that with people, Keys! You don't keep getting infinite chances to make the next time better because eventually they tire of you and leave. A flower not growing well sucks, but it is nowhere as devasting as losing someone close to you, looking at someone you love and only seeing a stranger in them.

"I've seen people from all walks of life, Keys - everyday someone comes in, their heart full of hope, be it them confessing their feelings to someone, be it them getting flowers for a loved one who's sick or just wanting to cheer up someone they care about. Occasionally, I get people who come in to buy flowers for themselves, because they're proud of themselves for something or because they had a hard day and need the permission to love themselves.

But that hope ? That love ? It only lasts for a while, because eventually those same people appear with someone else, they come to buy flowers for a loved one's grave, they no longer come by to pick flowers for themselves."

You inhale, taking a deep breath. "I love you, Keys. I won't lie and say that I don't, I love you so so much, it physically hurts sometimes. I think about it often, the good parts at first but it always spirals into something else - something less good, and I don't know how to stop myself from thinking about those things, from being worried that all I am to you is just someone who was there at the right place and the right time, someone who you could lean on after your break-up. Because if you can end up ignoring the woman who was your first love because of work, what happens when it's me and things get hard - because things are never easy with me - " you scoff bitterly. "What happens when you realize that the only reason we like each other is because we were just there at the same time - two lost, lonely souls just finding each other and nothing more. What happens when you wake up one morning realising that you don't want to be with me anymore ?"

"I love you so much, Walter McKey." your voice cracks, throat hoarse from all you've revealed.

"But this-, us ? It can't happen... I don't want to wake up one day next to you, wondering where it all went wrong. I- I don't want to lose you, I can't, please don't make me lose you, Keys." You cry, tears flowing like a river.

His jaw is tight as he nods, a hollow, lifeless look in his eyes. "Maybe.. you already have."

Your heart plummets, a chill spreading through your bones.

"Goodbye." He exhales, turning to leave.

As he reaches the door knob, he hesitates, glancing back at you one last time. "It's raining heavily, so be careful on your way back."

He walks out of your life with that, the familiar sound of his footsteps fading.

So... what are we thinking ? Part 2 perhaps ?

If anyone actually bothered to read through all this, just know that ily and want u to have a fabulous day <3

○ 𝑺𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔. 𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒅. 𝑪𝒐𝒑𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒓 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒓 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒂𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒐𝒘𝒏, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑨𝑰 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒉𝒊𝒃𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒅.

! 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 !

The air around you feels damp and raw now in a way that has very little to do with the early summer heat. You force yourself onto your stomach and stuff your face into your pillow.

You can’t keep doing this to yourself. 

Or, rather, he can’t keep doing this to you. However excruciating his presence is when your family is around, it’s so much worse when they’re not.

Most of the time you want to throttle him. It had been that way since you were kids. You can still feel the grovelling embarrassment of being somewhere close to ten years old and begging him and your brother to let you tag along with them to do something stupid like peeking through the dirt-grimed windows of a neighbour’s house or sneaking into a derelict, moss-eaten hotel until someone called the cops. In defiance of all stereotypes, your brother never had a problem with it. He has doted on you since you were in the cradle.

Bucky, though. He was never receptive to it. He would let you make your case, watching you humble yourself with calculating, amused eyes that looked slightly wrong on a boy of only twelve years. You can still remember how he would make a big show of deliberating, before simply handing out a ‘no’, and moving away. Your brother would shoot you a remorseful grin but always followed after him without hesitation.

On the rare occasions he did let you trail after them, he made you regret it. He would poke and prod at you, pulling lightly at your hair or making fun of you until big, fat, brutally-resisted tears would well up in your eyes. Oh, you remember how much he used to enjoy that - the mean smile he wore while he called you a crybaby. It always ended with your brother sternly telling him to lay off, before walking you home.

Your parents refused to hear a bad word about him. They still won’t. 

You’re not really sure what is up with Bucky’s family and his home life. You just know that he had always spent more time at your house than his own. Once summer rolled around, it was like he forgot he even had a house of his own to begin with.

Your parents treat him less like a guest and more like a favourite son. The guest bedroom became Bucky’s room when you were eleven. When he tinkers around and puts together your mom’s overly-complicated coffee machine or fixes the hot water or - the very worst - mows the lawn, your parents treat him like a king. They rave in public and private about how they don’t know what they would do without him. When you had tried to tattle as a kid, the most you would get was a patient rub on the back.

It was a push and pull between the two of you. Always had been. Bucky was either acting bothered at your presence, poking and prodding at you cruelly - or irritating you with his own presence and annoying taunts.

And all of that was annoying. Is annoying. But nothing compares to that feeling. The one you’re experiencing right now.

It started when you were pushing sixteen. You had stopped asking to tag along a few years ago but that summer was different. Bucky was told by your brother, firmly and categorically, that you would be hanging out with them whether he liked it or not. He stared at you with odd fixity but made no protests and suddenly you were part of the friend group. Your brother had a crush on your best friend Wanda, who was also hanging around a lot that summer. That played into it. But you took it as a win regardless.

You spent most of your time that summer hanging out in a clearing in the woods by your house. There was nothing else to do and even if there was, you had no money to do it. Most of the details of the day itself now evade you - they’re blurry around the edges. There was a new addition to the group whose name you cannot now remember. A persistent, uncomfortable pass made for you. Your brother distracted by Wanda. A few coarse comments made, before the new guy began to touch.

What you do remember - what you well and truly cannot forget - is what happened after that touch. The way Bucky propelled up from where he sat on tree branches and lichen. How he grabbed the collar of What’s-his-name and flung him to the ground with one heavy, solid punch. The silence afterwards. The crawling shameful pang of excitement in your gut.

You never looked at him the same. 

It’s not for lack of trying.

God - you try. You try so hard. You have tried for so many years. But every fling you had in college ended up wearing his face when you closed your eyes. 

Thoughts of him run through your mind while you fill your pillow up with gasps. You’re sure that if you wrung out the fabric or pressed down hard, those sighs would have to spill back out, surround the room with breathless cries of his name.

But you have graduated now. You’re back home until you find a full-time job and this childhood crush will no longer do. It’s remarkably inconvenient, the way your knees go weak and wobbly when he walks in the room, even while you paint a snarl on. The way a hot, sticky warmth begins to flood the space between your thighs when you watch him work like he is today. 

And you’ve tried everything there is to try. You’ve tried dating other people - it usually ends sour. You made a trip or two to the counsellor on campus. You had even left stop-sign stickers around your dorm room as a reminder to snap out of it when you are thinking about him.

At Wanda’s recommendation, you have started a diary. Every time you think about him or let yourself get stupidly, fantastically turned on by him, you create a new entry. Not all of the entries are about him - some are flimsy little notes to distract yourself - but they all lead back to him one way or another. Once the book is full, you will burn it. You started it just before you left campus three weeks ago and the book is almost half-way full.

You know it’s a stupid idea. It won’t work, which is why you have already sought out a witch on Etsy for when this fails.

The deep, low tingle at the bottom of your stomach hasn’t ceased, because even while deep in thought, the image of Bucky’s strong back and his bold, lopsided smile are still running behind your eyes. You become suddenly aware that you’re lightly sweating. Your underwear is warm and damp.

You glance over at your diary on your bedside table - most recent entry late last night, courtesy of your traitorous imagination. You sigh and pick it up. 

Bucky sees you in the window to your bedroom. You’re just a little floating head above the window sill. He can’t make out an expression very clearly. He waves and forces back a laugh when he sees your bratty eye-roll, the way you flop away dramatically.

You’re back home. For the summer, at least. Until all those fancy graduate jobs in New York or Boston or Philly start opening up.

He doesn’t need to be here, if he’s being honest. Has no reason to be. The lawn has no need for mowing and there’s not a damned thing left in the house to be fixed. His own apartment isn’t exactly a paradise, but it’s not bad either. 

You won’t be here forever, though. He’ll take what he can get in the meantime.

He likes how it feels to annoy you without a buffer. With no parents to be on his best behaviour in front of, no brother to shoot him warning glances when he pokes too hard. 

He regresses slightly every time he floats back into your orbit. Falls out of adulthood and back into the familiar rhythm. The push and pull. 

His childhood crush has matured into something deeper, but his actions haven’t. He still tugs your pigtails in a metaphorical sense. It’s much too late to get you to see him as anything but an annoying, big brother-type figure now, but he can deal with that. He likes watching you get riled up, anyway.

You regress around him too. He takes great satisfaction in that. You walk into the house after months of being away, haughty and put-together, like you had finally done all your growing up in college. A few grating words from him can make you twitch a little bit while you fight the urge to snap, irritation spilling through the cracks. And you eventually do crack. All the way. Every single time.

He mows until the short tufts of grass turn to clippings. He spares no blade, weed or flower and thinks about you, lying up on your bed. Probably doing something dumb. Probably scrolling on your  phone or flipping through some magazine. He remembers when you were thirteen and he found that stash of teen-pop magazines in your room, the pages with boyband members dog-eared, hearts circled around their pictures. He smiles, thinking about the way you screamed when you caught him red-handed. How you told him to “stop being such a pain in my ass”, pushing him out your bedroom door and slamming it shut behind him while he laughed. You were sulky at dinner afterwards.

He rolls the mower back into the shed, ties the padlock and tugs at it twice before walking into the house through the sliding glass doors.

He’s sweating lightly. He takes a quick swallow of water from the glass on the counter - whether it’s yours or his, he can’t remember - and licks a few beads of moisture from his upper lip. He feels good. 

He flops down on the couch, puts on some show indiscriminately and wonders what you’re doing right now. He wonders if you’re on the phone with your college friends. Or with that Matt guy he had heard about through the grapevine. He wonders if you’re wearing the same tight shorts you had on yesterday.

He considers going upstairs to annoy you but thinks better of it. He will wait a while to see if you come downstairs on your own.

He imagines Matt as some football player. He can’t picture a face - just some obscure blur - but he’s probably handsome. Definitely blonde. Social butterfly. Good grades. He can’t see you going for someone without good grades. 

Bucky’s grades were never great, but you were such a little swot. He used to sit alongside you while you did your homework. When you would tell him to get lost, he would shoot back that he had homework to do too. It’s probably the only reason he graduated high school.

Matt is probably biding his time right now until you both have steady jobs so he can propose. He’s probably boring as shit. Fucks you missionary for thirty seconds before rolling over onto his back. He probably asks you whether you came afterwards, and you probably talk to your stupid college friends about how much he cares and how respected you feel. 

But that’s a dangerous avenue to walk down. Because now he’s thinking about how you would look afterwards, naked and unsatisfied. Would you ever think about shooting him a text when Matt drifts off to sleep after getting his rocks off? See if he could sort you out any better than your boring fuck of a boyfriend? 

Obviously not. But it’s a nice thought.

You probably don’t do any of the things that Bucky would want to do with you - and definitely not with Missionary Matt. You’re too fucking prissy. No way in hell are you letting anyone take you the way Bucky wants to.

He doesn’t even understand why his brain has chosen you of all people to be the star of every daydream he has had since he was old enough to know what a crush was. You’re arrogant and spoiled and you think that just because you attract men like flies to shit that you can bat your eyes and get whatever you want. (You absolutely can. Bucky has tried to be the one exception to that rule, but he’s also just a man.) 

Unfortunately, he knows all of this and still desires you desperately. And the want that pours out of him in waves isn’t strictly sexual - in fact, it’s mostly something else - but he’s not sure how to define it. He likes you, except ’like’ doesn’t seem strong enough to cover all he feels. So it’s easier to focus on the sex. Maybe that way he can convince himself it’s all he wants.

He has run out of patience. You still haven’t come downstairs and he can only deny himself for so long.

He takes the stairs two-at-a-time, but paces himself so you don’t hear his footsteps and think he’s eager. Your bedroom is at the very end of the hall. When he approaches your white door - still adorned with stickers and tags from every phase you ever went through - he thinks about knocking. He doesn’t.

He can’t remember the last time that he was in your room, but it is exactly as it always was. Pink wallpaper. A white desk in the corner armed with perfectly positioned sticky notes and neat, alphabetised folders. Stuffed animals perched in a line atop your bed like marching soldiers. Posters on the walls from films you thought made you seem edgy when you were fifteen, in direct opposition to the frilly pink decor of the room. 

The only thing missing is you, but he can hear the shower going in your ensuite.

He goes to sit down on your bed and focuses deeply on not getting a hard-on while he watches the bathroom door. But he lands on something solid.

Reaching underneath his thigh, he picks up a little pink notebook, turns it over in his hands. More little stickers plastered to the front, hearts scribbled onto it with a pink gel pen. He knows instantaneously that he has gold dust in his goddamn hands. He expects to feel at least a little guilt or shame for what he is about to do and is mildly surprised to find he doesn’t.

This is your diary.

The first entry is from three weeks ago.

22 May I just broke up with Matt. It was awful. He kept asking me why. I had to say that I didn’t want to live in Boston like him. He said he would find a different internship and we could go to New York instead, and then I really had no idea what to say. It’s not like I could tell him the real reason. He cried. I’m just glad it’s over.

I think I should feel at least a little bit sad about it, but I don’t. I’m just relieved and feeling awkward. I don’t think I could let him fuck me one more time without going out of my mind. This really is a curse. I hope he moves on quickly. I think Suzy is into him.

Bucky can’t help the stupid grin that breaks out across his face. Looks like Missionary Matt was too boring, even for prim little you. No engagement on the horizon after all. He shifts around slightly on the bed in the guest bedroom and tries not think about what might have been so lacking in the bedroom with Matt for you.

23 May My family are ditching me. They’re all heading off to the south of France for three weeks, but I won’t be home from college early enough. They fucking suck. I wonder if Bucky will still be hanging around. Three weeks of torture incoming.

He laughs, loud and long, at that. What a spoiled little brat. Still, it’s kind of cute.

Bucky was asked to join your family on their holiday and declined. Partially because he still, after all this time, doesn’t quite believe them when they say it’s not a bother. But it was mostly because of a selfish hankering to be able to hang out with you alone. To not have to check himself when his gaze lingers a little too long or when he presses you a bit too hard to be able to convincingly feign disinterest. He reads on.

23 May Now that I have thought about it, I can’t stop. Bucky is going to be hanging around the house. He always hangs around the house, even when nobody else is there. Dad said he’s going to help him with building a new shed outside. I wonder if he will be doing that while they’re gone. I remember that one time he helped Dad with that old vintage car he bought on a whim. I could see him from my window. He was shirtless and working under the car from a skateboard like something out of a goddamn porno. I think I’ll die if I have to see him do something like that again. 

Bucky’s grin is frozen on his face, skin heating up around his bones. The shed would be a good excuse to stick around now that he’s done everything else - he had forgotten about that. 

He wasn’t aware you had been watching him fix up that car from your window. That must have been, what - two? three? - years ago. Old Pontiac runs like new now. His eyes catch on the word ‘porno’, scribbled in your pink, curly writing. He thinks about you watching him from above.

24 May I might be going insane. I shouldn’t have let myself think of the visual of Bucky under that stupid car last night. I think it’s a good thing I dumped Matt. I would have let him fuck me and felt so guilty afterwards for imagining someone else. I handled it myself but I woke up feeling just as riled up. My fingers aren’t big enough. Maybe I should buy a dildo or something. Bucky’s fingers are huge. One time he put his hand over my mouth because he said I was whining too much and it covered more than half of my face.

The blood rushes to his cock so fast it leaves him lightheaded. He has to read the entry twice to make sure he didn’t black out and invent something out of wishful thinking.

25 May This stupid diary isn’t doing shit. It’s making it worse. Every time I write something down, it just makes me think about it more. I spent all of yesterday thinking about Bucky’s stupid fingers. I hate him so much. I want him to bend me over something and fuck me until I’m an inch from passing out. Maybe that’s all I need to get this out of my system.

26 May Today I thought about that time last summer when we were at the bonfire and I made out with that guy in the Bulls jersey and snapback. I forget his name.

Bucky looked so angry. I think that’s why I did it. I think I wished he was jealous, even though I know he was just pretending he’s my fucking brother or something. It made me think of that time he punched that other guy in the clearing in the woods just for touching me. I forget that guy’s name too. 

Bucky hasn’t forgotten either of their names. The bonehead from the bonfire was Jon and the asshole from the woods was Robby. And he was jealous. He was so fucking jealous. His dick is hard as a rock in his jeans, head spinning.

28 May Yesterday was ok. I kept myself busy. Today has been terrible. Mom sent me a group picture of everyone eating dinner out in the back garden and Bucky was wearing a tight, white t-shirt. He looked so big, even bigger than when I last saw him. I just kept wondering if his cock would be big too. I zoomed in and took a screenshot like some fucking pervert. I got myself off so many times and I still feel like I haven’t gotten it out of my system. I literally fingered myself until my sheets were-

“Fuck,” he grunts, strained even to his own ears. His eyes squeeze shut and his dick throbs violently at the idea of your little fingers pushing themselves into your pussy at the thought of him. He’s not sure how much more of this he can read before jizzing in his pants like some kind of virgin.

Who knew? Who fucking knew? His stuck-up little priss isn’t so prissy after all. He’s a bit dizzy with want and some other unidentifiable sensation. Something warm and gooey in his chest.

He almost likes how ashamed you are of it. It makes it that much more satisfying - like he’s won some game that he didn’t even know he was playing. He’s dimly aware of the fact that he lost the very same game himself, but he ignores it. 

You would be so embarrassed to find out he is reading this. You would yell and scream and throw shit around the room in a tantrum like a toddler. You might never speak to him again. Even so, he can’t help himself but flick over the pages to the most recent entry. It feels like a spoiler to a book he hasn’t finished.

14 June He came around with the lawnmower again. It’s getting harder every day not to get myself off to the thought of him-

He clearly missed that part. He wonders how long ago you made that resolution. He will find out soon enough.

-when he looks that good. I could literally see the fucking muscles in his back through his t-shirt and it was black. I’m so fucking wet. I’m going to have a long, cold shower and tonight I’ll cum to the thought of someone else. Literally anyone else.

Then and there, Bucky decides that won’t be happening.

You feel better after your laborious shower but only for a matter of minutes. You walk into your room wrapped in your bathrobe and notice that you can no longer hear the lawnmower. Bucky must have finished the job. He’s probably in the shower now, washing off the pollen and sweat.

And that does it. You sigh at the stickiness forming between your legs and reach over to your bedside table for your diary.

Except it’s not there. 

You open and close the small drawer underneath. Ruffle around in your sheets and pick up your stuffed animals one-by-one to look make sure they’re not sitting on it. Eventually you get up and remove the duvet from the mattress, pull the bed frame away from the wall, crawl to the floor. You even go to the bathroom to make sure you didn’t carry it in with you. It’s not there. It’s not anywhere.

You must have left it lying out somewhere outside. Your stomach lurches into your throat. Except that’s not possible, because your last entry was written right here on this bed just before you went in for your shower. You had left your room to get a towel and steal some of your mother’s hair stuff - maybe you had inadvertently carried it out with you. You had been severely distracted.

You dress as quickly as you can physically manage, ignoring the way your wet hair is soaking through your cotton sweatshirt, but when you leave your room your footsteps are hesitant and careful. The idea of Bucky picking up your diary somewhere and deciding to give it a browse sends a cold sweat of terror up the knobs of your spine. Oh god, don’t let him find it. Please don’t let him find it. 

You tear the linen closet apart. You even pick up the piles of towels that you know you didn’t touch and shake them out. Nothing. You fold them in a way that would make your mother wince and put them back.

Your parents’ room wields no results either. You run your fingers over the wooden bannister faintly while you walk down the stairs. Bucky isn’t there - thankfully - but neither is your diary. You hadn’t even come downstairs between writing your last entry and going for your shower. That, you’re absolutely certain of. But you’re running out of options.

You have one room left to check, but you will have to play your cards carefully. One wrong move, a bit too much information, and you could find yourself on the receiving end of questions that you would really prefer not to be asked. Or of a bit too much curiosity for your liking.

Your fingers linger over the wood of Bucky’s bedroom door for a whole minute before you can bring yourself to commit to a small, tentative knock. Bucky grunts on the other side and it’s untranslatable but you take it to be an in invite.

He’s lounging on his bed, one ankle hooked over the other, head reclined back to rest lazily on the headboard. He doesn’t move his bored gaze from the television, where some reality television documentary about the daily lives of zoo veterinarians is playing. You’re distracted by it momentarily. You didn’t think this would be his sort of thing.

“What’s up?” he asks you, still not looking your way. He didn’t shower. He’s still sweaty and tense, the smell of grass sticking to his clothes and skin. You try not to look.

“Just saying hi,” you say, shifting feet. You look at the door for a brief moment before deciding to close it awkwardly behind you.

He looks at you then, one eyebrow and one side of his lip quirking upwards in tandem. “Just saying hi.”

You nod. His smile breaks free then, but it’s not altogether a nice one. “Well, hi,” he says.

“Hi,” you mumble back. You continue to look at each other while you fidget, stepping forward cautiously until your knees hit his bed. You look at him expectantly and he rolls his eyes before moving his own legs so you can sit.

“What’s got you all buggy?” he asks sardonically, giving you a light tap on the side with his foot. He’s not wearing his boots anymore, but some grass still rubs off on you somehow. You rub your side and shoot him a look as if it hurt, even though it didn’t. 

“I’m not buggy.”

“Yeah y’are. You got bugs.”

“You got bugs,” you snap. “I’m perfectly fine.”

He laughs. “Alright, you don’t got bugs. I have bugs ‘cause I was out there mowing all day. Now what do you want?”

Your stomach gives an odd jerking motion at the memory of him out there mowing the lawn. You try to keep any guilt from showing on your face. “Maybe I just wanna talk to you.”

“Oh yeah?” He doesn’t seem convinced. You nod.

“Yeah,” you say, picking at a loose thread his bedsheet. “So what have you been up to?”

“Sweetheart, what’s goin’ on?” he chuckles, turning slightly on his side so he can see you. “You know what I’ve been up to. You saw me out there.”

“Duh,” you say. You roll your eyes again and you can feel him laugh more than you can hear it - the minute little vibration through the sheets. His skin is inches away from yours. If you reached out just a little bit, you could touch his hand.

“Duuuhhh,” he mimics you with an exaggerated Valley-girl drawl. “Why’d you ask then, smartass?”

“I meant, like, after that.”

“After I finished the lawn?”

You nod. You are so desperately bad at this.

“Not much. Watched this,” he says, pointing at the TV. He gets distracted by something there and begins to watch it again. “Did a bit of light reading. What about you?”

Your heart is moving up in a slow but steady elevator to the base of your neck. “I’ve been in the shower,” you say casually. “What are you reading?”

“Long shower,” he says.

“Well it was an everything-shower,” you say defensively, forgetting yourself for a moment.

“The hell is an everything shower?”

“Don’t be dense. It’s literally in the name. It’s called an everything shower because you do everything in the shower.”

His gaze flies back to you then, dark and questioning, eyebrows raised slightly. It takes for his lip to twitch into a small smile before you come to your senses.

“A-as in,” you stammer. “You do all your self-care stuff. Like shaving and exfoliating and hair masks. That kind of everything.”

His smile widens and he nods, half sarcastically. “Right. That kind of everything.”

Your face heats up. There’s a brief pause. 

“So what are you reading at the mo-”

“Y’know I think you’d like this,” he says, pointing over to the TV again. You glance over distractedly. A giraffe is giving birth standing up. You can’t help the way your nose twitches slightly as you take in all the blood and goo onscreen.

“Why is that?” you ask.

“There’s this one girl who cries every time an animal dies. She’s been working there five years and she still cries every time. She’s like you.”

“I’m not like that.”

“Yes you are,” he laughs and the sound travels through you. “Remember that one time you cried because your dad asked me to catch and kill that mouse?”

You do. He had been strangely nice about the whole thing. He made a makeshift humane trap and brought it to the old railway line a few miles away instead. 

“I was sixteen-”

“And if you’re tryna tell me you wouldn't react the same way right now, I say you’re full of shit.”

You look at him resentfully. “Like you’re any tougher. You’re the one who saved him.”

“Well you know I can’t help but give you what you want once the waterworks start. You’re a pretty crier, sweetheart.”

You just look at him, feeling a bit dazed and uncomprehending. Saliva floods your mouth and you’re forced to swallow. He just glances over at you for the smallest of instances. You like the handsome, self-satisfied smile he gives himself before turning back to his programme, even though it’s at your expense. You know instinctively that you’ll be failing at your new resolution tonight. 

“Shut up. Don’t be weird,” you say, because you can think of nothing else. He huffs with humour and there’s something in his expression that you don’t like.

“So you said you were reading something?” you say. You’re aiming for a casual tone but you think you might be overselling it.

“Mhm,” he says, nodding once. The programme can’t be that interesting, but he seems absorbed in it.

“I didn’t think you liked reading.”

“I have a newfound appreciation for it.” He smiles at the screen and maybe you’re feeling a little jealous. You snatch the remote out of his hands, careful not to let your fingers brush, and blackness eats the image of a family of monkeys. His eyes snap to you with amused surprise. 

“What are you reading?”

Your heart is pumping while Bucky appraises you for a second, eyes sliding their way around your flustered face. He licks his bottom lip slowly before sucking it into his mouth. He speaks low.

“Don’t worry about it. ’S’too dirty for you, sweetheart.”

You really fucking hope that doesn’t mean what you think it does. He has the book. Oh dear god, don’t let him have the book.

Your voice comes out weak and fractured. “Are you… reading smut?”

He laughs again, face lit up. Eyes still on you. “That what you call it? Sure. Something like that, at least.”

“Bucky,” you say, voice no more than a horrified whisper. There’s a brutal heat curling in your gut - embarrassment and something else. “What are you reading? Please.”

He looks at you for just a second longer before reaching under the blanket beside him. His hand reaches out again, fingers curled around a book that looks incredibly small in his large palm.

You blink at it for just a second, as if concentrating hard enough might make it disappear. Please make it disappear. Please make it nothing at all.

But then you’re rolling forward, hardly aware of what you’re doing until your back is bowed, a low, despairing groan escaping you while your limbs slip away from you. Eventually you’re played across the bottom of the bed, face firmly pressed to the soft memory foam. If you stay here long enough, your face might imprint itself there. A garbled, monotonous litany is spilling from your lips. You’re not even sure what you’re saying.

Your stomach is going haywire. Bucky is laughing like you knew he would - you fucking knew he would be an asshole about this - and you would go running from the room if it didn’t mean that you would have to move your face from the bed and look at him. 

You suppose it’s better that he’s laughing than looking at you with the raw kind of disgust that you had pictured whenever you imagined him finding out about your feelings towards him. Maybe it means that you two can go back to normal at some point, even if the humiliation raging through your body begs to differ.

“Don’t be such a baby,” Bucky says and you hate him. Your face pops up to look at his. Still amused. Still wicked and gleeful. 

“Where did you get that?” you bark.

“Your room,” he says, as if it should be obvious. “Interesting read. You should be a writer with that vivid imagination. What did you call it, smut?”

“Fuck you!” you screech, and Bucky physically recoils at the loud noise, irritation crawling onto his features for the first time in this interaction. “You had no right to go into my room and invade my privacy. What the hell is wrong with you? You are such a piece of shit!”

Bucky rolls his eyes while you make your way up the bed and take a swing for his chest. He catches your wrists in time and your traitorous body pauses at the touch. 

“Like I said,” he says sternly. “Don’t be such a baby. You need me to help you get this out of your system? What was it you said again? Bend you over and fuck you until you’re an inch from passing out?”

You give one last valiant jerk to break free, but he has a death grip with seemingly minimal effort. You go still while the fight leaves you. Hot humiliation and more than a little arousal course through you.

“Fuck you,” you say again with considerably less vitriol.

“I will,” he says, eyes locked on yours punishingly. “If that’s what you want.”

Your breath stutters, heat rising up the length of your face. You’re not sure if he’s messing with you, but the words are having the intended effect regardless. Your thighs press together gently to alleviate some of the pressure that his words and his eye-contact are creating. His eyes flicker down quickly, following the movement, before moving back up to meet your own gaze.

“Got nothing to say now? That’s ok, baby. I saw enough in that little book. Let’s look.”

He lets go of your wrists and you immediately lurch forward to grasp the diary, but he gets there first. He opens it at a random page.

“I came home from college today,” he starts to read, voice low. “Everyone else was gone, but Bucky was here. I don’t know how it’s possible but he’s so much hotter since I last saw him. He wears a bit of stubble now and his muscles were almost bursting out of his t-shirt. We bickered a little bit in the evening, but the whole time I was just wondering what he’s like in bed. I don’t think he would be sweet and soft all the time, like Matt. Maybe sometimes but I think he would be so mean and rough most of the time. He seems like he knows how to make a girl cum.”

He looks up at you. You feel tears prickle behind your eyes, shame steamrolling through you. You reach for the book again but he moves it out of your reach effortlessly.

“You’re goddamn right I do,” he says, smiling as if he’s talking about something totally innocent. “You want me to show you, sweetheart?”

Your brain is scrambled and the only thing escaping your lips is a garbled mess of vowels. You’re still suspicious. It wouldn’t be entirely unlike him to get you to admit to this and then pull the rug out from under you a moment later.

He huffs an impatient sigh. “Don’t go dumb on me already, silly girl.”

He flicks to another page in the book, smiles, and finally hands it over to you. You take it uncertainly.

“Why don’t you read that for me? Out loud. Jog your memory a bit.”

You’re not sure what you’re doing, but at this point it’s easier to follow instructions than to figure out what to do yourself. You look down, take another hesitant glance at an encouraging Bucky and begin to read with a sheepish, shameful tone. Your face is burning.

“I want him so bad. I think I’ll die if I don’t have him. The orgasms I’m giving myself aren’t enough. I need him to fuck me, even just one time. I’ll never ask for anything else again in my life if I can get his cock inside me just once. I’m going so deranged, I actually pictured him choking me yesterday with those huge hands and it made me cum so hard.” 

Your own words have done a number on you. You are stupidly, ridiculously turned on by his eyes on you and your own words echoing around the room. You raise your eyes slowly and sheepishly to meet his and the look on his face is nothing short of starving.

“Fuck it,” he breathes, pulling you forward and into a kiss.

Your unsuspecting mouth meets his with short, stabbing gasps. His right arm moves to the back of your neck, pulling you against him firmly, while the prosthetic arm pulls you onto his lap. His lips move against yours and the only word to describe it is filthy. His lips are still wet from licking them and his tongue is sliding over yours delicately but expertly.

You’re in a state of euphoria. Part of you always wondered whether you had played this up too much in your head. You wondered - if you were given the chance to finally touch him like this, whether it might be a bit disappointing after all you had imagined. 

If possible, it might be the opposite. Your body is shaking with adrenaline. Without thinking too much about it, you grind down on his lap and feel his hard length through his jeans. A bolt shoots up your spine. Has he been hard this whole time?

He grunts at the friction, calloused fingers tightening their hold on you. His hand glides slowly down from your neck, through the valley of your breasts and over your stomach, playing with the waistband of your cotton shorts. You’re already so riled up, it makes you press down on him again, clutching at his shoulders as if you could possibly pull him any closer. You’re high off the feel of him when he pulls away, just a few inches.

“You ready to admit it yet? That you want me?”

“I want you,” you breathe. It’s almost embarrassing how automatic the response is. How little you even have to think about it.

You feel his smile spreading against your own face. “I know, sweetheart. Of course I know. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you.”

Bucky is on the warpath, tearing your sweatshirt and his t-shirt off in quick succession. He takes a second to zero in on your breasts and you feel mildly self-conscious about your plain black bra, but he seems adequately distracted by them.

He slows down. Unclips your bra with languor. You shove away the sick, jealous feeling that creeps up when he doesn’t fumble even remotely with the clasp.

Once you’re bared to him, he seems to move slower. His hands go up to fondle them with uncharacteristic gentleness and you suck in a breath. His eyes darken to black, shiny knobs at your reaction and he maintains eye-contact with you while he presses a gentle kiss over your nipple, pulling it into his mouth.

A moan slips out at the sensation. So that’s what that should feel like.

“Wanna know a secret?” he murmurs between kissing and sucking, moving over to your other breast. You nod, uncertain whether or not he can see you. 

“Want you too. Wanted you since we were kids.”

You look down at him. He is seemingly avoiding your eyes. Your brain is a little hazy but still operational for the most part.

“Since when?”

“Just fuckin’ told you,” he says, moving a warm hand up your thigh. It’s a distraction tactic.

“No but when? What age?” Your voice is coming out breathy with the way his thumb is creeping underneath your shorts, stroking the sensitive crease between your thigh and the hem of your underwear. You wonder with some apprehension if his fingers can sense the warmth radiation from you. You’re soaked through.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, moving back up to kiss you. His thumb strokes over your panties now and you gasp into his mouth.

“Yes it does. Tell me,” you say. Because you’re muddled and jittery and incredibly fucking worked up, but more than all of that - you’re stubborn.

He gives you a hard look for a second, likely deciding whether he will be able to get you to let this go. You’re not.

“Was sweet on you when I was ten,” he says, rubbing you over your underwear harder now. Stars are exploding in your eyes, but the heavy, sluggish machinery that is your brain in its current state still chugs along at its steady, slow rhythm.

“Isn’t that when we first-”

“Yes.”

The shock almost overrides the sensation of his thumb slipping under the waistband of your underwear. But not quite. A loud, whining moan makes Bucky smile, but you still haven’t lost your head completely.

“You’ve liked me since we first met as little kids?”

He makes a loud, frustrated noise that vibrates through you and flips you over so you’re on your back. It happens so quick that it makes you dizzy. He folds himself over you and presses a vigorous kiss to your lips.

“Can you shut the hell up for two seconds?” he grunts, yanking your cotton shorts and underwear over your legs until you’re completely bare underneath him. “Tryna do something here.”

You laugh at him, but it doesn’t last long. He palms your breast briefly before trailing his fingers down, down, down. His fingers just barely graze over your clit and you buck up with a moan. All the humour is gone - you’re struggling to remember what you even found funny in the first place.

He brings his fingers up then to show them to you, glistening with your wetness. “You see how fucking desperate you are?” he asks. “Barely touched you and look how you’re reacting. Nobody’s ever touched you right, have they?”

You shake your head unthinkingly and his smile widens. It’s almost predatory.

“Poor thing,” he says with a smirk, lowering his hand once again to stroke over your clit. “I can tell. All jerky and twitchy. Just wait ‘till I get my cock in you.”

The whine you emit at his words slowly turns itself into a moan as he dips a finger into you. Slow, just feeling. He adds another when he sees how easily you accept the first. You had been right in everything you had ever thought about his fingers and how good they would feel inside you, how much they would stretch you out. Except it didn’t quite cover it.

None of the other college boys you had fucked had fingers like this. Calloused and big and rough. You clench around him when he begins to stroke, expertly curling into the perfect angle to hit that spongey spot inside you. Where the fuck did he learn to do this?

He presses you down with his other hand splayed over your stomach, stopping your hips which are moving down, trying to meet the rhythm of his fingers. The pressure it puts on your lower stomach makes you clench around him.

“Y’feel so fucking tight,” he grunts, eyes on your lips. “This what you wanted, huh? This what you touched yourself thinking about?”

You nod, but it’s not enough. He pauses his ministrations and raises his eyebrows for an answer.

“Yes, I- fuck, yes keep going - I thought about this when I got myself off.”

“For how long?” he demands.

“I- what?” you ask, feeling a bit dumb. His lip twitches impatiently.

“How long have you been thinking about me like this? With my fingers stuffing your tight little pussy?”

Your face heats up with shame, but you know if you don’t answer him, he will stop again. And that’s a lousy deal. 

“A long time,” you say, hoping he will accept it as an answer. Thankfully, he does.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Should’ve told me. Wouldn’t have let you go unsatisfied like all these other assholes. Would’ve kept this pussy so busy, you wouldn’t have had the time to write in that silly little book. Would’ve put you in your place.”

“Put me in my place?” you spit, dragged out of the floaty headspace you had been in. Unfortunately you can’t concentrate too much on your anger and indignation. The pleasure he’s giving you is too much to hold on to anything else but him. It does nothing to stave off your incoming orgasm - if it wasn’t so fucked up, you might admit that it probably brings you closer to the edge. His fingers push into you smooth and hard. He grinds his palm against your clit.

“Yeah, put you in your place. Such a fucking spoiled brat, always throwing tantrums and bitching. Whole time you just needed a good fuck. Well I’ll give you plenty, baby. Sort you right out. Your family can thank me for your good behaviour when they’re home.”

There’s something fucked up about the way his mean - and undoubtedly problematic - words push you over the edge. You clench down and all but explode over his fingers, bright spots in your eyes. You’re not sure if you’ve ever come so fast before, or so intensely. Your head is still spinning while you come down, twitching around his fingers until he draws them back out.

Your vision is still slightly blurred, but you see Bucky sliding his fingers into his mouth. He doesn’t even make a show of it - he’s not even trying to make you watch him. He’s just tasting you for the pleasure of it. Your pussy jumps.

When he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. You should be spent by now, or at least somewhat less horny but you’re not. Your brain and body have clearly made a pact to make the most of your time with the man who has been driving you crazy for years. You begin to gush again when he bites your bottom lip. He releases a smoky chuckle against your mouth when your hips twitch against him.

He pulls up, standing over the bed to unbutton his jeans.

You’re still a little mad at him over that boorish ‘putting you in your place’ comment, but it does not stop you from getting dizzy when his cock is bared to you.

He’s the biggest you’ve ever seen and it’s not even close. Part of you knew he would be, but you didn’t think it would be this pretty. You didn’t even know a cock could be pretty.

It’s huge and rock hard where it presses up on his stomach. It’s very slightly curved with veins running up the flushed, heavy length. Your arm raises upwards unconsciously just to see how it would look in your hand, but you think better of it and quickly tuck it away again.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks and you realise he has been watching your reaction the whole time. Your face burns. “Feelin’ shy?” 

Your mouth opens and closes. “I don’t know how much…” you trail off, uncharacteristically nervous. You’ve never had a problem butting heads with Bucky before. Why is he so intimidating like this?

“Y’don’t know if it’ll fit?” he asks. You nod lightly and watch his cock give a small, light twitch. He takes it in his hand and gives it one slow pump. It makes your mouth hang open.

“Don’t worry, angel, we’ll take it slow. Don’t want to break you. Not this time, anyway.”

Feeling brave, you reach forward and take his warm, heavy cock in your fingers. It looks so much bigger in your hand than it does in his own and the sight makes your gut curl in both dread and excitement. He throws his head back, eyes half-lidded and dazed.

You give him one small pump and he grabs your wrist, shaking his head at you. You glare up at him.

“What the hell, Bucky? Don’t-”

He leans forward, grabbing your jaw in his hand roughly. “I know you wanna play with it so bad, sweetheart, but you can do that later. I’ll let you play with it as much as you want. But I’ve waited long enough and I’m not wasting another second. Gonna fill that tight cunt now. You hear me?”

You’re back in that floaty headspace, body feeling light, head feeling dreamy. You nod.

He smiles, using his leverage on your jaw to bring you in for a kiss while he climbs on top of you. You can feel the head of his hard cock pressing against your stomach.

“Good girl,” he says, moving away to lather kisses over your neck. His hips move to press the tip of his cock against your clit and you gasp. “My good girl You’re so sweet when you’re doing what I tell you to. Wish I’d known I could shut you up like this.”

You’re trying to be pissed off. You really are. But if you can be completely honest with yourself, it’s just turning you on more.

Your brain is almost gone, but you have one last spark of sentience. “Condom,” you gasp. “In my room.”

Bucky laughs against your neck. “You think I’m wearin’ a rubber with you?”

“Wha- yes?” 

“Don’t fuck with me, sweetheart, I know you’re on the pill. Seen it in your bathroom.”

“What were you doing in my-”

“I’m clean, just got checked. And I’m willing to bet you’ve never let anyone use this prissy little pussy without a condom before.”

You take a second, trying to assess how you feel about this. He really is such a douchebag, but he’s a douchebag you know incredibly well - he wouldn’t lie to you about this. You’re sure you could talk him into wearing a condom, but it might take a lot of back-and-forth. And his cock is teasing your hole now, and you’re squeezing around nothing, trying to suck him in. His cock is fully lubricated, all from the wetness between your thighs. You don’t say anything, but your body goes a bit limp.

“Yeah?” he says, celebrating his victory with a smile. You feel it against your collarbone. “You gonna let me skip the rubber?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Just stop fucking around Bucky. Please.”

He laughs lightly and begins to press in, the tight ring of muscle protesting against his size. You seize up while he stretches you out. It’s leaving a tight and uncomfortable sensation in your abdomen and you let out a quiet yelp.

“Such a good girl,” he says, reaching down to stroke your clit. He’s thrusting in slow, giving you just a little bit more with every press. His voice is low, as if he’s trying to comfort you, but it’s still coming across slightly patronising. “Letting me fuck you raw. Gonna take my cum like the good girl you are.”

You’re loosening up with the help of his dirty words and his fingers on your clit, drawing tight circles. It’s starting to feel good - more than good. But he’s still not in all the way. You have no idea how you’re going to take him.

His cock is insistent inside you, pressing in further and further while he whispers filthy praises and encouragements on your sweat-glistening skin. You brain is becoming jumbled with pleasure and the overwhelming sensation of fullness.

“This what you pictured when those other limp-dick assholes used to fuck you?” he grunts, bottoming out. You yelp at the angle he hits, body squirming around him. You thought you knew what getting fucked deep felt like, but you had never felt this. 

He pulls out and presses another punishing thrust into you. You gasp. “Answer.”

“Yes,” you say and you might be on the verge of tears. You can’t wrap your head around what’s happening. Everything feels a little blurry and his finger on your clit is still drawing tight circles. You just know that you need him to move. “Pictured you every time.”

He rewards you by beginning to slowly pull out and in, gently getting you used to his size. You’re filled to the brim with him. “I know. Read all about it in that dirty little book. Made them take you doggy so you could pretend it was me. So fucking desperate.”

Shame and pleasure are amalgamating in your stomach. It’s creating something more powerful than just the feeling of him moving inside you. It’s all becoming a bit too much, but in a way that you can’t help but love.

“It’s okay, angel. I’m no better than you. You turn me into such a fucking creep. Picking up girls who look like you. Leaving the dinner table to jerk it in the bathroom when you get all bratty and whiny.”

Just the thought of that makes you startle, pussy clenching around him. He looks so pretty, blue eyes dark with want, pink lips crushed between his teeth, gaze zeroed in on where you’re taking him, the light imprint in your tummy. The pleasure of it - the culmination of all your want - has you gasping, tears leaking from your eyes and trickling down your cheeks.

He sees it and startles. You can read it all on his face now - the awe and adoration.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he cooes, thumb reaching up to brush a fat tear from the corner of your eye. “Always been such a crybaby. You’re so pretty like this, such a pretty crier.”

It makes the tears puddle faster, the pleasure bordering on too much.

“I know, baby. It’s so much, isn’t it? I know,” he soothes you, while his hips work in direct opposition - fucking into you with brutality. It’s not just the pleasure, but the overwhelming emotion. You can’t work out exactly what you’re feeling, and you know that now isn’t the time to figure it out anyway.

Instead, you just let yourself feel it. The way his hips grind against yours, the feeling of him stretching you out, the crescendo of all that pent-up want finally bursting into song. You can’t stop looking at him, how pretty and fucked-out he is above you, even when he’s still pretending he hasn’t lost an ounce of control. 

“Stop with those fuckin’ eyes,” he grunts, catching your gaze. You’re still teary-eyed and pouty. “Gonna make me lose it early.”

The thought of him spilling inside you does nothing to curb the feeling. Your eyes widen and he grunts, pulling out of you and sitting up with his eyes squeezed shut. He takes a deep, dogged breath.

“Turn around,” he bites out.

With the way his face is pinched, eyes squeezed tight, he might be greatly suffering or experiencing a euphoria of pleasure. You don’t disobey a man at either point.

You spin around, face-down on the bed. You can hear him shuffle around, but seconds pass where you don’t feel his skin on yours. The anticipation makes you shiver.

When you finally do feel his touch, it’s his two hands slowly stroking down your hips. You lean backwards into his touch, whimpering just a little.

“What you whining for now?” he asks from behind you. You hear the smile in his voice.

“Put it back in,” you moan, pushing back on him until you feel his cock prod against your ass. You’re no longer feeling any shame at your desperation. You’re too far gone.

He takes your hip firmly with his prosthetic hand, the other moving down to give your ass a loving pat. “You need it that bad?”

“Don’t be a dick.”

He laughs low. “Still so fucking bratty. Think I can fuck it outta you?”

You can do nothing but nod, head rolling forward while the thick tip prods your entrance, sliding in slowly once more.

“That’s it,” he groans. He feels so much deeper like this. You can feel him all the way up your stomach to your throat. “Knew you’d take my cock like this. Knew you’d feel this good, just didn’t think you’d be this fucking dirty.”

“Fuck, Bucky, I need you,” you moan. You’re obscurely aware of the fact that you’ll probably be cringing at the memory of saying those words later, but it matters very little to you in this moment. “Needed you so bad.”

“Yeah?” he grunts. “Why don’t you tell me what you needed so bad?”

Your brain is moving like slow, heavy machinery again - too slow to come up with anything. “I- no, Bucky, I can’t-”

“Let me help you out.”

His arm reaches out in front of you, pulling out the godforsaken book that started this entire mess in the first place. You’re still a bit dumb, watching him pull open the book and flick to a page he has ear-marked - like a significant page in his favourite book. He slams it in front of you palm pressing it open until you take it from him cautiously. You look down at the book uncomprehending, body still jostling with the force of his thrusts.

“Read.”

Your head spins back, even though you can’t see him from this angle. He can’t be serious. 

One firm pinch to your ass confirms that he is.

Face burning and stomach clawing with shame and arousal, you clear your throat. Your voice comes out breathy and high.

“Matt always wore a condom but I think Bucky would be such a jerk about it. I wouldn't even mind. The thought of him coming inside me turns me on so- ooh!”-

Bucky’s hand reaches down below you, stroking at your clit.

“- so much. I really want him to fill me up. I wonder if he - fuck, Bucky - cums a lot. Whenever I think about him fucking me, I picture him filling me up to the brim until I’m dripping with his…”

You can’t go on any more. It just gets filthier from then on and you’re already on the verge of coming again. Thankfully, that seems to do enough for him.

“Jesus, you have a thing for this shit? That’s real fucking dirty, sweetheart. I promise I got a big fucking load for you. You’re the only one who is gonna take it from now on.”

You want to snap that he clearly has a thing for it too, judging by how riled up he is. He’s panting behind you, losing his rhythm. But you can’t do any such thing. All you can do is moan unintelligibly. You feel the familiar prickle behind your eyes, tears spilling out while you sniffle.

“Aw angel, you know what those tears do to me. Can’t help but give you what you want. You want my cum?”

You nod enthusiastically, spasming around him. You just wish you could see his face right now, but you can picture it.

“Fuck, yeah you do,” he growls. “Such a good girl for me. My good girl, all mine. Gonna give you my cum now, never gonna let you go empty from now on.”

With a firm hand between your neck and shoulder, he drags you upright against him. Your hands reach out to balance yourself against the headboard and he moves your jaw back until your mouth meets his. The kiss is brutal and sloppy, the angle not-quite-right, but just the feeling of his lips on yours and the movement of your tongues against each other makes you tumble off the edge.

A surge of unbridled want courses through you. You cry into his mouth, tears spilling between your lips until you can taste the salt. It’s either the taste of your tears or the sensation of your walls fluttering around him that causes Bucky to grunt, dick twitching once before spilling deep inside.

You had thought about this almost obsessively since you were old enough to understand the possibility. Somehow, you underestimated what it would do to you.

You might be floating or flying or drifting out of consciousness, but you are very conscious of the fact that you had never really known what it means to experience true pleasure until this moment. The noises he makes are filthy while he pumps you full of him, but you’re sure you’re likely giving as good as you’re getting. Not that you have the faintest awareness of what you’re saying.

Bucky wasn’t lying. You can feel his heavy load dripping out of you you, messing your thighs and the sheets. He continues to bounce you on his cock slowly and gently even after you have both come down from your highs. You’re sensitive and sore, but there’s something comforting about small, shallow thrusts, even if the squelching noises it’s making are obscene.

Eventually, he slides himself out of you and wraps himself around you instead. He envelopes you in a sort of gentle tackle, pulling your exhausted body with him deeper into the sheets.

“You still with me, sweetheart?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. You can feel his stubble against your temples, his breath on your skin.

“Uh huh” you try. It comes out as more of a garble. He laughs, light and airy.

You open your eyes, take in his tired, happy grin. His blue eyes have gone bright again.

“Thought you said you weren’t gonna break me,” you say sardonically. 

He plays with your hair, twirls it around a finger. “Might have gotten carried away.”

You roll your eyes. He does a poor imitation of you, rolling his eyes all the way back into his skull in mockery. You try to glare but it doesn’t work against your smile. You settle back down against his chest. Feel it vibrate while he laughs.

“You really meant that?” you ask after a moment. You cough away a scratch in your voice. “About wanting me since we were kids?”

“Hell yeah,” he chuckles. Your head bounces against his chest lightly. “I was so crazy about you when we were kids. Can’t believe you didn’t know.”

“How could I know? You were always so mean to me.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know what that means in kid-language.”

“You still are. Sometimes.”

He raises his head to look down at you, searching your face. “Old habits.”

You nod, but you’re still working through everything in your head. Your post-orgasmic brain is working no faster than it was ten minutes ago. 

“I’m sorry for reading your diary,” he says after a few seconds and you swear you might see the raw edge of panic sitting somewhere there on his face. “It was a shitty thing to do. I don’t regret it, because I don’t know that I would have ever had the balls to make a move otherwise, but I am sorry.”

It’s so bizarre, so completely unexpected, you can only stare. He’s looking back at you with an uncharacteristic nervousness that makes you slightly uncomfortable. Truthfully, you had forgotten you were even mad about the privacy violation in the first place. Maybe it’s the two orgasms.

You still don’t want to have a heart-to-heart with Bucky - that might be pushing things a bit too far, a bit too early. Instead you lean forward to give him a small, chaste kiss. He smiles.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, pressing small kisses to your lips, moving down your cheek and on to your neck. “Just wait ‘till I get my tongue on you.”

You tense up, resolutely ignoring the heat pooling low in your stomach. There is no way in hell you can endure another round right now. Your limbs are still shaking.

Whatever expression is on your face makes Bucky laugh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ll give you a couple hours. We got two long weeks in this house by ourselves.”

a/n: the diary entries are basically just my dms with my moots lmao

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