#female reader insert

___________

And… you've been working at his mansion ever since.

Tasked with reversing whatever spell you supposedly casted on him. Despite all your protests, despite swearing up and down that you never did anything.

He doesn't believe you.

He won't believe you.

Because how else do you explain what he felt when he walked into your shop? That made his sword hand waver and his heart stutter, and his threats turn into something softer?

Obviously, you’ve cursed him. There was no need to investigate this any further, nor did he feel the need to tell you about all these symptoms.

So now you're stuck in a massive estate with a madman who thinks you cursed him, brewing antidote after antidote, watching nothing work.

You could only curse that woman.

The one who bought the potion and slipped it to him. The one who left you with this mess and then promptly left this world, if the blood on his sword was any indication.

Damn her.

What the hell did she see in this man anyway?

Because here's the thing you're learning, piece by piece. The duke? He's not just some nobleman. He's the nobleman. The one everyone whispers about, who's had three fiancées and buried all of them. The one who allegedly keeps a dungeon beneath the east wing and a graveyard behind the west garden.

The madman of high society.

If only you'd known he was the target that woman was after, you would've never sold her that potion. Never agreed to the commission. Never opened your stupid mouth about the satisfaction guarantee!!

But you didn't know.

And now you're stuck with the aftermath…

___________

At first, the madman kept you confined to a workspace somewhere within the mansion.

Close enough to monitor. Far enough to ignore.

Then, he started calling for you more often. Checking on your progress. Standing just a little too close while you worked. Watching you with scrutinizing red eyes.

And then, he started sticking around you 24/7, following you from room to room like some clingy puppy who couldn't bear for you to leave his sight.

Even that wasn’t enough. At some point, you stopped being assigned a room at all.

Wherever he was… that became your workspace.

You’d turn around and he’d be there.

In the doorway. Behind you. Leaning against the wall like he’d been there the whole time.

Like he had nowhere else to be. Don’t dukes have better things to do? Go tend to your paperwork or something!!

Through it all, he's never kind. Still angry, demanding, and barking orders about reversing the damn spell.

But he never hurts you.

His threats are loud. And his hands are rough, just like his voice that could shatter glass.

But you've started to notice something.

He always stops. It’s all bark but no bite…

And it becomes a routine.

You work. He watches. You brew. He hovers. You try to leave. He blocks the door.

At some point, he has you working in his bedroom.

No, like, actually. He stooped to this level of stupidity, needing allowing you to stay in his chambers at night.

He's sleeping on the bed and you have to sit beside him. On the floor. With your books and your herbs and your constantly dying patience.

You don't know when this became normal.

You hate that it feels normal.

__________

Tonight, you try to get up.

His hand immediately shoots out to grab your wrist.

"Where do you think you're going?"

You don't flinch anymore. The first few times, you did. Now? You just sigh.

"I'm trying to study for a reverse spell. Or a cure. For you, remember?"

"Stay."

His voice is flat. Unreasonable. Like he's not even considering the possibility of you leaving.

"I can't work if I'm stuck by your side, Your Grace."

"Leave and I'll rip your throat out."

You've heard this before. The first time, you froze. The second time, you nearly cried. Then you started to notice the pattern.

He never follows through.

Not with you.

"Your Grace," you say, calm as anything, "you can't do that. Who will reverse your spell if not the caster?"

His jaw tightens. His grip on your wrist doesn't loosen.

But he knows you're right.

He's quiet for a long moment. Thinking. And you can see the exact second he shifts tactics.

"Then I'll slit the throats of all the guards outside who allow you to leave this room."

"…I'm sat."

You sit back down on the floor. Head leaning against the bed where his hand lingers limbly. Sometimes brushing your hair unconsciously, like it was to make sure you were still there.

And you work on the spell in his chambers all night long. Barely getting a blink of sleep.

He, on the other hand?

Dead to the world.

The madman who threatened to rip your throat out twenty minutes ago is now curled up on his ridiculous silk sheets, snoring softly.

His face is slack. Peaceful. Innocent in a way that makes you want to throw a pillow at his head.

You've noticed this before. The way his eyes get heavy when you're nearby, how his shoulders drop when you enter the room. And the way his threats get lazier the longer you stay.

At first, you thought it was the potion's side effects.

Now you're starting to think he just… can't sleep without you.

Which is not your problem. You didn't sign up to be a nobleman's sleeping charm. You're a witch. A busy one! One who is currently being held against her will in a mansion that smells too much like old money and fresh blood.

And yet.

Here you are.

Watching him sleep.

Because if you move, he wakes up. And if he wakes up, he gets grumpy. And if he gets grumpy, he threatens to kill someone.

Usually the guards.

You've started to feel kind of bad for the guards.

"I hope you wake up with a stiff neck," you mutter, dipping your quill in ink. "I hope you stub your toes when you wake up. I hope your breakfast is cold and your tea is bitter and your horse steps on your foot."

His lips curl up softly. Like you're singing him a lullaby.

Your quill scratches to a halt.

"…I hope you dream about spiders," you try, weaker this time.

His smile deepens.

He doesn't wake up. He just… rests. Peaceful and content. Like your curses are the sweetest words he's ever heard.

You stare at him.

Then you look down at your notes. At the page full of failed antidotes and useless counter-spells.

At the truth you've been avoiding for weeks.

Nothing is wrong with him.

The potion didn't work.

He's just like this.

You set down your quill.

Press your palms to your eyes.

And wonder, for the thousandth time, what in the hell you did to deserve this.

Maybe its time you suggest a psychiatrist.

___________

Little did both of you know.

The potion didn't work on him.

It never could have. Years of assassination attempts had made his body resistant to poisons, potions, anything ingested.

The drink that woman slipped him? It passed through his system like water. Barely a flicker of discomfort. A vague pulling in his chest that he dismissed as irritation.

He came to your shop that day ready to kill the witch who made it.

Not because the potion had affected him.

But because he was annoyed.

Someone had tried to enchant him. Someone had failed. And he wanted to make an example of the person responsible.

Until he saw you.

And something in his chest pulled again.

Not the potion. That was already gone.

Something else.

Something he didn't have a name for.

He still doesn't have a name for it. He calls it a curse. A spell. Your fault.

It's not.

He was just love-struck at first sight.

And he's been falling harder and harder with each day that passes.

Deep in his sleep, one thought surfaces in his mind.

On the outside, he's undeniably handsome in a way that turns heads, with a chiseled jaw and bright ceruleans and a smile that could bloom wilted flowers. Not only that, but the deep baritone of his voice simply compliments his looks, laced with a honey cadence that makes you weak in the knees, even if he's saying the most vulgar shit to ever grace planet earth. Dimples indent deep whenever he smiles, creases the corners of his mouth and around his eyes when he laughs, almost another pretty sound.

Yet on the inside — past all the handsome and picturesque physique — there's a sense of rawness to him you've yet to crack.

You've seen glimpses of it, of him, taking in the way he can go from joking in a sense of self deprecation to contemplating the foundation of the universe within a five minute span. He's smarter than he lets on, and way more interesting than simply a pretty face and nearly picture perfect body. One time, he let it slip how obsessed he is with The Hobbit, and you've never been able to see him in the same light since, knowing underneath all those muscles and incessant fuck-boy flirtatious tactics there's a dormant nerd.

It...also doesn't help that he says the most gut-wrenching things in bed as if you were ever his to begin with.

Sometimes you forget you aren't his. Especially when he praises how pretty you look with his cock in your mouth or how you're taking him so well from the back, side, top, any angle possible. It only gets worse after you both finish (yes, he makes you finish. It's impossible to stop sleeping with him) and you're tangled together under his sheets that seem to now smell of you, one of his hands tracing shapes on your vertebrae and the other tangled in your hair, talking about things you wouldn't even confess to a journal. Not the dirty shit. The real shit. The I'm borderline having an existential crisis and simply need to talk out my hopes and dreams and fears and nightmares without anything getting fixes shit. The I just learned about the Fourth Turning and need someone to contemplate the universe with shit. The shit that normal friends with benefits don't engage in.

The whole friends with benefits ordeal happened merely by accident. All your friends had coupled-up by the end of the night, leaving you and Bucky to twiddle your thumbs and keep up your playful banter as long as you could to avoid the obvious seventh wheeling (eight?). Yet, one thing led to another (i.e. a guy approaching you and asking you to dance, and when you realize just how fucking awful he was, you simply sunk your talons into Bucky's bicep and said you had a boyfriend. Not that Bucky minded. At all. Because he almost missed your words because of how hyper-fixated he was on how nice it felt to touch you. For you to touch him? Semantics.). Regardless, you kept up the little act within your foreplay, and somehow found yourself tumbling into his bed.

Over, and over, and over.

And for a while, you thought he liked you, too. You also assumed he got the same kind of butterflies you did whenever you were in the same room. You figured you weren't just any hookup, especially when you've spent more time knowing the inner workings of his brain than you have his body. It almost seemed correct to assume you were friends, at that, who respected each other, who respected the deal you both had.

That is — until you see him getting a little too close with a strawberry blonde you've never seen before in the middle of a packed bar as if he doesn't give less of a fuck about your 'supposed' connection.

But it's actually fine. It is. It has to be.

Because you're not his, you remind yourself over and over, mumbled from chapped lips like a prayer and reiterated in your hurting mind like a mantra, something you're forcing yourself to believe. You down your drink, all hopes of getting laid tonight flying out the window, ignoring the sorrowful looks from Steve, Natasha and Sam, because they know you'll do nothing. Say nothing. And instead close yourself off to shield the last ounce of dignity you have left.

"You wanna leave?" Natasha asks you after another ten minutes of turning your back to Bucky and his new fling, almost forcefully manifesting the saying whatever is behind you is beneath you type bullshit.

But you shake your head, sending her a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes and doing your best to remain indifferent, because if you don't, it literally will kill you. Besides, he's never actually expressed an interest in being with you and you've never brought it up as a possible next step. So who are you to get upset?

You blink away the image of him and someone else out of your mind.

"Nah. I'll get another drink, though."

And that's what you do... You move on. Or at least go through the motions of doing so. Your friends stay stagnant for one, two beats before shrugging at your nonchalance, knowing they're not getting any sort of intel on your feelings tonight even though they can already tell how you feel. Washed up. Replaceable. Not special in the slightest.

Especially when the thought of being with another guy physically makes you sick.

Because you're too burnt out to be doing this will they won't they shit with him anymore. You hang out. You fuck. You pillow-talk like your lives depend on it. You go about the next day hanging out with all your friends and dismissing the fact you know everything about him, down to the name of his childhood pet to his greatest regret. The two of you converse in front of your friends as normal, civil people do, ignoring the fact you let him hit it raw a mere twelve hours ago. You think you love him, you'd be stupid not to, and that's the part that makes your heart ache more than anything.

You smell his cologne before you feel his presence.

"Hey."

Suddenly, the culprit is brushing your shoulder as he nudges towards the bar, murmuring a quiet, personal greeting to you before addressing the group.

"Christ. That was brutal. Did I miss anything good?"

You stiffen — only slightly, barely noticeable — as he stands arm-to-arm with you, pressing your lips shut as Steve, ever the savior, clears his throat to mediate the tension of the moment. Whether Bucky's aware of the clear apprehension of his friends towards him in this given moment, he doesn't seem to notice, too focused on being back with his group and how your perfume smells like absolute heaven, how nice it is to have you brushing your arm with his.

"No, Buck," Steve answers smoothly, bringing his beer up to his lips. "Unless you count the fact that Sam ate shit on the dancefloor twenty minutes ago and ruined his jeans."

"They're Levi's!" Sam's voice comes from above the music.

And suddenly you're all back in the same rhythm. Joking, laughing, reminiscing over anecdotes that happened ages ago and sharing drinks and shots as if you're back in college again. You nearly lose the image of Bucky with the girl from before, solely focused on how beautiful it is to be out with your friends on such a nice night, all together and happy and enjoying yourselves.

It’s light. Easy. Fun. In fact, it’s so fun that you nearly miss that Bucky’s hand has been pressed against the small of your back for the betterment of a half hour. Light yet firm. Casual but possessive. Cool despite the fire burning in your chest.

You subtly shake it off when you leave briefly to grab another drink, and when you settle back in your spot with a considerable amount of distance between you and him (i.e. not touching arms anymore, practically continents away), he doesn’t put his hand back, instead keeping it polite at his side for the rest of the night, almost as if he noticed his handsy nature and reeled it in.

That is, when Sam is ranting on and on about some nim-wit coworker in his department, you feel a gentle nudge on your arm.

You look up to the left to see Bucky already staring at you. Intent. Soft. Something else behind his eyes that you can't seem to recognize, and you're not really sure that you want to.

"You wanna get out of here soon?" Bucky asks softly, a tone just reserved for you.

And as much as you want to say yes to that, as much as your body wants you to say yes to that, your mind betrays you. It replays the image of him and the strawberry blonde, and it seems to solely remember his face, blue eyes blown black with lust and that half smirk he has when he's trying to pull, when he's flirting. It remembers his hands on her shoulder, polite yet implying something further, and even if you never saw them kissing, it still fucking hurts.

So you protect your peace.

"I'm actually gonna stay for a while."

You don't miss the way his brows shoot up in surprise, as you've never really turned down his wanna get out of here one-liners before, not that they're even a flirting method. But you stand your ground, sending him an easy smile before turning back to the group, tuning back into Sam's story and even laughing along when it's needed. In the corner of your eye, you see Bucky shrug at your casual brush off, probably thinking nothing of it and assuming you'll be in his bed tomorrow night instead.

Whatever. Water under the bridge, right?

Especially when you give him the same side-hug you give all your friends when you all catch your separate cabs back to your respective homes, not giving him an ounce of special attention he's used to. Especially when you dodge his second attempt to bring you back home with him, blaming your lack of sleep and busy upcoming day. Bucky doesn't argue and lets you leave, but not without a five second are you actually being serious stare as all of your friends have already left.

"You're actually going home?" He asks incredulously as he watches you hail a cab, ego half bruised and half aching with something he isn't ready to confront. "What about last night?"

Your eyes don't leave the road.

"What about it?"

Bucky blinks stupidly at your profile, confused why you aren't looking at him.

"You said you'd come over again tonight."

"Didn't think I'd be this tired."

“We can just go to sleep.”

You pause, heart aching. Stop making this difficult, you think bitterly. Of course you want to be with him. Stay with him. Allow yourself to fully indulge in your feelings for him. But not when he’s had his hands on another merely hours ago, not when it’s all you can see burned fresh in your mind, embers still catching. You know the outcome. You know if you spend the night, you’ll initiate something your heart desires and mind despises. You know yourself too well.

“Bucky,” you sigh, half amused, half exasperated. “You and I both know that’s not gonna happen.”

A beat.

You change the subject before he can protest. "I'll see you this weekend for Steve's movie night, yeah?"

That's when you turn and flash him a warm smile, one that says everything is fine, nothing's unusual. You ignore his pinched brow and head tilt, probably more confused than ever. But he doesn't linger on it, instead blinking and nodding slowly, as if he wants to argue with it but knows better than to confront whatever weird fluttering his heart is doing the more he looks at you.

"Yeah," he says eventually. "Alright."

Finally, a car approaches the curb and you nearly sigh out of relief, not bothering to try and save yourself further as you move to leave. You opt for a polite wave, get in your cab, and force yourself to not turn around and watch him get smaller and smaller as he stands dumbfounded on the curb.

So, in a feeble attempt to be dignified, you simply pull back.

Not loudly, or explicitly, or anything synonymous to drama. It's quiet, calculated, nonchalant. On nights he texts you at an ungodly hour, you're pretending you slept through the fuck-sesh window. When your friend group gets together, you're sticking with Nat and conversing with him when it's convenient. When he shows up to Sam's birthday celebration with the intention of spending the night with you after, you disappear with Wanda before the final goodbyes and smoke a joint for a little too long on the fire escape.

If he wants to treat your connection as something casual, as something he does with the other girls he may bring into his bed, then you want no part of it.

You work later hours. You pick up hobbies to distract yourself from the incessant buzzing of your phone on the kitchen island. You cling to Natasha and Wanda and lean on your support systems. Does part of you miss him? Oh, absolutely. All the time. He’s been your friend longer than most. He’s helped you through your worst and lifted you up at your best. You’ve been platonic. You’ve been lovers. You’ve been strangers. You’ll always love him, regardless of the emotional toll this situationship is taking on your heart, because he was your friend first. A good one, at that.

But you're smarter than this, smarter than letting yourself get strung along by a man who won't put you first, a guy who will make you say you’re his when he’s buried to the hilt inside you, only to spin around and go on a coffee date with a girl from work the next morning, a guy who seems to be dangling the possibility of a relationship on a fish hook right in front of your face, even if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it or not, a guy who is — undoubtedly — the best lay of your sexual career.

(Though you’d rather die than admit that to anyone).

The next time you see him, it's for another one of Tony's charity benefits.

Turns out that when his father left his multi-billion dollar company and said go nuts, Tony didn't take that as a joke. A fairly large portion of the funds go towards these charity events. Another big chunk to his progressive research. Parts to mainly force all of his friends to look nice and be in one place for the night, promising an open bar and free range of the liquor cabinet on the outdoor rooftop patio, to which you and none of your friends can resist in the slightest. Besides, it's a nice excuse to put on a pretty dress and stand in the corner with Natasha and Wanda and viscerally judge everyone's outfits and guess which trophy wives are cheating on their old, wrinkled creeps of husbands.

Tonight you opted for simple, not necessarily in the mood for an over the top get-up. The dress is floor length, hugging your body in the places that make you feel confident while giving you space to breathe all the same, with an open back that dips low, exposing everything down to the base of your spine.

Not that it matters, anyway, because you've been standing with your back against the outdoor concrete walls nursing a now-luke-warm champagne flute, studying the partygoers and trying your best not to bleed green as you watch all your friends break off with their partners, dancing intimately and smiling and looking so disgustingly (and endearingly) in love that you have half a mind to chug the rest of your drink. You politely declined a handsome man's earlier request to share a dance, mind stuck somewhere else. Particularly on someone else.

And — perfect timing — because suddenly, he's leaning his back against the wall next to you.

"Oh my god," he mutters irritably, bumping your shoulder. "That girl from the copy desk would not stop talking."

You ignore the way your heart lurches. "The one who laughs like a dj board or the one who always has lipstick on her teeth?"

He hums amusingly. "No, the other other one. The blonde who's all legs."

Riiiiight. There's no way he's not going to have women approach him all night looking this dangerous, like straight out of a model's fantasy. Or have him approach women. You don't want to think about the semantics of it all.

"Oh," you murmur.

"Yeah," he responds, missing the way your voice gets quiet. "She was explaining her astronaut calendar to me, or something. Honestly, she lost me after she starting talking about dinosaurs."

Bucky sighs like he's had a long day at work, plucking the champagne flute out of your hands like second nature and downing the drink in one go, missing the way your brows furrow and the gears turn in your brain at his last sentence. You sneak a side eye to him, really trying to ignore how beautiful he looks: tie a bit loosened, cheeks flushed, still ridiculously handsome in the all-black suit, not noticing your confusion in the slightest.

"...What are you saying to me right now?"

"Sweet girl, your guess is as good as mine."

"Do you mean...astrology chart?"

"Sure?"

"And Sagittarius?"

"Is that the one with the really long neck? You know, the herbivore?"

You blink at him. "Bucky, that's a star sign. She was telling you about zodiacs."

All he does is stare back at you, a smirk tugging the ends of his lips to mask his confusion. It's clear he's had a flute or two or three, because suddenly his eyes soften as he takes in your appearance: a near-scowl on your face as you hide the best feature of your dress — the open back — scanning the crowd like it's done something to personally offend you. You look like an angry, beautiful fairy. He's decided you've never looked more ethereal in his life.

Suddenly his smirk grows into a grin.

You ignore how it makes your heart lurch. "You do know what zodiacs are, right?"

"Yeah, sure," he says distractedly. Then, "You look beautiful tonight."

You suck in a harsh breath, caught off guard immediately.

All the responses you had in your head suddenly dissipate, evaporate into thin air as you come up blank in how to react, what to say, how to feel. On one hand, your chest constricts at the casual intimacy of it, how he's looking you up and down not lustfully, but in admiration, like you're a portrait in a museum he's been waiting in line all day to catch a glimpse at. On the other hand, you assume that's his opening liner to all the women he's conversed with tonight.

The expression on your face must not be what he was expecting, because his grin slowly morphs into a softer one, brows furrowing in confusion. That's never not worked on you before, as you'll usually quip something playful back at him or compliment him too or try and suppress a smile to appear indifferent. But now you just...don't give him anything besides something that resembles hurt. And, oh, he notices. It kills him.

"What?" He asks quietly, nervously smiling. "Should I have bought you a drink first?"

You attempt to laugh at the joke, but it comes out as a short exhale, not even sure what kind of response you're trying to give him.

"Or..." Bucky trails off, softer. "...asked you to dance?"

Your knees nearly buckle.

"I'm not—" You swallow thickly. "I don't really dance."

He shrugs, not seeing the problem. "Me neither."

"I'd step on your feet."

"I wouldn't mind."

"My stiletto could puncture your toe."

"Is it made of steel?"

"It could be. You never know with shoe manufacturers, these days."

"Sweet girl." A warning.

You suck in another particularly harsh breath, not sure on why he's so adamant on the matter at all. Doesn't he have at least five other girls he could've asked in the time span he's spent trying to get you to say yes? What about the astrology blonde? She'd definitely keep him company, and not only that, she'd keep him entertained, that's for sure.

Because you know if you dance with him now, you'll never get over him, never get over how good it feels to be touched by him, held by him. You need to stay dignified. Stay true to your wordless promise. Keep your distance, protect your heart.

You're about to let him down easy. "Bucky—"

But fate decides to enter the scene like a modern day Superman. And she looks killer with bright red hair and a low cut dress that's comparable to sin.

Natasha pokes her head onto the rooftop, swaying only slightly given all the drinks her and Steve have been pounding all night. When her eyes land on you, they brighten along with a beautiful grin that immediately gives away her elatedness to see you, pointing at you so staggered that the champagne nearly flies out of her flute.

"There you are," she hisses quietly, pearly whites on display. "C'mon, the timeshare guy's wife is about to fuck the bar back. Are you coming or not?"

Your eyes dart between her and Bucky, who is solely amusingly looking at you and waiting for you to make your decision. Yet something catches your eye just over his shoulder: a sliver of beach blonde hair staring at his back, wringing her fingers together as she patiently waits for her time slot with Bucky to open back up. You recognize her from the copy desk, and especially recognize her from Bucky's story from earlier as you can faintly make out a Libra necklace from all the way over here.

So you sheepishly smile up at him. "Raincheck?"

It doesn't look like he wants to take a raincheck. Not in the slightest. But, nonetheless, he nods and smiles gently back at you, a look seemingly reserved for you. He ignores Natasha's incessant prompting for you to hurry up, not taking his eyes off of you while you walk past him and slip back into the ballroom. Bucky's eyes slide down the slope of your exposed back, watching you weave in and out of the crowd with Natasha firmly holding your hand, wishing it was him holding you instead.

He doesn't see you for the rest of the night.

And, later, after your little adventure with Natasha, you poke your head back to peer out onto the rooftop, seeing a very familiar broad backed brunette talking to an overly annunciated blonde.

You don't stay much longer after that.

It isn't until now, three weeks into your internal giving your heart space entourage, when you see a text pop up.

You're sitting comfortably on your couch, half an edible deep with your laptop open idly on the side with today's crossword and a mindless reality show playing softly on the TV. A nearly full glass of wine is perched pretty on the coffee table, as well as a bowl of popcorn you never touched. Wanda left a half hour ago to spend the night at Viz's down a few blocks. Now, left to your own devices, you figure you'll take advantage of the night of solace after three weeks of working late and burying yourself in papers and projects in a feeble attempt to silence the way your heart is screaming for love.

Like an idiot, you check your phone.

Bucky: Sweetheart, when can I come see you?

The words sit like a rock in your gut, and suddenly being crossed off a gummy and a few glasses of wine doesn't seem very fun anymore.

Because the whole point of detaching yourself from the friends with benefits was to get him off your radar. It was to simply keep the friends title and drop the with benefits bit, since it's not like you don't want him in your life anymore, because you'll always want him in your life. But just not in a context where he constantly strings you along emotionally. That's all. Nothing more to it. You need to remind yourself he only wants sex, he only wants your mouth, he only wants your hands, he only wants the parts of you that serve as a convenience to get him off. It has to be.

Your thumbs move before you can stop them.

You: Hey, B. Not tonight.

Staring at your response, a kettlebell settles in your gut, absolutely wrecked and also relieved and also sick to your stomach knowing what you're typing next.

Almost immediately, you follow up.

You: Been meaning to text you for a while. I've got a lot going on and don't have the time anymore to be messing around. So. You can take me off the roster.

Send. Oof. Put the phone on silent, turn it face down on the couch, and pretend it didn't carry an astronomical amount of emotional turmoil that's borderline making you go into cardiac arrest. Take a sip (chug) of wine. Grab a handful of popcorn and ignore your shaking hands. Attempt to mindlessly finish the crossword you started and tune one ear into the soap operatic drama displaying on the television. Refrain from checking your phone with all the strength you can muster. Because it’s not a big deal. At all.

Right?

You fall asleep like this: curled up on the couch, clutching a throw pillow as if it’ll float away if you let go, the mindless tv playing low in the background mixed with the soft sounds of your even breathing. Tears never came, why would they? You know what you’re doing, you’ve known for weeks what the end game was, and you finally cut the string, no longer a puppet to the show of love. It’s agonizing. It’s freeing. It’s lonely.

In the midst of your sleep, you miss the string of notifications that immediately follow your message.

Bucky: Wait what 1 Missed Call From: Bucky Bucky: Roster? Bucky: Sweetheart 2 Missed Calls From: Bucky Bucky: You can't say shit like that and then put your phone on do not disturb. 3 Missed Calls From: Bucky Bucky: If this is what you want, then that's fine. Can we at least talk about it?

When you wake the next morning, you don't reply.

You're actually having the worst day to grace the planet.

The subway was late — what else is new — and by the time you got to work, your heels already started burning blisters into your feet. Your coffee order was wrong, still drinkable, but wrong, and it simply wasn't worth it to jump back into the ten minute line for a minor change. The projects you've been working on need to essentially be redone since another department you've been partnered with decided to send you a new list of completely different numbers than what you've been working with. You were originally supposed to go home at six. It's nearly eleven.

It's just been long. Mentally. Physically. You can't even bring yourself to emotionally bring up the past few weeks of ignoring Bucky. It's all too much, and all you can do at this point is attempt to turn your brain off as much as you can so you can actually sleep tonight. You hope the late night walk home will give you a sense of fresh air and clarity. It doesn't do much, but it helps you unwind slightly.

But of course things can't be good for too long.

Because when you get back to your apartment, Bucky's leaning patiently against your door.

You freeze in the hallway, and the sound of your heels skidding to a stop makes him look up, eyes burdened with something raw and upsetting that it makes your heart flutter. He stands a little straighter, perhaps trying to mask the fact that he's been waiting here for hours without complaints, simply holding onto the mere fact that he has to talk to you, get a gauge on your feelings, because you've been practically radio silent. And it's killing him.

The two of you stare at each other for a few beats, almost surprised to see each other. He, surprised to see you still in your work clothes and heels, and you, surprised to even be seeing him at all. You never thought he'd actually come here and confront you in person, yet you can't necessarily blame him as you've been dodging his messages and treating him as if nothing's wrong in social gatherings.

"Hey," you say eventually, drawing it out in skepticism.

"Hi," he breathes out quietly, voice light. "Are you— Were you working?"

You take a cautious two steps forward, fishing through your bag to find your keys. "Yeah, been stupid busy lately."

When you move to unlock the door, he steps to the side to let you do so, and it takes everything in you to focus on the task at hand yet it's proving increasingly difficult when his cologne gives you a sense of nostalgia you didn't even know you missed. It's like grieving an ex you never had. You were never his. He was never yours. Get a grip.

"I've noticed," he says after a minute.

The door creaks open gently, and you pause for a moment, internally deciding if you want to let him in or not. Part of you knows what will happen if you let him in, physically and mentally, and the thought of rehashing it right here, right now, almost makes you sick to your stomach. You're too tired, too burnt out to even think about what to eat for dinner, too exhausted in every single way possible.

Bucky notices your apprehension immediately. "You alright?"

Well. That's a loaded question if you've ever heard one. How much time does he have?

You decide to play it safe.

"Just exhausted. Is there— Did you need something?"

Bucky's mouth opens and closes, especially when you peer up at him and he notices just how fucking tired you are. All the words he's been dying to say rise and dissipate in his throat, nearly shocked from your appearance. He wants to say something, to say anything, to help you get ready for bed and tuck you in and let you fall asleep in his arms.

But he can't. Not when he can tell some of your exhaustion is from him.

"I— Uh, I just wanted to talk," he murmurs sheepishly. "But it can wait."

You frown, not expecting that. "You sure?"

Then he smiles. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, but he smiles nonetheless. Soft. Reserved for you. Understanding.

"Yes, sweetheart," he reassures gently, nodding towards your apartment. "Get some rest. We'll talk later, okay?"

You ignore the way your heart lurches at the pet name, how selfish he is to say it as if he ever had the right, how wanted it makes you feel. Like you’re his. Claimed. Taken. Yearned for. It’s awful. It’s beautiful. You want to throw up and also feel his arms bear wrapped around you. You want him to call you that forever yet never again. Not if you aren’t his.

"Okay." You find yourself murmuring sleepily. "Goodnight, Bucky."

The last thing you hear is a soft hum behind you when you step into your apartment, send him a tired, apologetic smile, and shut the door. The only image in your head when you're going to bed later that night is how pretty he looked standing in that hallway.

"Have you always been this prone to self sabotaging or am I blind?'

"Natasha, I'm seconds away from flying all the way to San Diego just to kick your ass."

"I'd like to see you try."

You roll your eyes as you prop your phone between your ear and your shoulder, thinly slicing eggplant to meal prep for the work week ahead. Do you want to forget all about being a responsible adult and simply rot on the couch until it's time to go to bed? Absolutely. Have you been slacking on being a real adult lately? Also absolutely. Between work and doing your best to stay busy nearly all the time, you're forgetting to take care of yourself. So, exhibit A: making actual meals for the week instead of relying on foods primarily stuffed with GMOs.

Natasha and Steve are on their annual west coast voyage, but your best friend always finds time to carve you into her schedule. Granted, they're in their siesta hours at the moment, as you can hear Steve gently snoring in the background as she yaps to you, not even caring about her boyfriend finding any peace and quiet to sleep.

You don't mind the company in the slightest, even if it is virtual.

"Seriously, though," she adds after a moment of laughter, tone dropping with an edge of seriousness. "You really should talk to him at some point instead of avoiding him like the plague."

Huffing, you slice an eggplant particularly aggressively.

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"You know I'm all for hating on men."

"Of course."

"But—“

"Natasha—“

"This is Bucky we're talking about," Natasha says almost incredulously, as if him as a person is an excuse in itself. "Yeah, he's one of the biggest idiots I know, and I know a lot of them, but he's not a bad guy. You and I both know he cares about you more than the rest of us, whether you want to accept that or not."

Another harsh slice. Channeling your frustration out on a poor eggplant who did nothing to you.

Sighing clear into the microphone, you relent. "I don't even know where I would start besides standing there like an idiot."

"You could be sitting."

"What would I even say to him?" You say, exasperated and ignoring her smart-ass-itry.

"Maybe, 'hey, sorry for ghosting you for the past month but I am experiencing an influx of emotional volatility at the moment and can't process my feelings for you.' Something along those lines."

"Really?"

She snorts. "The truth would be a good start, no?"

You pause, chopping movements halting as you stare off into space, pondering the simple concept of talking to him. Blabbing your incoherent feelings to him. Letting him in with the possibility of being shut out. You'd think that would be the reasonable course of action as a responsible adult, but you never said you were one. Part of you wants this to fizzle out as quietly as possible, to let your feelings subside like the tide and strictly go back to being friends without any of the weirdness. However, you know that can't slide, not with a guy like Bucky who has no concept of letting bygones be bygones.

Granted, you haven't really been playing fair by dodging every single one of his attempts to clear the air, opting for the safe excuse of being too tired or working or anything synonymous to that. And he's been respectful enough, even though you can tell he's been itching to push you into a conversation. He keeps a distance. Approaches when it's right, not forced, only to be shut down all the same. You know it isn't fair. At all. But your heart can't handle that right now.

"Later," you say simply.

Natasha sighs over the phone, but drops the topic for now.

“I’ll be asking again later," she grumbles. "Anyway, do you remember that old Cape sweatshirt you bitched and moaned about losing like three months ago? Viz said he found it in his closet with Wanda's stuff."

You hum cheerily. "No shit? I thought Yelena accidentally donated it?"

She snorts at the mention of her sister. "Apparently not."

"That'll give me an excuse to leave the apartment."

"Oh, actually you don't have to," Steve pipes up in the background, suddenly awake and alert and interjecting so casually it shocks you. "I asked Bucky to drop that off to you tonight. You're home, right?"

You stop slicing immediately.

"What?"

"Yeah, I texted him like thirty minutes ago," he adds nonchalantly. "He should've been there by now."

Your veins turn to ice. "I thought you were fucking asleep?"

"Why would I be asleep?"

"I heard you snoring."

"Oh," Natasha hums. "That's just his deviated septum."

Steve mimics the noise, instigating further by almost sounding like he had no idea. "Oh, yeah, that explains it."

The knife clatters to the cutting board as you sigh gutturally deep, the sound coming deep from your soul as your irritation skyrockets to amounts unknown. Your friends fully know what they were doing, and you can't even pride them on the setup since they got you right where they want you. You can picture them right now: sitting snug in their hotel bed, suppressing shit eating grins and probably quietly celebrating their successful mission of trapping your situationship back at your apartment. Fool proof.

As if things couldn't get worse, three soft knocks rasp against your apartment door, sending your blood pressure to numbers a doctor would faint at.

“Wonder who that is,” Steve ponders innocently.

You shake your head, knowing you're not getting out of this one.

"You guys fucking suck," is all you meekly respond with.

Natasha snorts. “I hope you shaved your—“

You hang up immediately.

Sighing, you throw your phone face down on the counter and forget all about the boiling food you have on the stove, thoughts instead filling with the man on the other side of the door, who no doubt wants to continue the conversation he tried to start last week.

That was until you practically slammed the door in his face and continued to ghost him into oblivion.

Your feet move before your mind can process it, shifting your body towards the door. A sweaty palm hovers over the knob, almost shaking with the anticipation of seeing his pretty blues up close again, of being in the vicinity where you can smell his cologne and resist the urge to pull the loose threads of his sweaters since he always forgets to. Who knows — maybe he’ll just hand you the piece of clothing and leave. Respect your space. Space that you aren’t even sure you want anymore.

Because truth be told: you fucking miss him. More than you’d like to admit.

You miss his hands that often held your trembling ones. You miss the way his laugh reverberates a room. You miss the way he was so eager to please and made you feel so fucking good every. Single. Time. Like you were the only person on earth worth paying attention to. Like you hung the stars yourself. Like he loved you.

Suddenly, you’re whipping the door open (frankly to avoid hanging onto that last thought that will — no doubt — make you spiral if you dwindle on it).

And there he is.

Bucky Barnes stands tall, shifting his weight between feet and cradling the sweatshirt as if it’ll shatter into a million pieces. His hair is lightly askew, hoodie a bit mussed, as if he’d thrown it on in a rush, yet he looks handsome all the same. His bright blue eyes lock on you immediately, almost surprised at the speed at which you opened the door. But they soften immediately at the sight of you, nearly relieved that you’re giving him some sort of time of the day.

And your heart races. Instantly. Muscles frozen in place as you stare right back at him, ignoring the sizzling from the stove and trying to swallow the giant lump in your throat. No words come. Absolutely nothing. The only thing that you can coherently conclude is how handsome he looks like this: casual, soft, domestic. It’s not fair.

“Hey,” he greets gently. “Delivery for the prettiest girl on the planet?”

“She’s on sabbatical,” you deadpan.

Bucky’s lips twitch as he rolls his eyes playfully. “Steve told you I was dropping by?”

Only forty seconds ago, you think bitterly.

Instead, you nod. “Yeah, he might’ve mentioned it.”

Bucky hums amusingly. “Hope my delivery skills are up to par.”

“Debatable,” you respond pointedly.

Bucky stares at you quietly for a beat. Two. Three. Studying your expression and taking in all your pretty while he still has the chance.

It makes you squirm.

You hand your arm out, palm upturned in anticipation.

“Uh, the sweatsh—“

Suddenly, the smell of fresh burning fills your nostrils, and you whip your head towards the culprit — your kitchen — and forget all about the man standing in front of you, cursing loudly under your breath and dashing to the stove. The batch of three eggplant slices you’d been frying are indefinitely inedible, charred to black and wasted. So much for trying to be a responsible, independent, slightly put together adult.

You wave your arm above the stove, moving the pan off the burner and shut everything off as you see Bucky in your peripheral cautiously enter your apartment, shutting the door gently behind him with the sweatshirt still sitting idly in his hands.

“Motherfucker,” you hiss with annoyance, sighing through your nose, suddenly overwhelmed with his presence lingering in your kitchen. “Uh, you can leave it on the barstool. I’ll rate you five stars, or whatever.”

When you don’t hear an immediate response, you pause your movements of waving the light smoke out of your face, dropping your arm at your side to glance at him. Bucky simply stands, watching you intently. Half amused. Half with a look in his eye that makes your heart flutter uncomfortably. A look you don’t want to begin to decipher, only knowing it’ll hurt your soul in the long run.

Blue eyes bore into yours. As if he’s not interested in looking at anyone else ever again.

“Are you gonna—“

“You look pretty.”

The words die in your throat, actually more like violently sucked out of you at the sincerity of his tone, as you open and close your mouth, agape like a fish. You blink stupidly, hating the way your heartbeat is utterly erratic just from a simple sentence. And whether he means it or not, it makes you a fucking mess of emotions anyway. Regardless if he’s just saying it to be back in your good graces, or if it’s true.

You can’t dwell on the semantics.

All you can do is shut your eyes and sigh quietly. “Bucky…”

“Sweetheart, when are we gonna talk about this?”

You dare to peek your eyes open, taking in his intent expression, almost desperate, as he darts his gaze between your eyes. Flustered, you shift weight between feet, feeling your face flush and palms immediately grow warm. Half of you wants to say forget it and jump into his arms, forget all about your hurt and push it down and pray it goes away. The other half stands dignified.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you defend meekly.

“I would completely beg to differ.”

Your eyes drift down, locking on his hands as you can’t even bring yourself to look at him in his pretty blues. “We were sleeping together. Now we’re not. Not sure what you want me to say.”

Bucky snorts devoid of humor. “How about an explanation, to start?”

“I’m too busy.”

“I’ll make time for you.”

“That’s not the point.”

“How?”

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Bucky—“

But he doesn’t let you get far. “I’m serious. I’ll work around your schedule,” he says casually, as if it’s the easiest solution in the world.

“That’s inconvenient,” you defend weakly.

“That’s called problem solving,” he corrects pointedly.

You nearly scream in frustration, because you knew you’d have some sort of pushback with this, especially with the world’s most stubborn man to ever grace the earth. When he’s set on something — or in this case, someone — it’s nearly impossible for him to back down, to concede into neutral territory and go with the flow. It’s not that he doesn’t see it, in fact he’s fully aware of his ability to argue with a brick wall if it looked at him funny. He uses it to his advantage, like right now.

The other part of you wants to scream in terms of the emotional intensity of it all. Why does he care so much? Why is he blindly opting to carve a chunk of his time and effort out of his day solely for you? When all it’s ever been between you two was casual intimacy? Why is he offering the choice as if it’s the simplest solution, as if it isn’t the most inconvenient option.

Bucky notices your silence immediately, and decides to fill it. “There’s no way I’m gonna just stop seeing you, sweetheart.”

“Don’t—“ You say before you can stop yourself, aching. “Don’t say that.”

“Say what? That I care about you?”

God, he’s not fucking getting it.

You shake your head, exasperated.

“No, the whole sweetheart, baby, sweet girl bullshit,” you sigh tiredly, not even caring about holding back anymore. “I’m not your sweetheart, I’m not your sweet girl, I’m not yours, Bucky. Never have been.”

His jaw slacks.

Despite the way your skin feels like it’s on fire and that your heart is beating so erratically it’d make a cardiologist faint.

“And it’s—it’s fine,” you pointedly admit. “Really. But it’s confusing, and it drives me fucking crazy, and I need space. That’s all.”

Silence engulfs the room.

Bucky simply just…stares at you. Half in awe and half something you can’t pinpoint, as if the gears are turning in his head and he’s understanding your frustration, the reason for your distance, your coldness towards him. It wasn’t out of dislike or disinterest. No. It’s the opposite. You care too much. Feel too much. Felt that you needed to separate to shield your heart, protect your peace, put yourself first.

It’s almost as if the expression happens in slow motion. Because his look of shock and confusion morphs into understanding, almost relief. A noticeable tension releases from his shoulders as he puts two and two together, gaze softening so disgustingly endearing that you swallow thickly. There’s the truth. Floating in the air. Coming to bite you in the ass, as you presume he’s figuring out an easy way to let you down gently.

God, why is he looking at you like that?

“When you texted me,” he starts slowly, calculated. “I had no fucking idea what you were talking about.”

You blink at him.

He continues. “That was the first time I’d heard about a supposed roster. Didn’t even know I had one. Didn’t know that was the impression you had of me.”

A wave of guilt washes over you. “Bucky—“

“Sweet girl—“ He interrupts softly, almost in a gentle warning to let him finish. “I don’t know where you got that from, but there was never anything like that. No one else I was even thinking about.”

The confession makes your blood run cold.

“But— But that girl from the bar,” you defend meekly. “Or the blonde from Tony's party. The girl who’s all legs, remember? You’ve been seeing other people, and, again, that’s fine—“

He grimaces at the mentions of both women, the blonde he really wasn't listening to in the slightest and the redhead from that night at the bar, the night you started distancing yourself from him. He remembers it perfectly: how you leaned away from his touch, dodged his invitations, looked at him like he was everybody else, like he wasn’t special anymore.

Now it makes sense. Total sense. You saw him practically cuddled up — well, if you were any closer, you’d see his clear apprehension and gentle rejections — with a random girl as if it was just another average night. And then cozied up with the blonde at Tony’s gala (not really by his choice). No one to be tied down to. As if you weren’t the only thing on his mind for the entirety of each confrontation. The way you subtly swerved him both nights made his stomach twist so uncomfortably that he felt sick for days after, not understanding your sudden cold — luke warm? — shoulder.

But now he sees it, he sees you. And it gives him all the confirmation he needs to speak carefully. Tread lightly. Let it all out.

“The night at the bar, that was Mariah.” Then, after a moment, adds, “Um, Madison? Something like that. One of my sister’s friends who always got a little too close, you know?”

Heart thumping, you nod slowly. Cautiously. Not trying to appear as though the mere thought of him talking with other girls makes your chest do this weird thing where all you can see is green. Jealousy. Possession over a man you aren’t even with. Pathetic. Trying to appear indifferent because you should be indifferent.

He continues. “She kept talking and talking, it was brutal. Couldn’t get out of it. After a second attempt to ask me out, I just… I don’t know.”

Your chest aches. “You what?”

“Pointed at you,” Bucky says. “Told her you were my girlfriend.”

If your eyes widened any more, they’d bulge out of the sockets.

Because what? He didn’t just— He just said— He couldn’t have possibly meant—? No, he just got tired of her asking. That’s it. That has to be it. There’s no way he casually said that without ever being promoted to, it was simply just a ruse to get this girl to back off, that’s all. No further implications. No secret manifesting techniques. Only a way out. An escape.

“She backed off, and all. So did the blonde, I told her the same thing,” Bucky continues casually, as if he didn’t just short circuit your brain with a simple sentence. “The first time I said it, back at the bar, I came back to the group as soon as I could. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

You dare to bite. “About which part?”

His blue eyes have never been more focused on you. “When I said that to her, it felt… right.”

“Right?”

“Yeah.” Bucky nods, almost a little too quickly. “Real. Forgot it wasn’t true until you went to get another drink.”

“Oh,” is all you can murmur.

“Then I couldn’t stop thinking about if… you know… if we were actually together,” he ponders aloud, spilling his guts with every word. “How nice it’d be to have danced with you. I didn’t realize how much I wanted it to be real until I thought of the possibility.”

The expression on your face must be comedic gold.

“Oh,” you repeat quietly.

“Yeah,” Bucky muses low. “Oh.”

You blink stupidly at him, mouth agape as you take in his words, his confession, especially how sincere he sounds recounting the night. It makes sense: how overtly touchy he was with you right up until you rejected his first attempt to bring you home, and how his hands kept to himself for the rest of the night, how uncharacteristically quiet he was standing broad next to you. You didn’t think about it, about what his interaction with that girl actually could’ve been, and rather jumped to conclusions on what you expected.

In the midst of your self deprecating inner dialogue, you don’t notice Bucky slowly walking towards you, getting closer and closer with each cautious step. When you don’t jerk back or create more space between you, he allows himself to step into your vicinity, now merely a foot away as the sweatshirt he’d need cradling is now forgotten behind him, folded idly on the barstool.

And now — once his cologne has invaded your scent as his pretty blues are suddenly way closer than you remember — you realize just how much distance he squashed in a matter of a few mere steps.

You peer at him, frozen as a statue and confused as an idiot as one of his palms experimentally ghosts over your jaw. When you don’t pull away, he presses it gently against your smooth cheek, burning under his cool skin, and you can’t deny how nice it is to finally feel him again, and you especially can’t deny how pretty he looks like this: lopsided smile and gaze so soft it’d resemble the touch of a warm fire.

“Breathe,” he guides gently.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. And suddenly it’s alllllll coming out.

“Sorry,” you say immediately, almost panicked. “I just— Phew, okay. You have to know what it looked like. Really. But I shouldn’t have cared because we aren’t together, we never were, and I’m not that kind of person to, like, monitor who you sleep with— You know I’m not like that—“

Bucky’s grin grows.

“I never wanted to make you think I was trying to sink my claws into you, or some bullshit, I don’t know,” you continue your incoherent rambling, missing the way he’s already made up his mind. “I figured you wanted to explore options? Or something like that? So I gave you space. I needed space to… You know... To get…”

When you trail off, Bucky cocks his head to the side, inviting the gentle confrontation.

“To get what, sweet girl?” He coos gingerly, pressing the pad of his thumb near the swell of your bottom lip.

You blink stupidly at him, wide eyed and embarrassed at your incessant rambling. But when he looks at you like this: soft, intent, as if nothing else in the world is even worth glancing at, you let your guard down slightly. For fuck’s sake, he just poured his heart out to you earlier, you know how he feels, where he stands, what’s the reason of holding back? What’s the harm in keeping your feelings to yourself? Especially now when you’ve practically exposed yourself, anyway.

Your mouth moves before your brain can comprehend it.

“To get over you.”

His brows raise, half surprised and half condescending. “You wanted to get over me?”

Swallowing thickly, you nod. “I thought you had a roster.”

“No roster,” he responds immediately. “Just you.”

“Well, I thought you didn’t like me like that.”

“Sweetheart, I love you.”

Your jaw slacks in his hold, and now his palm presses a bit harder, grounding, firmer, all to confirm his feelings, to get you to understand, to feel him. His hands are cool, calm, composed, whereas your skin is on fire, heart thumping a million beats per minute with a shock value so high that your ears might be ringing. They must be. Because you couldn’t have heard him correctly, right? Because he just— he said that he— he lo… he loves—

“Breathe,” he reminds you again, an endearing smile ghosting his pretty lips.

For the second time, you’re letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been keeping in, staring into those pretty blues as they crystalize into yours. His palm holds your jaw in place, secure, as if he has all the time in the world to do so, to be here with you, regardless of all rhyme and reason. The touch is warm, familiar, something you missed a lot more than you'd like to admit, and you can't help but lean into the content, pressing your jaw and cheek further into his hold.

To think he was off sharing an ounce of this bravado with others is almost comical, because Bucky can't recall ever feeling this gravitates towards anyone. You're the first person he thinks of when he wakes up and the last thing he sees before he goes to sleep. After you spend the night, he hopes you'll take one of his hoodies to bring home so that when you give it back to him, it has your scent. When he arrives at any function, you're the first person he's searching for the immediate second he walks through the door.

Because, sure, the two of you have always been friends. Friendly. Comfortable. But the first time you slept together and created your little agreement, Bucky already knew — from that moment forward — that there was absolutely no way he wouldn't fall for you. Fuck, the first night you fell asleep in his arms, he already knew he was in deep, simply because the mere sounds of your syncopated breaths brought him a sense of comfort no one else has ever been able to provide. And that was only the first night. His infatuation for you only augmented after that.

Meanwhile, your brain is slowly starting to work again.

"That's— When did— Are you sure?"

Bucky laughs boyishly, head tipping back and clearly amused with your shock as you stand befuddled. If you weren't so fucking blindsided right now, you'd take the time to appreciate the way the corners of his mouth crease and how his eyes seem to gleam at the mere sight of your slightly panicked demeanor, because how dare he have the audacity to look this handsome right now, especially when he's practically laughing at your self depreciation.

"Because I'm a lot," you continue pointedly, so serious contrary to his jovial nature. "You know that. It's not— Do you know what you're actually signing up for? Genuinely?"

"I've been signed up," he says casually, still coming down from his laughter. When he notices your perplexed expression, he cocks his head to the side. "What? Sweet girl, you must've known."

"How could I possibly have known?"

"I came immediately when we had sex for the first time."

"Well, I thought you were just...excited."

"Tried sleeping with another girl a week later to try and get over you, and said your name when I finished."

"Semantics."

"I measured your ring finger one night while you were sleeping."

The next retort dies in your throat as you quirk a brow at him, and given the way his eyes immediately widen and mouth agapes that he absolutely did not mean to say that. His pretty blues blink at you for one, two beats. You resist the urge to push the hair out of his eyes.

"For science," he adds quickly.

You suppress a grin. "I don't remember you ever having a PhD."

You don't let him respond before you move without thinking, gripping the collar of his hoodie and tugging him taut to you, stealing his breath with a kiss so sudden that he mmrphs low into your mouth, half in surprise and half in need.

His hand cradles your jaw, feeling the movements of your mouth beneath his palm and kissing you back with just as much fervor, if not more. His unoccupied hand takes its rightful place on your waist, pads of his fingertips indenting deep into your skin almost as a wordless claim, a confirmation that this is real, this is happening, you're here in his arms after what feels like forever. You make a noise you didn't even know you had in you — a mix between a sigh and a whine and something else entirely unholy — and Bucky swallows it immediately.

Your hands brace on his chest, palm over his erratic heartbeat and the other trailing down his abdomen, ghosting the waistband of his jeans, an act all too familiar to you. And to him, because he gets the hint immediately.

When he pulls away a fraction, resting his forehead against yours as his chest heaves, you let your heart speak.

"You really love me?"

Bucky responds immediately. "More than anything."

He's so close, so pretty like this. A bit dazed, soft, eyes set only on you and nothing else. Smile lines by the corners of his mouth, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip almost in admiration, his eyes darting at all parts of your face as if he's studying you intently, remembering your features and taking note of how they look in this lighting. As if he wants to remember how you look in every possible way. Just for his own sake, to picture you in his mind when you're not physically with him.

And your heart just...aches.

But in the best way possible, knowing all your worrying and self doubt was for nothing. In the time you spent wondering if you were his, he was already dead-set on being yours. Irrevocably. Occupying so much space in his mind that there wasn't much space for anything else. He loves you. He loves your smile, your laugh, the way you hold him at night and listen to his dreams and nightmares all in same breath, the way you've made him feel important, like he deserves to be happy, like he's a good person. There's no one else on this planet he can say has made him feel like this, already missing you before you've even left and already wondering when he's going to see you next.

"Sweet girl, let me show you, hm?" Bucky asks gently, a tone reserved just for you.

You're hardly one to refuse that request.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work without permission. mdni.

In the meantime, everyone in the party was sticking around, yet a part of you knew this era would be short-lived. Jonathan was finishing his essay for NYU, Robin was waiting till the last possible minute to send her applications, and Nancy had been re-admitted to Emerson after deferring the year before. They’d be gone next year, and then the younger teens would follow them out. 

The battles were over, and everyone could finally move on. Find a new normal. 

But moving on was easier said than done. You had tried to confide in your father about losing another daughter. He was surprisingly accepting of her absence quicker than you were, “Jane… made a choice. I know that it is hard; it is so difficult to accept that she’s gone. But, kid, you gotta understand that this isn’t like when we lost Sarah… Sarah didn’t get a choice. Jane made a decision that neither of us will ever understand.”

Then there was Mike, equally lost in grief. Yet the grief you shared was starkly different. While you fought through the pain of not only losing one, but two sisters, Mike was battling the loss of his first love. The kid was a shell of himself, trying to find the answer to an unsolvable riddle or to rewrite an ending for them. Maybe if they had been able to get in contact with Dr. Owens again, he could’ve helped them hide from the government while living a normal life. As much as you both tried, neither of you could stomach the conversation. 

Will, Lucas, Dustin, and Max would come over to check on you and talk about the readjustment to high school life. They’d complain about homework load, other extracurriculars, or what some dumbass said in class that day. Everyone tried to be there for you, and they were. But grief is an ocean, the tides pushing and pulling regardless of time. 

Steve had seen the worst of it. The nights when neither of you got any sleep because he was consoling you amid endless sobs. He listened as you recounted stories about when your dad first brought you into the cabin to meet Jane. About how you had missed her when Joyce took Jane to California while you lived as an emancipated minor in Hawkins. How you wished you had more time to be a big sister, not just to Jane, but for Sarah…

He listened, he always listened. Because he couldn’t answer your questions. Steve was an only child, and though Dustin was practically his little brother, he knew he couldn’t equate the two. But he was determined to be with you through your grief. He made you easy meals when you couldn’t stomach the thought of food. He helped motivate you out of bed in the morning. He pushed you to find a new perspective on life, now that nothing could hold you down to Hawkins. 

— — —

A year had passed since Vecna’s demise. Jonathan, Nancy, and Robin were settled in the east, but regularly called to catch up. They’d all be visiting home for the holiday and swore to hang out like old times. 

Dustin had been accepted to Princeton and was on track to graduate as valedictorian. Lucas had accepted an athletic scholarship to IU, and Max was still waiting for her acceptance letter. Will had mentioned something about wanting to move to the city with Jonathan and maybe consider art school. Mike didn’t talk about college, though everyone knew his parents expected him to attend. 

You and Steve had even decided to move in together. Steve’s parents had sold their business to private equity and retired to Florida, but Mr. Harrington had left the deed to the Harringtons’ estate. He had been practically living and taking care of the house since his parents fled before quarantine was instituted in ‘86. His parents’ lack of interest in his life was something you both continued to bond over while you built your lives together. Both of you decided to live there until you could save up enough money to buy a house where you two could build happier memories than those on Maple Street. Your dad was suspicious at first. 

“I just don’t understand,” He sighed as he stood in the doorway of your old bedroom, dressed in that same police chief uniform from years ago, “You two have only been dating for eight months. It just feels too soon, kid.”

“Dad,” you looked at him as you taped up another box, “Steve and I were playing a long game of ‘will they, won’t they’ for years. He… he’s the only one who understands—”

You tried to gesture. The words were coming up short on your tongue. Words that you didn’t want to speak because they would remind you of your losses. Your eyes flicked around the bedroom you had once shared with Jane. This cabin held too much history of two sisters thrust together who desperately needed each other. Engrained in the wood were tales of girlhood, haunting memories of a childhood that both your sisters had been robbed of. 

Hop’s demeanor softened when he noted the tears rimming your eyes, “You’re not a kid anymore. You’ll always be my little girl, but you’ve outgrown this cabin. And I… I’m gonna miss my girls…”

The two of you moved to hug each other, silently mourning the Eggo waffle extravaganzas and Magnum PI reruns. If you listened closely enough, you could hear the echoes of laughter and records playing. 

A knock came from the doorway. Steve was perched there in a red Henley and jeans, his hair tamed beneath a backwards baseball cap. He gave you both an easy smile, “I hate to break up the moment, but we are running short on daylight.”

Both you and your father wiped away tears as you pulled apart.

“Harrington,” Hop nodded at him, “How’s your first year at Hawkins Middle going? Did Mr. Clarke finally recruit you to help him with the A.V. Club?”

Steve chuckled and shook his head, “No, no. I had to be honest with him. Told him that my brain doesn’t work like his or Dustin’s when it comes to technological advancement. That, and I’m unfortunately caught up with these after-school practices.”

“The kids love Coach Steve,” You interjected with a proud smile. 

“They call you coach in the classroom, too? Or do you make them call you Mr. Harrington?” Hop asked. 

“No, Mr. Harrington was my father, and he was all business,” Steve explained, “So I’m Mr. H in the classroom. And Ms. H makes sure our athletes are well taken care of as our newest school nurse.”

You grinned at how Steve subtly gushed about your most recent accomplishment. Hop, however, suspiciously eyed the two of you, “Mr. and Ms. H?”

“Ms. Hopper is too formal,” You shrugged, quickly moving to grab the last box. 

You pressed a quick kiss to your dad’s cheek before exiting the room. You expected Steve to follow behind you shortly. 

Once you were out of earshot, Hop met Steve with an intense look, “Mr. and Ms. H? When should I expect Mr. and Mrs. H?”

Steve’s eyes quickly flicked in the direction of his truck before meeting your father’s stern gaze once more. He let out a heavy sigh and stood up straight, “I bought a ring a month ago. But… I don’t know when to ask. We’re happy right now. Y’know, she has her good days and her bad days. But it’s great to have her at the school. She’s always been good at… taking care of the little guys. I just—”

He halted and ran his hand over his face, “It’s not a question of if. Just when. I don’t want her to feel like I’m forcing her to move on from this too quickly.”

Hopper took in the information, the gears in his head turning. He understood why Steve was cautious; hell, he even respected him for being so thoughtful. But he also wanted to make sure that he knew you wouldn’t be alone when your old man was gone.

— — — 

With eighteen months since the bridge closed, a chapter was quickly closing again as the kids… the teens and soon-to-be adults, would be graduating. Dustin had been over to have dinner with you and Steve the night before. He talked endlessly of how excited he was to go to New Jersey, and how he could take the train up to visit Will in New York. He also complimented the camper parked in the driveway, a recent purchase Steve had made with summer break looming at the school.

A day later, everyone had come together to celebrate the Class of 1989. After the ceremony and Dustin’s exciting address to his fellow graduates, your parties split up with the promise of hanging out again before anyone left town post-graduation celebrations. 

Steve and you had joined your old friends on the rooftop of the Squawk. Nancy and Robin nursed their red solo cups while Jonathan recounted the plot of the script he was working on. 

“So an anticapitalist, cannibalism indie film? Byers, the Hollywood elite will hate you.” You chuckled as you snagged yourself and Steve another beer from the cooler. 

“What’s rent like in New York?” Steve quickly followed up. 

“Why? You two thinking of finally moving?” Nancy asked him with a knowing smile. 

“Yeah, you could move in with me while you get a taste for city life,” Jonathan shrugged and finished the remainder of his drink. 

You shook your head as you perched next to Steve, “No… no. We’re gonna stick around here just for a little while longer.”

Steve beamed at you, glad that you were choosing to be present in the moment, “Yeah. We’re saving up to get our own place. Maple Street just isn’t for us. There’s a nice plot of land available out on Forest Park that we’ve almost got enough for. Market’s not too bad right now.”

And like the ceremony from earlier in the day, your group couldn’t help but feel that pang of nostalgia. The wave of feeling that comes from speaking with old friends who have seen what you were and the potential for who you could become. It was bittersweet to go into Family Video, Melvald’s, and the Hawk without seeing your teenage selves. 

“Let’s promise to meet up once a month,” Robin suggested. The group knew that once a month would be difficult. Between traveling to Hawkins or the east coast or Robin’s uncle's house and finding the time amidst baseball practices or work or college, it was a hopeful dream shared between friends with shared trauma. 

— — — 

Two months later, at the Harrington-Hopper residence. It had been twenty months since your family had been separated. 

Your dad and Joyce were visiting Maple Street tonight. Steve thought it was important to have your dad over for dinner at least once a month. Will had just moved out to the city with Jonathan, and you each felt the lack of his presence at the dinner table that night. But there was still so much good to be had. 

Joyce now sported a quaint engagement ring, ready to finally get her happily ever after with your father. You were terribly happy for both of them. Steve recalled the events of your drive, and so-called vacation, to take Dustin to college orientation. Yet among all the joy, you noticed that your father had been uncharacteristically quiet. 

The conversation hit a lull, and you immediately called him out, “There’s something you want to tell us?”

Hop’s eyes flicked between you, Steve, and Joyce. When she nodded at him, he released a heavy sigh and set down his fork. 

“Joyce and I have decided to move to Montauk,” Your dad came straight out with it, knowing better than to avoid the truth. “I’ve accepted a position as Chief of Police, and we’ll be closer to Jonathan and Will. Which means you’ll be able to see them when you visit—”

“You’re leaving me?” Your words sliced through the air. 

The room went silent, neither Steve nor Joyce wanting to insert themselves into the exchange.

Your dad’s shoulders sagged, the words stinging his heart, “I-I’m not leaving you, but we want to leave Hawkins finally.”

“Right, so you’re just abandoning me,” You quickly got to your feet. Steve gently tried to grasp your hand in consolation, but you pushed it away. 

“Kid, please,” Hop grit his teeth, attempting to remain unemotional, “We need a new start. I need a new start. There’s nothing left for me in Hawkins—”

“Except for me!” You snapped. Suddenly, you felt like you were seventeen again and fighting with your old man while Jane was out with Mike. 

“No, I told you that I made plans to go see the re-release of Jaws with Steve that weekend,” You stomped into the bedroom in frustration, “I can’t just babysit Jane and Mike all the time. It’s my summer vacation too.”

Hop rolled his eyes as he stood in the doorway, “Yeah, and I told you to get a summer job, but you couldn’t even do that. The least you could do to earn your keep around here is to make sure your sister doesn’t get into any funny business with Wheeler.”

“My keep?” You scoffed at his turn of phrase, emotions hitting a high, “I’m your daughter too. Or did you forget that? And if you’ve forgotten about me, then maybe you forgot about Sarah?”

“Okay, I’m sorry, but that’s enough, kid,” He held his hands up in defense. 

“No, you never listen to me,” You spat as tears threatened to spill, “I lost my sister. You moved us back here, bummed around as you drank and smoked yourself out, and then you get a case that makes you feel like a big city cop again. And now I’m stuck playing mother to a lab experiment—”

“Jane is your sister—”

“Sarah is my sister. Jane is my sister. And you are their father,” A sob raked your body, “But you’re my dad too, y’know!”

Your dad froze in place, realization dawning on him. He looked defeated as he shook his head. He placed a large hand on your shoulder, the look in his eyes saying more than words could, “I’m sorry. I… I’m so sorry.”

The evening ended when you stormed upstairs, the door to the master bedroom slamming. Steve packed a container of leftovers for Hop to take to work for lunch the next day. He bid your dad and Joyce a goodnight with a promise that it would be okay, you just needed time to adapt to the change. 

When Steve finally came upstairs, he found you curled into a ball at the foot of your shared bed. He stood at the doorway, calm and collected. You two had done this ritual plenty of times, showing up for each other when the nightmares got too real again. 

“Sweetheart, can I join you?” Steve gently asked. He always sought your permission, wanting to make sure you felt in control of the situation. 

The only response was the sound of your sobs. Until he caught the faint nod of your head. In a few short strides, Steve was next to you, hand ready for you to take when you were ready. It was another twenty minutes before you put your thoughts into words.

“Do you think he’d still leave if it were Mike and Jane here instead?” 

Your question pierced deeply, instantly understanding right where your mind was.

“You can’t do that to yourself, honey,” He tried to console you, “You know as well as I do that he didn’t make this decision lightly. He wouldn’t leave if he didn’t think you could stand on your own two feet.”

Your glassy eyes continued to wander the room, “If Jane were here, she’d be excited to see somewhere new. Despite the bullies, she really did love California. I think she just loved to see the world…”

Steve wrapped his arms around your shoulder, tugging you into his side. It was a small act to help ground you. 

“After Eddie’s funeral, I dropped Dustin off at home… But I couldn’t go back to my house. It was too quiet with my parents being gone for good,” He explained as he ran a soothing hand over your arm, “So I went to Lover’s Lake and Skull Rock… retraced my steps. I thought that if I could go back and relive that week through Dustin’s eyes, I would see what he saw in Eddie. Something that I thought I was lacking, and that’s why Dustin had started to pull away from me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” You wiped your eyes with the back of your hands, “Dustin would never want you to be Eddie. He’s only ever wanted his best friend, Steve.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, “But we didn’t communicate with each other. I felt like a failure because I couldn’t be enough for Dustin, and then we both got angry. But I wasn’t angry at him. I was angry at myself because we should’ve planned better for the demobats. I could’ve biked faster, but I was too late. And so I wondered if this is how it would’ve been if the roles were reversed. Why was I, just some dumb jock who got mixed into this crap on accident, the one who had survived a demogorgon, the Mind Flayer, and Vecna?”

His words washed over you, bringing you a sense of understanding that you couldn’t put into words. You pressed a kiss to his temple before resting your forehead against his, “You’re here because I need you here. Those kids need you here. And we’ve got a  great party of friends who need you here.”

Steve grinned, your assurance mending something he needed to hear in his heart long ago, “And that’s why you’re still here, too.”

— — — 

New Year’s Eve, 1990. NYC. Two years after the gate closed. 

Steve and you had flown into Long Island to visit Joyce and Hopper for the holidays. Montauk was beautiful at Christmas, the perfect place to pop the question. You two were officially one step closer to being Mr. and Mrs. H. 

But now you both had taken the train into the city to meet up with Jonathan, Nancy, and Robin. Jonathan had managed to reserve a booth at an underground jazz club for the group to ring in the New Year together. The monthly meetups had failed by the second attempt to get to Philly. It was simply too difficult to travel, and the timing never seemed to work out. But your friends had discovered that every three months and some holidays were doable. 

Robin had just recounted running into Vickie while home visiting Hawkins, and that she may or may not have given Vickie her landline number. Jonathan was still enjoying NYU and working as a part-time production assistant for some hotshot indie filmmaker that he just raved about. Nancy mentioned earning a recent promotion to the full-time editing staff of her paper. 

But the most exciting news of the evening was the shiny ring on your finger. 

“Harrington, that is a rock,” Robin gawked at the size of the stone. “Is that why you two sold the Harrington estate?”

Both you and Steve laughed as you remained tucked against each other in the dim booth. Steve rolled his eyes, “No, we sold it because we finally decided to just buy some land and build our dream home. But we are living in Forrest Hills for the time being until we decide where we want to be.”

“You two are ditching Hawkins?” Nancy leaned in, her expression riddled with surprise. 

“We haven’t officially decided anything yet,” You quickly interjected, “But we want to keep our options open right now. But what’s most important to us is that you all know that you will always have a home to visit us in, even if it isn’t in Hawkins.”

“But why leave?” Robin followed up, “Not that I am not totally psyched about all these awesome things.”

Both you and Steve looked at each other. It was a question you both wrestled with. Why should we leave? Why should we stay? But there was opportunity everywhere, and you both knew that as long as you were together, you could settle anywhere and finally live out the Harrington dream. 

You nodded at him and looked at your friends with an answer, “We’re just weighing our options.”

That satiated them enough. With a toast to your friendship and to the New Year, you chuckled as the countdown to the New Year started. 

A deep part of you ached. You longed to share a moment like this with your sisters again. You wished Sarah could have met the ragtag group who had become your friends. You wished Jane could be here to see that you and Steve would be tying the knot. You wished they were here to see how happy your father was in Montauk. But deep down, you knew that they were with you through all of it. 

— — — 

August 1991. 

That summer, you and Steve were happily married. All of the party returned to Hawkins for the ceremony. Dustin had suggested a destination wedding, but both you and Steve agreed that it needed to be in Hawkins. You were both surrounded by friends and family. Steve’s folks had flown in from Florida, but most of his relatives remained standoffish. 

It was a simple wedding followed by a beautiful honeymoon in a beach cottage in Maine. Steve and you had spent two weeks exploring the coast and spending plenty of intimate time together before another school year started in September. 

You had just arrived home to find a stack of packages on your doorstep from the wedding registry. Steve sighed and shook his head, “Why don’t you grab the mail while I lug those inside?”

Easily agreeing to the proposal, you climbed out of the cab of his truck. You took a deep breath of the Hawkins air because you didn’t know how much longer you would have to savor it. Steve had found a plot of land in a nice neighborhood just outside of Chicago, yet you were still in the middle of figuring out which master’s program you would attend — Chicago or Boston. Your thoughts jumped between the two cities as you approached the mailbox. 

You plucked the stack of mail. It was a mix of bills, congratulatory letters, and weekly coupons; however, a smaller notecard caught your attention in the stack. While you examined the strange postcard, you wandered back into your temporary home. 

The postcard was a gorgeous photo of a fjord with a waterfall on either side of the strait. There was a cursive white lettering that read, “Greetings from Iceland!”

“Hey, babe,” You called out to Steve, “Do you know anyone from Iceland?”

“Iceland?” He repeated, surprise obvious in his tone, “Um, no… and my mom hates the cold, so it couldn’t be family?”

Finally, you flipped the card over to find it blank. Steve raised a brow. He noted the lack of ink beside the childish writing of their home address. He shrugged as he continued to bring your bags back inside, “Looks like one of the school kiddos, maybe? And they just forgot to write the rest of their note?”

You hummed in contemplation, not quite believing his story. With a sudden idea, you searched the junk drawers of your kitchen. It only took a moment to find the blacklight that you stored away years ago. As soon as you turned on the little light, the hidden message revealed itself to you. 

‘Sister, 

Congratulations — I know that you and Steve will be very happy together. 

I miss you. I miss all of you. But I am happy on the other side of this. 

With love, 

J.H’

You only lowered the note when a teardrop hit the edge of the postcard. With a quick hand, you wiped away the tear to preserve the ink. As the blacklight danced over the long forgotten curves and scratches that belong to someone so dear to you, the little girl inside of you finally got her peace, her closure. 

“Whoa, sweetheart,” Steve rounded the corner, instantly sensing the distress, “What’s wrong? You okay?”

Pocketing the light, you quickly tacked the postcard onto the fridge with some gaudy tourist magnet he bought. You smiled and quickly wiped your cheeks as you turned back to look at him. You nodded, reaching out to take his hands within your own, “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.”

Steve gave you a loving smile, noticing that your steps were suddenly lighter. In your eyes, he saw that part of you was now at peace. He didn’t press you for more information; he trusted that you would share whatever it was once you were ready. Instead, he enveloped you in a bear hug, “Alright. Night in. How about I order us a pizza while you pop in Back to the Future?”

Weighing down in your chest like an unwelcome weight.

With fear that anchored you—

—Rooting you to the spot.

You glanced around as the beast loomed over you, casting a shadow over your prone form. His weapon was already wedged in the ground, ready to lift and bludgeon you into eternal slumber. The doors around you of those who hid from their eventual deaths were already locked around you: nobody was about to let in a doomed soul. The blinds were already drawn, indeed, and yet, you could still feel so many eyes on you.

Judging you.

There was no pity in these times.

Then, movement—!

The monster grabbed you suddenly, and a muted yelp tore from your throat, already leaving you breathless. His large, calloused hands clamped down around your body, pulling you off your feet and surging you into the air in a way that made you feel strangely light. Then, he found a spot, it seemed, crashing down by a nearby wall. The sound of hurried footsteps escaping from within could be heard ever so slightly.

You gulped, not understanding the idea behind such a strange end.

Then, the monster acted erratically again, lifting you—pushing you down agains the metal slope of his head, forcing you to uncomfortably straddle around it.

“W-what—” you gasped out, not quite following the turn of events.

You were supposed to be dead by now.

Then, he dragged you down the hill of his helmet, grinding you against the corner again in a way that rubbed to a pinched point against your sex through your torn panties. The feeling wasn’t entirely unpleasant, the pressure nice against your clit, but it was confusing. This motion repeated a few times: up and down, down then up, until you got the hang of it, until you could move on your own, even if mechanically.

The monster felt around you all the while, gasping slightly.

This was confusing, there was no doubt about that, but also strangely preferable.

You weren’t dead yet—you were chosen for something different—horrible still, yes—but death was still the less desired outcome.

If this monster wanted you for such a purpose, then you would adapt.

Even despite the judging eyes.

Maybe you wanted to show them that you could survive and they couldn’t.

Even if it came down to something like… this.

Suddenly, the beast pulled you away, settling you over his lap. He tugged at your hips and then slammed you back down again, as if to remind you of the movement you needed to remember to replicate.

You understood perfectly well where this was going.

If this meant survival, then you were determined to proceed.

You found yourself scrambling around his shoulders, gripping at whatever tight piece of muscle that had the most traction and braced yourself for the potential pain. His body was huge in comparison to yours, and there was no doubt about it that his cock must have been monstrous, too. You felt it already: straining against the tough leather of the apron he wore, pushing forward until the tip sprang out from the side and seeking your sex with one hurried, unprepared thrust.

A gasp locked in your throat followed by a silent scream, the sensation so brutally raw that it rendered you silent from the intensity. Your walls could barely contain his girth as he stretched you out completely, the head of his cock pushing in so deep that it made you nearly pass out from the pain alone.

Still, you held on, moving from his shoulders to the rim of his helmet. He seemed to like that, too, gentling his grip around your hips as you adapted to him.

Maybe a part of you was imagining his softness that followed, but the rhythm that this monster had set wasn’t as punishing as it could have been: his hips rocked in steady pistoning motions, yes, holding you in place, but no longer was he strained with demand. No, this beast fell back, his form relaxed, as if completely content in having you move to your own accord.

Just like you practiced briefly over his helmet.

You gasped regardless of your enjoyment, or lack of: your lungs repeatedly having the air punched out of them as he impaled your bruised cunt again and again. His grip on you gradually tightened again, though not out of cruelty, but rather from anticipated completion threatening to push him over the edge. His body as a whole grew rigid as he kept on going, until—until—oops—he slammed you down regardless, spearing you down painfully over his erupting cock that left your insides feeling a little too full, a little too sore.

The beast seemed to relax again:

No such effort to remove you, regardless of the pain you must have been feeling, from his softening, spent length.

He seemed content again to just have you there.

You gasped a moment later, finally finding the strength to step off, hoping to yourself that this creature would somehow be asleep. False hope gave you confidence as he didn’t move to stop you, but as soon as you tried to sneak away, did he object.

Rising to his feet and rumbling the earth around him, he grew to tower over you once more, and before you could even think to break away, his hands branched out to hoist you to scramble and hold onto his helmet, however uncomfortable that was. Your legs wrapped around the sharp corners, your arms holding onto something that felt like it could have been traction, but only just about managing to ground yourself to what he had next forced you into.

Then, much to your unease, he began to pad forward, nowhere in particular, but for a reason unknown to you, he seemed reluctant to press ahead without you.

A part of you had a reason behind the idea:

Maybe submission was all it really ever was.

And now you had doomed yourself to such a fate.

Escaping death, yes, narrowly.

Your POV

Watching the handsome man stroll languidly down your front path and back toward his car, you couldn’t help but let your gaze trail after the lanky figure. He was tall, thin, and from what you could tell beneath the crisp shirt and fitted vest, rather well sculpted.

Not that you had much to compare him to. Your dead husband had been rather portly and you’d thankfully never had to look at him naked with the lights on.

This man though. Mr. Hartfelt…Now he was handsome. You mentally cursed yourself for answering the door looking half feral and armed with a kitchen knife. Of all the first impressions to make on a man who looked as though he’d stepped straight out of a magazine.

As if sensing your gaze, he lifted a hand in a small wave before slipping into his automobile. You found yourself returning it before your brain had fully caught up with your body.

The engine rumbled to life. You stood there like an idiot watching the vehicle pull away, following it with your eyes for far longer than was reasonable until the headlights disappeared into the driveway of the house next door.

Your stomach promptly sank. Fuck. Your neighbor was breathtaking. You wondered for a moment if he was married. You hadn’t even had the wherewithal to check for a wedding band.

Absent-mindedly, your thumb turned the diamond band you now wore on your right hand. Moved there after the presumed loss of your husband.

Even if he wasn’t married….It was improper to be thinking of Alastor that way at all.

Your husband, probably barely cold in the swamp somewhere and yet your thoughts kept drifting back to warm brown eyes you could have happily lost yourself in. Even behind his glasses he had been lovely. There had been something striking about him. Something effortlessly handsome that lingered long after he’d driven away.

And his skin. God. Warm, brown, and seemingly untouched by imperfection.

You groaned softly and dragged both hands down your face. The women back in the city would be horrified.

A widow was meant to mourn. To dress in black. To pine dramatically for the husband she had lost. Even when there was no body.

Instead you were standing in your foyer thinking about your attractive neighbor. Shaking your head, you made your way toward the bathroom. A hot bath and a good night’s sleep would surely put an end to these ridiculous thoughts.

Or so you told yourself. Unfortunately, when you closed your eyes later that evening, it wasn’t your late husband who occupied your thoughts.

It was Mr. Hartfelt.

The next day brought Miss Susan.

Head of the community bridge and bingo association, choir leader at the church, and seemingly the eyes and ears of the entirety of Mandeville.

You received her on the front porch with iced tea while she arrived carrying a basket of freshly baked scones as a welcoming gift. She was exactly the sort of woman you expected to find in a town like this.

You knew women like her. The sort who could learn every secret in a ten mile radius while appearing perfectly innocent. Thankfully, you were an excellent actress. And you knew you needed her on your side to continue this illusion.

You played the part of the grieving widow flawlessly, nodding at appropriate moments and feigning heartbreak whenever the conversation drifted toward your late husband. You even managed a few carefully timed tears which Susan accepted with sympathetic noises and a gentle pat to your hand.

By the time she was halfway through her second scone, she seemed thoroughly convinced.

“Have you had a chance to get to know anyone in town yet?” Susan asked, brushing a few crumbs from her floral skirt.

You took a sip of your tea. It occurred to you then that if anyone possessed information regarding your handsome neighbor, it would be Susan.

Women like her always knew everything. Who was courting who, who was feuding, who was pregnant and the like.

And, hopefully, whether or not an attractive man living next door happened to have a wife or girlfriend.

“Well,” you began, striving for a tone that suggested only mild curiosity, “I had the pleasure of rescuing my neighbor’s cat yesterday.”

Susan’s eyes immediately brightened. Bingo.

“Mr….. Hartfelt, I believe?” you continued.

“Oh, Alastor!”

The way she said his name made your stomach tighten. Susan definitely knew him.

The woman leaned back in her chair with the unmistakable expression of someone preparing to share information she absolutely should not.

“Do you know him?” you asked.

“I’m surprised you don’t.” Susan chuckled. “You young people and your fancy jazz music. You’re from New Orleans, aren’t you?”

You nodded, thoroughly confused by where this conversation was heading.

“Then I’m shocked you don’t know him from his radio show. Why, he’s known as the voice of New Orleans. One of the biggest names on the air.”

It took a moment. Then the pieces clicked together. Of course. How had you not made the connection?

Though, in your defense, it wasn’t every day one met a celebrity. More than that, you simply hadn’t expected the man behind the voice to be… well… So damn handsome.

Nor had you expected a man of his color to have achieved such prominence. Times were changing, certainly, but not nearly quickly enough. Men like Mr. Hartfelt were rarely afforded the recognition they deserved, let alone the sort of fame Susan was describing.

You found yourself oddly pleased he’d managed it anyway.

“I’m afraid I’m not much of a radio listener,” you admitted.

It wasn’t entirely a lie. Though inwardly you were already making plans to discover precisely when his broadcasts aired so that you might accidentally find yourself listening every chance you got.

“Ah, an old soul.” Susan smiled warmly. “You’re a sweet girl. Such a shame the cards life dealt you.”

You lowered your eyes and gave a small nod. The conversation drifted onward and, much to your delight, remained centered on the subject of your neighbor.

You learned that Alastor spent most days working in New Orleans and only returned home in the evenings. Damn. You’d been rather hoping for more opportunities to accidentally run into him.

Susan, meanwhile, seemed more than happy to continue divulging every scrap of information she possessed.

There had apparently been rumors a few years back romantically linking him to the owner of some speakeasy in the city. The details were frustratingly vague and Susan was quick to admit she’d never managed to confirm any of it.

How scandalous. Though from everything she described, Mr. Hartfelt hardly seemed the type to become entangled in a real romance.

“He’s a solitary soul,” Susan explained with a knowing sigh. “Always has been. Give him a garden, a stack of books, and a record player and he’s perfectly content. Half the time I don’t think he even realizes the rest of us exist.”

You smiled into your tea. The image was oddly charming.

“He isn’t unfriendly,” she continued. “Quite the opposite, actually. Polite as can be. But he keeps people at arm’s length.”

That sounded familiar. You’d spent most of your life doing much the same. And Susan huffed dramatically.

“Why, I’ve tried introducing him to nearly every eligible young woman in Mandeville.”

Your eyebrows rose.

“You have?”

“Oh, repeatedly.”

The older woman looked personally offended by the failure.

“He takes them out. Every single one. Flowers, dinner and walks through town. He truly is the perfect gentleman. Then nothing.”

“No second dates?” you asked.

“Not a single one.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to hide your smile. For some reason that pleased you far more than it should have.

Susan launched into another story about one particularly determined schoolteacher who had spent six months attempting to catch his attention, and you nodded along at all the appropriate moments.

Truthfully, you were absorbing every detail like a sponge. The more she talked, the more curious you became. Still, you were careful not to appear too interested.

Just enough encouragement to keep Susan talking without revealing that you were hanging onto every word concerning the handsome radio host next door.

Fortunately for you, Alastor Hartfelt appeared to be one of her favorite subjects.

Eventually the conversation drifted away from your neighbor and onto church functions, charity drives, and the various committees Susan seemed to run with an iron fist disguised beneath a pleasant smile.

Before you knew it, you had somehow been invited to a women’s luncheon, a bridge club, and something involving flower arrangements that sounded suspiciously competitive.

You smiled and nodded your way through all of it. Truthfully, you did need to get out more. One of the few advantages widowhood afforded was freedom. No husband to answer to, so no schedule but your own.

And if you ever found yourself trapped in an activity you disliked, you figured you could always excuse yourself with a faraway look and claims of grief. No one ever questioned a grieving widow. Cards, however, sounded enjoyable enough. At the very least, it would be entertaining.

By the end of Susan’s visit, she had all but arranged for a young man from church to mow your lawn, another to help haul empty boxes to a burn pile, and was actively trying to recruit volunteers to help prepare your neglected flower beds. You laughed softly.

“I don’t suppose you know anyone particularly skilled with gardening?”

The question left your lips with what you hoped sounded like innocent curiosity. Susan brightened immediately.

“Why, you’re living next door to the city’s green thumb himself!”

You fought very hard to keep your expression neutral.

“Am I?”

“Alastor Hartfelt,” she confirmed. “That man could probably grow roses in a swamp if he put his mind to it. Half the flowers in this town have come from cuttings he’s given away.”

Well, that was certainly useful information.

“I’d direct any gardening questions his way if I were you,” Susan continued. “Assuming you can ever catch him at home. He keeps the strangest hours.”

“Oh?”

She nodded knowingly.

“Works all week and on weekends he has a habit of staying out late. Lord only knows what keeps him occupied.”

(Murder, the answer was murder. Though thankfully neither you nor Susan knew that.)

“I suppose the company he keeps isn’t really my business, but he is such a fine young man. I wish he would settle down. He’s not getting any younger.”

You hummed thoughtfully and took another sip of your tea. As Susan continued talking, you found yourself smiling into your cup. You could definitely come up with gardening questions. An endless number of gardening questions.

And if those questions just so happened to provide an excuse to speak with the handsome man next door again, well… That was merely a happy coincidence….

Alastor POV

Alastor had been looking forward to spending his one full day off exactly as he pleased. Sunday was sacred. A day reserved for tending his garden, enjoying the quiet of the countryside and finally repairing the troublesome latch on the kitchen window before Jambalaya decided to embark on yet another adventure.

The cat had already developed a concerning interest in the outdoors since her last romp.

Unfortunately, the moment he spotted Susan marching up the path with purpose in her step, he knew his plans for a peaceful morning were doomed.

She claimed she needed tulip bulbs. Tulip bulbs which Alastor had foolishly promised her during their last conversation simply to expedite her departure. Now she had come to collect themselves

“Oh Alastor, your new neighbor is simply a doll. Shame about her husband though.”

“Yes, a shame indeed,” he replied smoothly.

“I heard you two met already! That is wonderful. She actually seems to be needing quite a bit of help in the gardening department. You should lend her some of your expertise.”

Alastor carefully kept his expression pleasant, though he could feel the slightest twitch threatening the corners of his smile.

He did not know what game Susan was playing. It had been well over a year since she had last attempted to interfere in his personal affairs. Surely she was not trying to play matchmaker with a newly widowed woman.

No, that would require a level of subtlety Susan simply did not possess.

More likely she had decided that, because he owned a shovel and knew the difference between a rose bush and a weed, he was now somehow responsible for his neighbor’s gardening problems.

As if he had nothing better to do than wander next door dispensing horticultural wisdom to strangers. The very thought made him inwardly sigh.

Alastor had every intention of simply dropping off a small sack of starter plants. Squash, cucumbers, beans, you know the easy things. The sorts of vegetables that required genuine dedication or incompetence to kill.

But when he spotted you in the yard, cheeks flushed pink from the afternoon heat and windswept hair escaping whatever attempt had been made to tame it, his plans changed rather abruptly.

You were crouched in the middle of an overgrown patch, bare hands wrapped around a familiar vine.

“What the hell are you doing? That’s poison ivy.”

You practically jumped out of your skin. And for a moment he was greeted with the same wide eyed alarm as the night you’d answered the door armed with a knife.

“I… I…” you stammered, looking between him and the offending plant still dangling from your fingers.

“It causes a rather unpleasant blistering rash,” he explained, softening his tone when you immediately dropped it.

Crossing the distance between you, he nudged the vine aside with the toe of his boot.

“I didn’t know,” you admitted.

Clearly.

“Do you have rubbing alcohol?” he asked.

His eyes briefly swept over your arms. Your skin was already flushed from the sun, untouched by the sort of labor that came with maintaining property. Delicate, really. He could already imagine exactly how angry the rash would become if left untreated.

“I think so?”

You hurried toward the house before he could elaborate. Alastor sighed quietly and followed, carrying the sack of plants with him.

The cottage was in a state that could only be described as recently inhabited. You disappeared into the kitchen while he lingered near the doorway.

“Aha!” you declared triumphantly after a moment of rummaging. Turning, you nearly collided with him.

“Oh!”

Your cheeks immediately darkened. For a brief moment neither of you moved. The way your eyes caught the sunlight spilling through the kitchen window. Long lashes fluttering as you looked anywhere except directly at him.

“You found it?” he asked.

“Oh. Yes. Right.”

You thrust the small brown bottle toward him perhaps a bit too quickly. Alastor took it from your hands and motioned toward the sink.

“Wash up first.”

You obeyed immediately, turning on the faucet and scrubbing your hands and arms while he stood beside you. Was it just him? Or did the kitchen suddenly feel smaller? Once you were finished, he uncapped the bottle.

“Hold still.”

You extended your hands obediently over the basin. The clear liquid splashed across your skin and you hissed.

“Good Lord that burns.”

“It is alcohol, not holy water,” Alastor remarked dryly.

And you couldn’t help but laugh despite once again feeling utterly embarrassed in the situation you found yourself in with him. He tried his hardest not to smile along with that sweet sound. It was…pretty.

“There,” he said once he’d finished. “That should help prevent the oils from spreading.”

You looked down at your damp hands before offering him a sheepish smile.

“I suppose this is where you tell me I’m not fit to be left unsupervised in the gardening world. I’ve heard you’re somewhat of a whiz.”

The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“I was attempting to be polite enough not to say anything negative aloud.”

The laugh that escaped you this time was even brighter than the first. And much to his utter annoyance, Alastor found himself smiling back. A genuine smile. Not the polished one he offered the world, but a real one.

“Thank you, Alastor.”

“Think nothing of it.”

A blatant lie. He thought entirely too much of it during the short walk home. As he stepped off your porch, he glanced back toward the neglected flower beds one final time. The garden was an absolute disaster.

The weeds were out of control. The soil needed turning. Half the beds would need rebuilding before anything worthwhile could be planted. An unreasonable undertaking by any measure.

Which was why Alastor found it rather concerning that he was already mentally planning where to begin.

Tomorrow evening he had intended to spend his time elsewhere. The weather was pleasant enough for a chase through the bayou. There was a man several towns over whose continued existence had become increasingly irritating when he chose to go out on the town.

Yet somehow, as he crossed his own threshold, he found himself considering lumber for raised beds and whether tomatoes or peppers might fare better in the patch nearest your porch.