🤍 Angie 🤍

Maybe, if you’d had more sense, you would’ve broken up with Naoya in that moment and saved yourself a whole lot of trouble. Instead, just like always, you made excuses for him. You figured he was just having a bad day - that you just needed to prove yourself to him and then he’d be happy to have you as a climbing buddy. 

He was just concerned about your skill. That was all. 

So you’d worked hard at the club - learned plenty of skills, did plenty of hours in the gym, made dozens of friends with the other club members to ensure you weren’t dependent on Naoya to teach you everything. 

You tried to ignore how uninterested your boyfriend seemed in your progress, tried to ignore the way he’d flirt with the other women at the club - you were sure he’d be so impressed with you on your first major outing to Mount Hotaka that he’d forget about everything else and be pleased with you for once. 

That was all you wanted, for him to be proud of you outside of the offhanded thanks he’d give whenever you’d make him dinner. 

Your first trip out to the mountain had several people in attendance. Beyond you and Naoya there were a handful of women from the club who you’d grown close with: Shoko, Utahime and Yuki, and then a few men. There were a couple of older guys you didn’t know very well, and then a few in your age range who had been helping develop your skills - the most notable of that group being Sukuna, who had dedicated lots of time to teaching you knowledge that Naoya had brushed aside. 

It had surprised you at first, that the hulking pink-haired man had any interest in helping you do anything. Others in the club had claimed that he tended to be aloof, harsh and generally unfriendly - and while he was harsh in his teachings, unfriendly was certainly not the word you’d use to describe him. 

He’d gone out of his way to help you, chasing away others like Satoru with the claim that they were ‘too stupid to teach you right’. Spending hours at your side, he’d taught you all you needed to know about equipment, rope skills and climbing. He wouldn’t provide praise unless it was deserved, but once you’d finally started getting things right he’d always made sure you knew he was pleased with you. 

It was praise you were desperately starved for, praise you’d love to receive from your boyfriend, and you were ashamed to admit that Sukuna’s simple compliments lingered in your mind for longer than they should have.

You’d grown rather fond of him since joining the mountaineering club, even despite his somewhat prickly demeanour to everyone else, you felt he was someone you could rely on, someone who wouldn’t call you stupid for asking him questions. Even if he’d sometimes tease you for getting upset or frustrated for not understanding something, he’d still take the time to help you understand. 

Unlike Naoya, who would roll his eyes and once again point out how unfit you were for something as involved as mountain climbing. 

The comparison between the two was something you found yourself making more and more often, eyes straying over to your pink-haired friend when he wasn’t looking, your stomach flipping when he’d speak to you, or when he’d place a large hand on your shoulder in congratulations at a task done well. 

You knew it was wrong, chastising yourself whenever the thought of Sukuna would stray into your mind late at night while Naoya was snoring away next to you. Not only did you have a boyfriend, but you were certain Sukuna didn’t think of you in anything beyond a friendly manner anyway.

So you kept those feelings locked deep within your chest and tried to focus on why you were in the club in the first place - to prove to your boyfriend that you’d make a good partner for his mountain expeditions, to prove that you were worth more to him than being a glorified maid in his house.

The first few hours of the hike, starting in the early morning, had gone by fairly uneventfully. Your training had paid off and your legs felt good as you winded up through valleys and fields, trailing a little behind the group of boys, favouring a slightly slower pace and jovial conversation amongst the girls. 

Despite Naoya’s reluctance for you to join the club, you felt like it was where you were supposed to be. You loved being out in nature - taking in the fresh air and drinking from mountain streams, wandering along with like-minded people and encouraging each other along through the gruelling uphills. 

It wasn’t until late afternoon that things started to get more difficult, with the altitude creeping steadily up, and the group stumbling across snow fields that still hadn’t melted in the late spring air. It was nothing you weren’t prepared for, but with everyone feeling a great deal more tired than they had in the morning hours, the pace slowed considerably. 

A group of the more experienced men ended up going on ahead at a quicker pace, saying they’d get the next big section of uphill completed and scout out a good camping spot for the night, since the plan was to make a summit push in the early morning to watch the sunrise. 

You didn’t mind that so much - you didn’t like the feeling of slowing them down and that arrangement meant that you could keep going at a comfortable pace without feeling stressed about it. The girls you were with were perfectly experienced in their own right, and Naoya had chosen to hang behind with you anyway rather than going on ahead. 

That was a decision that you’d convinced yourself was on account of him wanting to keep an eye on you, but a part of you believed it was really because he didn’t get along with any of the men at the club. 

Or perhaps it was just so he could keep staring at Yuki’s ass like he had been for the entire hike up to that point. 

The next couple of hours were difficult, and everyone grew more withdrawn under the effort of a constant uphill - facing switchback after switchback with no clarity on how far you had to go beneath a freshly settled blanket of fog lowering the visibility. Shoko had been struggling for a while, and after an extended rest on a rock decided that it was best if she turned back and camped somewhere lower in the valley. 

She’d been having issues with her lungs and didn’t think it was wise to keep going. 

At her decision, Utahime also suggested that she wanted to go back, mentioning that she also didn’t feel in the best physical condition, and Yuki insisted on going back with the two of them to make sure they got back down safely. You’d considered joining them, but you were still feeling good both physically and mentally and were keen to continue upwards towards the peak. 

Considering Naoya’s experience, you were certain that the two of you would be fine even without the girls, so you waved them off and continued upwards into the mist, eager to reconnect with the other half of your group and get settled with Naoya in the tent for the night. 

—

Sukuna had found a pretty good camping spot. He was pretty sure it was in a similar position to where he’d set up on his solo winter ascent a couple of years before - a location that should be downright comfy in the mild spring weather. 

Assuming that weather stayed mild. 

It was hard to tell through all the fog, but he was almost sure he could see dark clouds rolling high in the sky. He hoped he was wrong. There hadn’t been a storm on the forecast, and if one was to roll in that could make for a very harrowing evening, especially for people like you who’d had little experience of the mountains. 

He hoped one bad night wouldn’t be enough to put you off entirely. 

“Yuki just radioed.” Satoru called out to him. “She, Shoko and Utahime are all going back down. The others are still coming I think.” 

Sukuna hummed in affirmation as he moved to set up his tent. He wished it could’ve just been you coming up, rather than you and your shithead boyfriend, but he supposed he’d rather you have a buddy in the mountains than be out there alone. If he’d had things his way, he would’ve hung back with you for the whole duration of the hike, but he didn’t need people casting suspicions on his actions. 

He’d already received some strange looks over his eagerness to teach you - the last thing he needed was the rumor mill in full operation. 

Even if the rumor mill was right in this case. 

He liked you. He really liked you. 

Feelings that he needed to keep to himself, because your boyfriend was one jealous asshole, and he was almost confident that any sign of flirting on Sukuna’s part would have Naoya taking out his anger and jealousy on you, which was the last thing he wanted. He wasn’t sure what you saw in that guy, but god, Sukuna wanted to bash his teeth in. 

He’d been watching it for months now - the depressing life you lived in which you’d excitedly bound over to Naoya to show him something you’d learned only for him to react with total disregard. Sukuna had watched the light in your eyes flicker and die each time, doing his best to control the rage boiling in his chest. 

You deserved better than that fucker. 

But he got the sense that you weren’t able to see that. 

Almost everyone had set up their tents, laughing and joking and tearing into provisions by the time Naoya appeared from the mist. A couple of hours had passed since the group first found the camping spot, and Satoru welcomed him enthusiastically as he stepped into the clearing. He looked surprisingly exhausted for a man who was supposed to be experienced. 

Sukuna’s red eyes scanned the fog, waiting for you to appear behind the man. His chest squeezed when only silence followed, no sign of your presence in the mist. 

“Is it only you?” Satoru asked, voicing the very question that was on the tip of Sukuna’s tongue. 

“Yeah, the girls went down,” Naoya responded nonchalantly, shrugging off his backpack. “Is there a good place for me to set up?” Satoru’s lips parted, as if to question the man’s statement, considering Yuki had relayed specific names, but he clearly thought better of it, nodding and pointing Naoya in the direction of a clear patch of dirt for him to pitch his tent. 

Sukuna wasn’t so happy to shrug it off. 

“Yuki only said she was going down with Utahime and Shoko,” he called out to Naoya. The man turned to look at him, irritation shining in his amber eyes. Sukuna was well aware that Naoya despised him just as much as he despised Naoya. 

“They all went. Think I don’t know where my own girlfriend is?” Naoya snapped. 

Sukuna stared him down for a moment before leaving him be, heading over to Satoru and asking for the radio. Speaking into it, he called out for Yuki, praying that they were still within a reasonable range to pick up his voice. 

He was met with only silence, cursing under his breath at the realisation that they were probably all the way back in the valley by that point and likely impossible to reach. His crimson gaze fell to Naoya once more, watching him hum as he set up his tent without a care in the world. 

Something in the pit of Sukuna’s stomach told him that there was something wrong. You hadn’t gone back with Yuki. You’d been so happy all day, so excited about your first major peak. Not only that, but you’d been in good condition - he’d been watching you whenever he could, he’d been proud at how well you were doing. 

You wouldn’t have turned back. And if you had, Yuki would’ve listed your name when she was heading down. Yuki was no newcomer to the mountains - she was responsible and experienced and she always emphasised the importance of good communications. And if you’d have turned back any later, Naoya should’ve gone with you - it's what any sensible person would’ve done. 

But he was here, and you weren’t. And you hadn’t gone with Yuki. So you were alone. 

Sukuna’s first instinct was to bash Naoya’s head in. He wanted to walk over there and silence that bastard’s humming with a well placed rock to the head. What kind of a man - an experienced mountaineer, no less - would abandon their inexperienced girlfriend on the side of a mountain? 

It wasn’t like Sukuna doubted your ability. He’d taught you all you needed to know, but putting those things into practice alone, at altitude, and in adverse weather was a whole other thing. 

Instead of doing anything about Naoya, he parked that issue temporarily and quickly moved to dismantle his own tent. He wasn’t going to sit there and do nothing while your location was unaccounted for. Even if you had gone down shortly after Yuki, even if you’d made it back to the valley by yourself, he wasn’t going to roll the dice on your life. 

He’d go back the way they’d come and he’d walk until he found you - even if that happened to be safe and sound at the bottom of the mountain. 

“What’re you doing?” Satoru asked, hovering as Sukuna put his stuff back into his pack. Naoya had stopped to watch, a sneer on his already ugly face. 

“I don’t think she went down with Yuki. I need to make sure the boyfriend of the year over there didn’t leave her in some bad situation,” Sukuna explained.

“Oh my god, she’s fine.” Naoya snapped from across the campsite. “Yuki just misspoke, she went down with them. Why is it your problem anyway? It's not like she’s your girlfriend.” 

The defensive edge to the man’s voice told Sukuna all he needed to know, and he ignored the jabs in favour of packing up more quickly. He didn’t want it to get too dark - if something bad had happened and you didn’t have your headlamp on it would be impossible to find you at night. 

Unfortunately, Naoya seemed to have no interest in letting up. “I mean seriously? You’re actually doing this? I know you wanna fuck her but she’s always been a loyal little thing - she ain’t gonna put out for you because of this. I think she’s realised that she isn’t cut out for this type of shit - she went back down to safety with the rest of the girls and I think she’ll probably quit the club. She can get back to what she’s good at.” 

Sukuna’s hands stilled as he zipped his bag shut, his expression calm as he finally looked at the man before him. There was malice in his expression and a clear, guilty desire to keep Sukuna from trekking back down the mountain path. 

“‘She can get back to what she’s good at’?” Sukuna asked, drawing himself up to his full height. “And what would that be?” 

The smug grin Naoya shot him was sickening. “Making me dinner.” 

Sukuna laughed, a deep unpleasant sound rumbling from his chest. “Right.” He took a step forward, towering over your boyfriend who he deeply hoped would be your ex-boyfriend after that expedition. Before Naoya could react, Sukuna grabbed him by the front of his raincoat. “Listen. I’m going back down that path. If I find her out there, abandoned and alone, be assured that I’ll beat you so badly that you’ll never climb another mountain again. Do you understand me?” 

Fear flickered in Naoya’s amber eyes, but he pushed it down quickly, replacing it with a scowl. “Get the fuck off me.” 

Sukuna let him go, revelling in the way he stumbled about off balance, barely keeping himself from careening onto the floor. If he was being honest with himself, the desire to enact justice on Naoya in that moment was tempting, but he could wait. Every moment he spent in that camp was another moment of peril for you. 

And unlike Naoya, he wouldn’t leave you to a night alone on a mountain. 

—

You weren’t sure when you’d lost Naoya. 

He’d been picking up the pace significantly while you’d been getting slower and slower, and despite calling out for him to wait for you to catch up, eventually he just disappeared off into the fog - the sound of his footsteps fading entirely. 

It had left you at a loss, unsure as to whether you should keep going or turn back. You were certain that the summit camp probably wasn’t too far off, but you had no real idea of how far that distance might actually be, and had a vague concern that you might take a wrong turn in the ever-thickening fog, leaving you stranded for the night. You and Naoya were sharing a tent which he’d been carrying, and subsequently ending up alone for the evening wasn’t ideal for you. 

The most you’d be able to do is wrap yourself in your sleeping bag and find a sheltered place to hunker down for the night. 

But it shouldn’t come to that. 

Getting down to the valley would take too long, and you weren’t sure where Yuki and the gang would’ve settled anyway. Naoya had the radio. He had everything really, which meant that the only thing you could do was continue upwards and hope that you stumbled across the other half of your group. 

It was a plan that was going okay until you’d carelessly stepped on a loose rock, sending you tumbling back down a hill of scree you’d spent the past half an hour climbing. 

At first you’d thought only your morale was damaged, your mind exhausted at the prospect of having to get back up and reascend a slope you’d already climbed once. But as you struggled to get to your feet, you realised that it wasn’t only your mind that had undergone damage.

A hot pain spread through your ankle as you tried to stand, sending you straight back down to the floor with a yelp. Panic instantly overcame you, the sudden realisation of where you were hitting you like a tonne of bricks. Naoya, your boyfriend, had abandoned you on the side of a mountain. He’d left you in the fog, beneath the setting sun, without a tent and without a radio. And now you were injured.

If you didn’t know better, you would’ve said he was actively trying to kill you. 

But what was more likely was that he was just proving the point he’d been trying to make all along - that you weren’t cut out for the life of a mountaineer. 

And considering your condition, could you really disagree with him? 

Soft sobs overtook you, and you began to spiral. You weren’t sure how long you sat there, shivering as the cold grew more intense, mumbling incoherently to yourself about how you should’ve gone back down to the valley with Yuki. 

Perhaps you never should’ve tried facing the mountains in the first place. 

Maybe Naoya was right. 

They were thoughts that fled from your mind at the blessed sight of a headlamp cutting through the fog from above, footsteps crunching evenly on scree, picking up in speed the moment the light shone upon your sorry figure huddled on the ground. 

“Fuck, are you okay?” Sukuna’s voice had a tremor of relief shooting through you, and more tears swelled at the corners of your eyes. He was crouching down in front of you, expression laden with concern as he scanned your cowering form. One of his hands reached for your face, wiping away tears carefully while he waited for you to answer him. 

“My ankle…” You mumbled. Everything was too overwhelming for you to articulate any further, your words already coming out all choked and shaky. Sukuna didn’t need to hear any more, attention instantly shifting to your foot. His hands moved to prod gently at it, watching your face for a grimace which came quickly under his touch. 

“Does that hurt?” 

You nodded. He bit down on his lip and quickly moved to untie the lace of your boot. A soft whimper left your lips as he pulled it from your foot, but he was right to pay your reaction no mind since you were overcome with relief once your ankle was freed from those rigid confines pressing down too tightly upon it. 

It had swollen up significantly in the time you’d been sitting there waiting for someone to come for you. 

“Right. I’ll deal with the ankle soon but I want to get us to someplace better first before it gets fully dark.” It was only just occurring to you that the wind had started to pick up a little, your clothes ruffled by air rushing against you. It would be best to be in a less exposed place - Sukuna had taught you that exposure made all the difference when dealing with bad weather.

“There was a plateau back down at the bottom of this slope,” you mumbled, remembering the slight respite you’d had from the seemingly neverending onslaught of uphill.

Sukuna gave you a proud smile and it made your heart flutter. “Yeah, that would work. I’m gonna carry you down there, if that’s okay? I don’t think you should try walking on that ankle until we give it a proper look.” 

You wanted to collapse into fresh tears at the suggestion. While your boyfriend, the person who was supposed to look after you, had abandoned you on the side of your first big mountain, Sukuna was here offering to carry you to safety. The feeling his offer was giving you had a risk of overwhelming you entirely, utterly grateful that he was the person who’d come back to look for you. 

Naively, you wondered if Naoya had sent him down to look for you. It was a weak hope, a desperate, delusional belief that your boyfriend wasn’t as cruel as he truly was. 

“Yeah, that’s okay,” you said, quietly. You tried to ignore how pleasant it felt when Sukuna crouched down to scoop you up into his arms. His touch felt warm against your body which had grown cold over the past few hours of inactivity. The arms holding you were strong and secure, building a feeling of safety knowing he was there with you. 

Naoya would’ve taken issue with it, but you wished you’d asked Sukuna to stick with you throughout the whole trip. Things would’ve felt better if it was him you were relying on rather than your boyfriend. In his lessons he’d always emphasised the importance of matching your pace with a mountain buddy - always checking that they weren’t far behind. 

Rules that a supposedly experienced mountaineer like Naoya should’ve been well aware of. 

Sukuna strode down the rest of the hill with ease, keeping you tucked close against him in a princess carry. Considering that you had your pack still on your back you were surprised at how easy he made the whole thing look, because he wasn’t exactly carrying a light load between you in his arms and his own bag on his back. But he didn’t complain or demonstrate any signs of struggle. 

Outside of the fact that he was largely silent until you reached your destination. 

You didn’t mind that. It wasn’t like you were in the mood to talk either, your mind swimming with all kinds of things now that you were in safe hands. Naoya had left you behind to die. You could’ve died if no one had come back for you. Exposure could’ve gotten to you, or an animal, or some person with ill-intent prowling the mountainside. 

He’d left you helpless and defenceless. 

And, as rain started to drip from the sky above, you realised that if Sukuna hadn’t come for you, it would’ve been an evening out in the storm, at altitude, with nothing but your rain jacket and sleeping bag to huddle within. 

You could’ve died. 

Sukuna found a well sheltered area and placed you down while he set up the tent. You were in awe at how quickly he got it done - the same actions would’ve taken you three times the time it took his experienced hands to get it sorted. You were grateful for the speed, because it meant the two of you made it inside before the worst of the rain began to hammer down from the sky above. 

“Okay. First the ankle. Then everything else.” 

You tilted your head a little at his statement, not quite sure what he meant by everything else, but you assumed he was referring more to your mental condition and questions around how you’d ended up in your terrible position in the first place. You hoped he wouldn’t be mad at you for failing to make it up to the peak after how much time he’d spent teaching you things. 

You thought maybe he’d chastise you for things like not having your own tent or radio, but Naoya had been insistent about carrying those items for you, assuring you that he’d stick at your side and claiming his actions were out of a desire to keep your pack as light as possible. 

You were stupid to have believed him.

Sukuna knelt by your foot, removing your sock and inspecting the damage carefully. His fingers pressed delicately against the skin and you found yourself admiring his concentrated expression in the lamplight. “I don’t think it's broken,” he said. “Probably just twisted.” 

Reaching into his first aid kit, he found a bandage which he wrapped around the problem area, before pulling out an ice pack and snapping to activate its effects. He placed the pack down on your ankle, earning a little hiss from you which pulled a small smile from his otherwise serious face. 

He’d been really serious since he’d found you, his expression all irritated and stormy. 

Was he angry with you? Frustrated that he’d had to come back down the mountain to your aid? You didn’t like the idea of being his burden. 

“Endure the cold for a bit - it’ll make you feel much better.” he said, placing a warm hand on your calf. Your breath hitched involuntarily at the contact and Sukuna quickly withdrew from you, a tinge of guilt flickering across his handsome face. He instantly busied himself before you could question it, moving onto the next stage of tending to your injury.

He fumbled about in his pack and withdrew some clothing, bundling it up into a small pile and wedging it beneath your foot to elevate it a little. Nothing he was doing was particularly revolutionary - on the contrary, his actions were all things he’d taught you to do in the event of an injury. 

You’d just been too panicked to do anything on that scree slope. 

Perhaps he was mad at you for that too. 

Sukuna laid out his sleeping mat next to you, his nose wrinkling at the revelation that you didn’t have one because it was in Naoya’s possession. He slid his mat beneath you, keen not to have you lying on the floor, before pulling out his sleeping bag and sitting on top of that for some amount of comfort. 

“So, what happened?” Sukuna asked. His voice was a little clipped, as if he was holding himself back from saying what he really wanted to say. 

“I was rushing and lost my footing on some scree-”

“No. I mean, why are you alone?” 

“Oh.” You shrugged, taking a deep breath and avoiding his eyes. There was a sticky feeling building up in your throat, keeping your words down. If you said the truth aloud you were certain you’d burst into tears again. “I don’t know,” you mumbled finally. 

“You don’t know?” He echoed. 

“It just sort of happened. The girls went back down the mountain and Naoya kept going quicker and then we got separated somewhere in the fog. I imagine he was probably waiting somewhere up ahead for me but then I slipped.” You weren’t sure why you were trying to defend your boyfriend. You weren’t naive enough to truly believe he’d been waiting up ahead for you. 

He’d left you. 

But the idea of airing out just how stupid you were to be in that relationship in the first place felt humiliating. You wanted to at least pretend that Naoya didn’t leave you for dead - that you weren’t the fool who had stayed for years with an abusive boyfriend when you should’ve just left. 

You didn’t want Sukuna to think you were completely pathetic. 

“Naoya arrived at the camp hours ago,” Sukuna said, his tone detached, as if he wanted to avoid projecting any of his own emotion onto you. “He said you’d gone back down with the rest of the girls.” 

The horrified expression on your face must’ve said it all, because Sukuna’s impartiality quickly faded, rage burning within those crimson eyes. Naoya really had abandoned you. And not only that, he’d also attempted to sabotage any retrieval attempt that might be made for you. He’d outright claimed you were safe when he knew no such thing. 

It was a thought that made you sick, and once again the tears started to flow, dripping down your cheeks. You’d spent years with that man, feeling like you were less than good enough. You’d let him break you down, put up with his endless bullying and tormenting, all because he’d been sweet to you at the start. 

You’d always thought you weren’t good enough, always thought that it was your fault he was so unpleasant with you. 

Now it felt like your eyes were open for the first time. 

He’d left you on the side of a mountain. He couldn’t care less about your wellbeing. He couldn’t care less about you unless you were making him dinner. 

And you’d put up with it. 

You were a fool. 

“I knew that fucker was lying,” Sukuna hissed. “Yuki didn’t say your name when she radioed in to say she was heading back. She’s always good with that sort of thing. Fuck, I’m glad I came down to check, who knows what would’ve happened if-” 

He cut himself off, faltering before he could finish the sentence. It was clear that he didn’t want to scare or upset you further, not when you’d already reduced yourself to a puddle of tears. You didn’t want to imagine what fate the night would’ve brought if not for Sukuna arriving as your saviour. 

Falling silent, he shuffled a little closer to you. Reaching out delicately he began to wipe away your tears with his thumb. The touch of his skin against yours felt pleasant, and you found your sobs faltering at the new found comfort he was providing. A deeply loyal part of you urged you to pull away, reminding you of your boyfriend. You immediately pushed the thought aside. 

Naoya wasn’t your boyfriend. 

Not after what he’d done. 

“Don’t cry. You’re okay. I found you and we’ll make it through the night together. I’m not going anywhere.” Sukuna’s words were soothing, and you found yourself nodding between sniffles, your tears gradually drying up. You hadn’t realised you were shivering until Sukuna tentatively wrapped an arm around you, pulling you up and close to him. 

The storm had worsened outside, and you huddled down in your jacket, letting yourself lean into Sukuna’s chest to keep the shivering at bay. If this was how you felt inside a tent with another human to warm you, you hated to think how you would’ve felt still stuck all alone on the scree. 

It didn’t bear considering. 

“You should report that asshole to the police once we get down. Nothing will come of it because it's hard to prove intent, but this was an active attempt on your life. He had a duty of care he ignored, stripped you of shelter and then tried to prevent a rescue. I have half a mind to kill him myself.” Sukuna’s voice rumbled through his body. 

No one had ever really stood up for you before. Naoya was always good at being charming when it mattered. Your parents and the rest of your family had always seen him as a good prospect - a polite and handsome man from a well off family. With your friends, you’d done the damage on your own, always defending him, manipulated by him to act like the perfect picture of an abused girlfriend. 

“I’m so stupid,” you whispered. 

“What?” Sukuna asked, pulling back ever so slightly so he could look at you properly. You hadn’t spoken at all since the reveal, and your quiet words clearly caught him off guard. 

“I’ve wasted so much of my life with him. Spent so much time defending him like he was some good guy. I only joined this club to impress him and all he ever did was tell me how useless I was at stuff like this - at everything. Did you know that he spent most of this hike staring at Yuki’s ass? And yet, when I’d tell him about how much stuff you’d taught me he’d get all mad about me talking to another guy and verbally berate me until I cried. And I just let it all happen. You must think I’m an idiot.” 

Sukuna hesitated, searching for the right words. It made you smile in a twisted sort of way, because he was definitely trying to find something to say that wouldn’t indirectly call you stupid - an impossibility considering the circumstances. Now that your eyes were open you could finally see how foolish you’d been. 

You just wanted to go home. Forget mountaineering or anything else you’d tried in an attempt to bond with that asshole.

“I don’t think you’re an idiot,” he said finally. “I think guys like that are very good at getting their way, and you happened to be his victim.” The words were uncannily gentle, and at a glance at Sukuna’s face you could tell he was out of his comfort zone, but trying his best. He tightened his grip on you as a sudden gust of wind battered the tent. 

The touch had your heart fluttering, and you wondered how Sukuna felt about your current position. It was probably just a necessity in his eyes - a bid to warm up a tired and stressed woman, nothing more than that. 

With your loyalty to Naoya stranded somewhere on the mountain never to be recovered, you found yourself wishing the contact was something more than that. 

But considering your woefully pathetic attempt at summiting this relatively easy peak, you doubted Sukuna held you in high regard at all. His type was probably some strong, confident girl who already knew all her outdoor skills without Sukuna’s input. The type of woman he could rely on to partner with for dangerous and difficult peaks. 

That wasn’t you. 

You weren’t sure you’d step foot on a mountain again after this. 

“Maybe you don’t think I’m an idiot for that, but you probably think I am for all this.” You gestured in the general direction of your foot, still humiliated at the thought of Sukuna having to rush down the mountain to your rescue, like you couldn’t be left unsupervised for a single moment without finding yourself in need of rescue. 

Much to your chagrin, Sukuna laughed. “An idiot for getting injured? No, that’s practically a rite of passage. You were doing great through most of the hike - I was keeping an eye on you before the group split in half. We’ll get you down the mountain and get your ankle sorted, and then you can try this peak again another time.” 

Sukuna’s optimism had butterflies swarming in your stomach, but years of insults and abuse weren’t so easily displaced. You lowered your gaze, staring down at your hands in your lap. “I don’t know. I just wonder if Naoya was right. Maybe I’m not cut out for this.” 

Sukuna pulled a face, clearly displeased by that statement. 

“Do you like being in the mountains?” He asked simply. 

He made no statement on your skill, no attack on anything your boyfriend had told you. Asked nothing more than whether you liked being out in the fresh air, doing what you’d been doing before your ankle had been injured. 

And you did. 

You really did like it. 

“Yeah. I do.” 

“Then you are cut out for this. Enjoyment is literally the only requirement,” he said earnestly. “Besides, that guy’s full of shit. I taught you everything you needed to know and I have faith in your abilities. If you need to listen to someone else’s opinion to determine your value, how about you consider mine instead of his.” 

A flush appeared across your cheeks. Those were the kind of compliments Sukuna would always pay you. Nothing particularly special or flowery, but deeply genuine in a way that had your whole body bursting with pride, pushing the rot of Naoya’s insults from your veins and replacing it with Sukuna’s approval. 

“We’ll come back here together in a few weeks, just the two of us, and we’ll do this peak. I can promise you it’ll be better. I won’t abandon you in the fog.” You believed him, nodding a little in agreement. Even in your fragile mental state that evening, you couldn’t help the excited flip of your stomach at the thought of Sukuna wanting to do something alone with you. 

The mountaineering club had been a means for you to learn your skills to climb alone with Naoya. You hadn’t expected that it would leave you excited at the prospect of climbing with another man. 

Still, you tried not to get ahead of yourself. Your little crush on Sukuna, which had been present for several months more than you were really willing to admit, seemed to have finally found the freedom to really take over your thoughts. Your heart was practically in your throat at your current proximity to him, a desire coursing through your whole body. 

You needed to push it back down even with Naoya out of the picture, because you were certain Sukuna was just being friendly, just being a better person than Naoya was. You couldn’t afford to let your mind run wild with fantasies. 

At least, that’s what you’d told yourself. 

The two of you had sat in silence for a while after Sukuna’s offer of climbing alone together, still huddled together and listening to the wind and rain outside the tent. You found yourself calmed by the steady rhythm of Sukuna’s heartbeat, basking in the warmth of his body which took your mind off the cold compress burning at your ankle. 

“Do you mind if we share the sleeping mat? It's okay if not, but it would be warmer for you and more comfy for me that way.” Considering that the two of you had been cuddling for a while, you didn’t see the issue. Anything was fine in matters of survival and you were more than happy to remain close to Sukuna. 

“Yeah, sure. We can zip our sleeping bags together.” 

Sukuna’s lashes fluttered and you swore you could see a dusting of pink on his cheeks, but you were quick to disregard it. It had been a long and exhausting day, and you were likely just seeing what you wanted to see. 

The cold compress had started to lose its effect, and Sukuna removed it from your ankle while the two of you shuffled about to get ready for bed. Your ankle was feeling much better after a period of rest and elevation, and you found you could move it again without excruciating pain. Getting back down the mountain might still be an issue, but it was one you could leave to figure out in the morning. 

Zipping your sleeping bags together and settling down on the sleeping mat, Sukuna made space for you beside him. You had to half lay on him for you both to stay on the padding, but with how warm his body seemed to run, you really didn’t mind. He wrapped his arm around you, nestling you close against him under the guise of conserving space - an action that had your whole body thrumming with electricity. 

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt that way. For months, maybe even years, the only thing you’d felt under Naoya’s touch was mild dread. This was something nicer, something more exciting - a feeling you wanted to experience over and over again. 

“Warm enough?” Sukuna asked, giving you a reassuring squeeze. The tent was relatively cool, the fabric being battered by the storm outside, all of which seemed distant as you lay there in Sukuna’s grip. It was a safe and warm place to be, one where you could take your mind off troubles and anxieties knowing he was there to keep anything and everything at bay. 

Troubles which Naoya had actively brought upon your life, were effectively chased away by Sukuna. 

How you wished you’d met the pink-haired man earlier in your life. 

“Warm enough,” you echoed, your voice coming out muffled as you buried your face into his chest. 

Again, the two of you fell into comfortable silence, listening to the whistling of wind and basking in the feeling of your bodies pressed close together. You were half asleep and almost convinced that Sukuna was already asleep, when his deep voice cut through the darkness and silence. 

“I don’t usually go on these things, you know,” he confessed quietly. “This is my first one. I’m only in the club because it gives you connections for exhibition funding and learning new skills. Usually I do mountains solo and usually I do stuff much harder than this.” He waved his hand in the direction of the tent’s exit. 

A guilt blossomed in your gut at the speech, recalling similar words from your boyfriend when you’d brought up the trip. He’d said that climbs in the Japanese Alps outside of wintertime were nothing special, and that the whole thing would likely be so easy that he could do it in his sleep. He’d only agreed to go after you’d begged him, reminding him that you didn’t have the experience he did. 

“I’m only here because of you,” Sukuna continued. The guilt within you only grew sharper. Was Sukuna trying to imply that he was only present out of concern for your inexperience? Had you forced him along because he knew something like this would happen? Had he known he’d need to come to your rescue?

“Sorry. I must be such a burden,” you mumbled quietly, burying your face in your sleeping bag. 

Did Sukuna really want to commit to climbing alone with you knowing that you were so much less experienced than he was? Or was he just doing it because he felt bad for you? You were likely a pitiful sight with your messed up ankle and an abusive boyfriend who had abandoned you. 

Sukuna blinked rapidly, astute enough to swiftly connect the dots. “What? No, that’s not- I was trying to say something nice. I was saying I only came along because I enjoy spending time with you. I don’t like these group things and I prefer to do harder stuff but I’m here because you’re here, and I like you.” 

Your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears, completely drowning out the sound of any thoughts on how you were supposed to reply to that. You were too caught up on the word ‘like’, on the way Sukuna shifted ever so slightly against you, pulling you more firmly against his body. 

“What?” You asked, dumbly. 

“I like you,” he repeated. “I think you’re so cute and I love how happy you get whenever you learn something new and I’m so fucking exhausted of watching your boyfriend ignore you and take you for granted when I’d cherish you.” 

Again, your stomach flipped, your ears growing warm. 

“And when that fucker showed up at the top of the mountain without you, I wanted to kill him. When I found you all cold and alone on the slope I just- fuck. I want to keep you safe. I want to be the person who looks out for you, I want to take care of you in a way that guy seems unwilling to. He has no idea what he has- had, while I understand exactly what you’re worth. I want to take you to the mountains at my side because unlike him, I’d be thrilled to have you as my hiking partner.” 

Before you knew what was happening, you were crying again, wetting his clothes immediately with your tears. Your shoulders were shuddering and you could feel Sukuna’s heartrate picking up. It seemed like he was starting to panic - concerned that you were upset by his words when the reality was the total opposite. 

You’d never heard something so romantic from Naoya and you never would. To have someone speak such beautiful words to you felt surreal and your body had no idea how to react beyond sobbing from being so overwhelmed with love and affection. 

“Sorry,” Sukuna said quickly. “I know it's been a long day, now probably wasn’t the time to say anything. You don’t have to respond-”

He faltered as you peered up at him, your face wet with tears. He usually looked so confident, and even then there was still some atmosphere of certainty about him, but he couldn’t fully hide the glimmer of anxiety in his lovely red eyes. There was a fear of rejection buried within him, a fate that he seemed almost certain he was going to face. 

If only he could step into your shoes for a moment and feel all the emotion rushing over you at his confession

You didn’t say anything, you couldn’t think of anything that would suffice as a response to his outpouring of desire. Instead you tilted your face upwards, lips parting softly in a clear signal - one that Sukuna caught onto immediately. He closed the gap swiftly, lips slotting perfectly against yours with a warmth you’d never experienced before. 

Naoya’s kiss had always been domineering - a wet and unpleasant experience. Sukuna’s kiss was gentle and exploratory. His lips took the time to appreciate yours, to linger on that lovely shared warmth and soak in the feeling of being connected so intimately for the first time. 

His tongue ran along your lips carefully, requesting for you to open your mouth. You complied easily, letting him hold you ever closer as his tongue pressed into yours, deepening the kiss in a way that felt so natural despite the fact that you’d never kissed each other before. 

A rumble of thunder overhead had the two of you parting for a second, and you found your shivering renewed as a particularly cold wind blew through the tent. Sukuna’s red eyes went to the entryway, the space illuminating for a second as another flash of lightning ripped through the sky above. His hands rubbed your back soothingly at a louder rumble overhead. 

“I’m so glad I came down to find you,” he whispered. 

“Thank you for coming to find me,” you mumbled, eyes fixed on his handsome face, your mind still struggling to catch up to all that had transpired in the past few minutes. Thoughts of Naoya and all the suffering he’d put you through seemed distant in the intimacy of that tent. “I feel so lucky. Injured ankle aside.” You giggled softly, heart jumping at the way Sukuna grinned back at you, pressing another soft kiss to your lips. 

There was a gratefulness to his expression, a soft affection in his gaze which made you feel seen and special in a way you’d never felt with Naoya. It had you sinking deep into another kiss, your lips locked against his in a deeply intoxicating manner. All the stress and the anxiety of the day seemed to wash away beneath his grip. 

Even with the storm raging outside, you felt safe and warm with him there beside you.

You should’ve known about his feelings for you - should’ve understood the moment Yuki had made a comment about how Sukuna never usually spoke to anyone. He’d spent so much time on you, being so gentle in his teachings, making sure you knew what you were doing, making sure you were praised. 

He’d liked you from the start and you’d been too blind to see it. 

Too beaten down by your own experiences in relationships to believe that any affection directed towards you would be legitimate. 

You wished you could’ve puzzled it out sooner. You wished you could’ve noticed the soft look that always sparkled in Sukuna’s eyes whenever he looked at you. You wished you’d dumped Naoya several years ago, because it shouldn’t have taken an abandonment on the side of the mountain for you to realise how truly awful your ex-boyfriend was. 

But what was done was done. Sukuna’s hands were on you now, and that was all that mattered. You’d made it in the end, even if it had taken you a little longer to get there than you would’ve ideally liked. 

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered as the two of you broke apart for breath, red eyes scanning your face like he was committing your features to memory. “How Naoya could be so stupid, I have no idea.” 

“He’s not a smart man.” 

“No. He really isn’t.” Sukuna agreed. “But his loss is my gain.” 

You hummed, leaning against Sukuna’s chest once more, listening to his heartbeat beneath you. Despite the excitement, you were suddenly aware of how tired you were, and how much the cold was still seeping in through your clothes and down into your bones. Altitude was no joke, and the pleasant spring warmth was nowhere to be found on the mountainside that evening. 

“Are you still cold? You’re shivering.” It wasn’t possible for Sukuna to physically pull you closer to him than you already were, but he gave it an attempt all the same, practically crushing you in his grip. 

“A little, yeah.” 

“Shit. Once sec.” Moving away from you for a moment, he reached out of the sleeping bag and rummaged about in his bag, withdrawing his down jacket and draping it around your shoulders like an additional blanket. You were grateful for the added warmth, coccooned in between that and Sukuna’s warm body. 

For a few moments you lay there, your shivering finally subsiding, only for all the hairs on your neck to raise at the feeling of Sukuna’s voice vibrating against the top of your head. “There is another way I could keep you warm.” 

His tone was suggestive and perhaps a little amused. The comment had heat billowing throughout your body, your gut tightening at the suggestion of something you’d never allowed yourself to think of before. Sukuna was very attractive, and sometimes your mind had drifted in his direction when your hand had been caught between your thighs. But you’d always scolded yourself for it, had always driven away the idea of picturing a man you actually knew when you had a boyfriend. 

Now the suggestion was right there on the table as something real and tangible, and your mind was conjuring all sorts of exciting imagery. 

“O-oh. Yeah, that could be nice,” you said with a sudden rush of confidence. It was Sukuna’s turn to falter, red eyes suddenly wide with surprise, as if you’d called some bluff without even realising it. 

“I don’t have a condom,” he murmured, pushing you back ever so slightly so he could look properly at your face. “Sorry, I wasn’t actually expecting…this.” 

“I am on the pill,” you offered a little bashfully, embarrassed to have reacted so enthusiastically to what you were now realising was a joke. “But we can wait if you’d rather use a-” 

“No, no-,” his face was definitely a little red this time, seemingly caught off by your willingness. “If you want to, I’d like to. I just…” He rubbed his neck a little awkwardly. “I was just teasing and you surprised me, I guess. You’re always surprising me.” 

Before you could backtrack or come up with some witty response, Sukuna recovered himself and his lips were on your neck. You let out a soft whimper at the sensation of his teeth dragging against your sensitive skin, his lips latching onto you and sucking purple marks onto you with no concern for who might see them the next day. 

As far as he was concerned you were his. Naoya could rage all he wanted. If he wanted to keep his girlfriend he shouldn’t have discarded her on the mountainside. Bitterly, you hoped Naoya found out exactly what you and Sukuna had done that night. Let him seethe. Let him reflect on all that he’d lost. 

The bastard deserved all that misery and more. 

Sukuna’s hands found their way beneath your clothes, calloused fingers pressing against your skin with care. You hadn’t realised how much your whole body was aching until he was touching you like that, your muscles flexing at the new contact. 

You took his actions as a sign to do the same, sliding your own fingers beneath his shirt and pressing them against his abs. You knew he was well built - on hotter days he’d been shirtless when working on teaching you to lead climb, and you’d pretty shamelessly stared at him until your mind had reminded you of your boyfriend.

It would be nice for him to be shirtless now, but neither of you felt like removing any layers of clothing in the cold, so for the time being your touch would have to suffice. That was a freedom that Sukuna seemed to be taking full advantage of, mapping out your body with his hands, his fingers moving to your breasts and squeezing, red eyes lighting up at the little moan it earned him. 

“Really shouldn’t be doing this now,” he whispered huskily against your ear. “Had the whole thing planned out. Figured once you’d broken up with Naoya that I’d take you out on a nice date and then bring you back to my place so we could do this properly. But here we are.” 

You giggled softly at the dismay in his tone. “We can still stop.” 

“No. I want this now. You aren’t so easily resisted. But mark my words, once we’re back home, I’m going to take my time with you. I want to look at you properly beyond just fumbling about in a dark tent - as hot as this is.” 

Giggling again, you nodded, in total agreement with his sentiment. Doing things like this, while a little limited, did feel exciting in its own way. It felt like you were keeping some secret with each other, doing whatever you could in the dark without anyone else knowing about it. There was an allure to it that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. 

With Sukuna’s attention on your breasts, you were the one that ended up making a major move first. Your hand slid down beneath the waistband of his trousers, finding its way into his briefs. He let out a groan at the feeling of your hand brushing against his cock, which twitched erratically at the slightest touch. 

It felt big beneath your fingers, and you hadn’t realised that your breath had hitched until Sukuna was letting out a chuckle. 

“Impressed?” 

“Maybe,” you mumbled shyly. You didn’t have much of a point of reference for such things. Naoya was the only man you’d ever been with, and you imagined that he wasn’t packing anything particularly unique down there. Not if Sukuna’s size was anything to go by. You wrapped your fingers around the shaft, enjoying the way Sukuna shivered in pleasure. 

Meanwhile, Sukuna mirrored your actions, his fingers moving down your body until they were grazing against your panties. It was a little embarrassing how damp the fabric had grown, your pussy desperately slick from the events of the evening. Your body wanted Sukuna just as much as your heart and mind did, and it was making that fact glaringly obvious. 

“So wet,” he said with a chuckle. “There I was all nervous that you wouldn’t feel the same. Shows what I know, huh?” 

You flushed, glancing away from him in embarrassment as his fingers pushed your panties to the side, giving him free access to your pussy beneath. His fingers moved deftly through your folds, moving the slick around before rubbing at your clit, leaving you whining his name and squeezing his cock a little tighter. 

“Cute,” he hummed, his nose brushing against yours. One of his fingers prodded at your opening, pushing in with a little effort. He took a few minutes opening you up with two of his fingers, languidly stuffing you full with them to prepare you. You didn’t want to admit to how emotional the whole thing made you feel, because Naoya had always said that foreplay was a myth. 

Never before had you been prepared for anything, and Sukuna taking so much time to do so had your heart fluttering. 

You tried your best to return the favour, stroking his cock as best as you could while it was still confined beneath his clothes, but he didn’t seem to pay that too much attention - completely fixed on making you cum around his fingers before moving onto anything else. That was another thing that Naoya had never done. Cumming with him was so infrequent that you’d almost grown certain that you couldn’t do it with another person. 

And yet, Sukuna had you doing it in a matter of minutes - your toes curling in desperate pleasure as you gushed over his fingers with a sweet little gasp. 

There was no time for you to catch your breath before he was pushing your trousers and panties down ever so slightly to give him access whilst still keeping you dressed and warm. He did the same for his own clothes, gently displacing your hand from his cock and repositioning the two of you so that he was on top. 

The sleeping bag was still wrapped snugly around the two of you, keeping the warmth in effectively while he lined himself up over you, his muscular body keeping you pinned down beneath him in a position you’d be more than happy to remain in for the rest of your days. It was so nice to be under him like that, to be so surrounded by his body and heat and scent. 

It was where you were supposed to be. In some uncomfortable tent on the side of the mountain feeling happier than ever because he was there with you. 

You’d gone to the mountaineering club for Naoya, but you couldn’t help but think fate had guided your actions and really led you there for Sukuna. 

“All good?” He asked, hot breath brushing against your ear. The tip of his cock was pressed up against your opening, and you realised that he was giving you a chance to back out - showing you a level of consideration that Naoya never would. 

“Yeah,” you breathed, lashes fluttering as you peered up into lovely red eyes, letting out a whine when he finally pushed into you.

You hadn’t been prepared for just how big he was, your eyes practically rolling to the back of your skull as he pressed his way into your tight pussy. Your nails dug into his arms and a whimper left you at the intensity of the feeling. You felt like you were aware of every ridge and vein on his cock, your pussy squeezing around him each time he’d involuntarily twitch within you. 

It didn’t take long for the uncomfortable fullness to give way to pleasure once he bottomed out inside you. It had a pleasantly warm buzz running through your body once he started to thrust within you, the weight of his body keeping you still and secure, keeping you warm even as the storm picked up outside. 

Any fears of the thunder and lightning were pushed aside in favour of focusing on the feeling of being split in two. Sukuna’s lips found your neck once more, overstimulating you as he bit and sucked on the juncture between your neck and shoulder, bringing tears to your eyes beneath all the pleasure he was giving you. 

Even through the stretch it felt right to have him inside you, and it was downright heavenly each time one of his long strokes hit that one specific spot inside you, bringing stars and light to your vision each time. 

This was where you were meant to be. 

Neither of you lasted particularly long. Not after the day you’d just had, and certainly not after months of mutual crushing. You’d cum first - your body already sensitive from the previous orgasm and totally overwhelmed by the intimacy of it all. Sukuna had reached down to play with your clit while he fucked you, and that set you on a high unlike any other. 

If Naoya had known where the clit was, he’d certainly never touched it. 

And yet, there Sukuna was utilising it. You could count on one hand the number of times you’d cum from penetrative sex, but Sukuna had pulled an orgasm from you like it was easy. 

And maybe it was easy. 

Maybe Naoya just fucking sucked. 

Sukuna wasn’t far behind you in reaching his release. When you’d cum you’d clamped down around him tightly, locked in a spiral of pure pleasure unlike that which you’d experienced before. It felt better than anything you could achieve with your own hands - infinitely more intimate and lovely. 

The way you’d squeezed him so tight had sent Sukuna over the edge, prompting him to groan your name in that low tone of his as he filled you with his seed, riding out his own release to the point where you were growing overstimulated and begging him for mercy. 

Mercy which he gave you with a gentle smile and a kiss planted atop your sweaty forehead. 

The two of you lay then in the darkness, soft pants drowned beneath the howling of wind. Sukuna was holding you tightly, keeping you secure in his grip like you might vanish if he didn’t cling to you with all his might. He was still inside you, softening but present in a way that felt blissfully intimate. Whenever you’d laid with Naoya, you couldn’t wait to escape his grip and get cleaned up. 

With Sukuna, it was different. 

You could stay there with him sheathed inside you for hours - connected in a way that just felt right. 

His lips were ghosting against your hair, soothing you with kisses, running his hands over you repetitively in a bid to ensure you stayed warm at his side. Your ankle was throbbing a little from all the movement, but with Sukuna’s legs intertwined with yours you found yourself able to ignore it. All thoughts and discomforts overridden by how happy you felt in that moment. 

“Try and get some sleep,” he murmured against your hair. “I’ll look after you.” 

“I know,” you whispered. 

He smiled softly. “Just making sure you know it. Apparently you can’t take for granted that everyone will look out for you.” His tone came out a little bitter, but instead of feeling anger at the reminder of Naoya’s actions, you felt a warmth blossom across your chest at Sukuna’s display of care. 

You liked that he was angry about it. It was nice to have someone care about you for once. 

In hindsight, it was a blessing that you never made it out into the mountains alone with Naoya like you’d intended to at the start of your mountaineering training. If you had, perhaps you would’ve ended up left for dead - freezing on the side of the mountain while Naoya summoned some crocodile tears and dismissed your fate altogether. 

You were lucky to have Sukuna. Lucky to be able to continue going into the mountains with someone who actually wanted you there. Someone who would really take care of you. 

“I’m glad you’re here to look after me.” Your hand reached for his face, tracing his tattoos with great care. As pleasant as your evening with him had been, you were looking forward to making it down the mountain - to spending time with him outside of that tent. It would be nice to see just where those tattoos disappeared off to beneath his clothes. 

But that would have to wait. 

You knew that the next day would be long. An arduous trek back down the mountain was ahead of you, along with a no doubt vicious confrontation with your ex. One that you were sure Sukuna would take the lead on, but still not something you were looking forward to experiencing. 

Either way, you wouldn’t dwell on it that evening. 

Because for the time being, there was nothing you needed to worry about. The storm could rage on outside for as long as it needed to. You were safe in your tent, in the arms of a man who would never leave you alone on the side of a mountain. 

And it was possibly the happiest you’d been in a very long time. 

a/n: after getting down to the bottom of the mountain the next day I promise reader slapped naoya and sukuna beat the hell out of him :)

had such a fun time writing this its literally the most self-indulgent fic I've ever written as I love being in the mountains hehe

hope you enjoyed! reblogs and comments are appreciated as always!

perma taglist: @calicatzz @suzunu @winkii @sukubusss @bobis-notmylover @tetsuski @torupilled @brattyxackerman @r0vena @chaos-4baby @moonlitreveri3 @feyrinnn @strawberryrosey @creamofsneky-blog @zeeseekay @p1nkfl0wers @apricityn @keiiiluv @dogggggggblog-kaye @lav4mpira @seellove @cutesytwt @gojodickbig @yuujispinkhair @somos-things @yeagersss @paradisestarfishh @jennilynn63 @tthhaattgguuyy27 @bexxli @being-blue-is-better @tisuruxx @juliarchiv3s @dishs0pe @plutoxxxworld @5kkalara @serenadesvt @00frenchfries00 @warriorofenlightenment @scarlet-issilly @himbosexual @pousivuitton @ksjtozaki @certainfanpoetry @gojoscumslut @ynishalee @nakiich @t4ters @himezoro @pandabiene5115

'Fuga.'

You're interested immediately. Coming to a stop outside, the meaning of the shop name is printed in white on the window. 'Fuga — One of the Japanese meanings of this is 'a way of elegance or grace'. We hope to include fuga with every order that we take; there's no rush, just sit back and enjoy.'

The opening and closing times are also unusual. They're open in time for the usual morning rush hour but unlike other coffee stores, they stay open until 9pm. You can't imagine the shifts that their staff must take and how much happens behind the scenes.

Despite being hidden, it is the morning rush hour on a weekday and through the window you can clearly see that there is a queue forming. Underrated coffee shops get discovered pretty quickly these days thanks to social media and it's not long until they'll be announcing a sister location somewhere else in the city.

Stepping inside, a bell chimes overhead but it's drowned out due to the hustle and bustle inside the shop. The scent of crushed coffee beans hits you immediately and the sound of lofi music playing in the background is just about heard over the level of conversations in the store.

Joining the queue, your eyes scan the cafe. It's pretty spacey compared to the other units that most coffee shops rent out. There's clearly more places to sit in the back and all of the window seats are currently taken. There's a handful of students and people in suits either sat working away on their laptops or taking a call. In the corner an old man is sitting back and enjoying a cup of his own hot coffee.

There's three people currently manning the counter and you worry whether that means service is slow but on further observation you notice they work well, weaving in and out of each other. There's a man situated at the till, tall and large you first notice. Then you see that he has pink hair and it's only when you inch closer to being served that you notice he has an array of black tattoos. They're printed on his face as well as around his wrists and you start to wonder how many baristas you've seen with face tattoos.

He seems to be the first.

Behind him seems to be a white haired figure with a plum pink stripe dyed into their hair. It's clear that whoever employs these people are very laid back with how they are presented. The figure moves quickly but also with caution pouring and making drinks before bringing them to the collection section and calling out a name.

You've been so caught up in studying the new environment of the cafe that you don't even realise that it's your turn next. You haven't had the chance to look at the menu so when you finally do, you're left with your mouth open in front of the tattooed man. And on closer observation you find that he's rather intimidating.

"Good morning." you greet.

"What do you want?" he asks in a monotone tone evident that he's been repeating this question for a while. You brush off the fact that he hasn't greeted you back and you simply hum as you stare at the menu.

It's evident that you're irritating the barista by not even knowing what you want, the bored expression on his face and his finger impatiently tapping the counter. Your eyes are scanning the menu until he finally says something that in all of your years of going to local cafes have never heard in your life.

"Can you hurry up?"

"Excuse me?"

"I said," he draws as if it's painfully inconveniencing him to repeat himself, "can you hurry up? There's a queue behind you." It's evident in his tone that he's not asking but rather ordering you to do so and for a split second there's a moment in which you forget that you are in fact the customer.

"I'm aware." you say, "I'm deciding."

"You had two minutes to decide." he retorts.

"I've never been here before, of course I'm going to take my time looking at the menu." you keep a calm tone making it clear that you don't want any misunderstandings.

"Do you want a medal? What's your order?"

Fine. You think to yourself, you're gonna give him the benefit of the doubt.

Maybe it's been a long morning, maybe he wasn't supposed to be on shift today but then got called in, maybe he's just an asshole. You don't care. But what you do care about is getting your morning coffee as usual.

"Vanilla latte with oat milk please."

"We're out of oat milk." he announces keeping his tone flat with enough space to add some frustration into it as if this was your own fault.

"Really?"

He doesn't reply, keeping a blank face that silently asks 'do I look like I'm joking?'

"Uhhh, could I get an iced strawberry matcha then please?"

"We're out."

You hold back a sigh, forcing a tight lipped smile on your face. "Fine. A cappuccino. Any milk you have. Please."

The barista doesn't look up, tapping onto a screen. "Regular or large?"

"What's the difference?" you ask.

He points to the side where the size cup differences are shown and as usual the large is 50p extra.

"Regular."

"Name?"

After giving your name, he mutters something under his breath and if you were in a bad mood this morning then you would have asked him what his issue was but instead you keep quiet, silently wishing he spills lukewarm coffee all over his disgustingly attractive face. Somehow. If it was logical to spill coffee on one's face.

"Four fifty. Tap your card and stand over there." he orders without any patience.

You don't even think twice before tapping your phone and moving immediately. In your mind you continue to curse him forever whilst watching his back muscles move swiftly as he makes your drink. Him and the white haired figure switched places with him making your order and his co-worker now at the till.

You expected a long wait but it takes less than five minutes before he's yelling out your name with impatience.

And he pronounced it wrong.

Whether it was on purpose or he wasn't listening to you at all, you'll never know but you go ahead and take your order. You can't even say thank you directly before he's rushing off and completing another order. Deciding to get out as soon as possible, you grab as many sugar packets you need, a stirrer and you head on out.

"How fucking rude." you mutter to yourself, opening the lid to your cappuccino. There's no latte art and you wouldn't expect there to be given the rush. You pour your sugar in and stir until satisfied, slowly making your way to the office building.

Sure, you know baristas are sometimes not the most welcoming people given the high stress level of their jobs and you've come across some reclusive baristas before but this one…he's just plain rude. You don't usually complain about how people do their job but this one has really struck a nerve.

How was he hired in the first place? Does the manager know he speaks to customers like this? How did he even pass an interview to get hired for this place? Does he act like this with all his customers?

Those are the questions that you continue to ask yourself whilst on the way to work, you get a little distracted after taking a sip of your coffee and coming to find out that your cappuccino is actually pretty good. Usually some cafes don't do cappuccinos the right way but there's something about this cup that makes you wonder what exact type of coffee bean they use.

You make a mental note to check later in your free time and it's not long before you start to feel rejuvenated by your coffee. Despite your bad customer service, you still manage to get a good cup of coffee to support your day and it's almost enough to forget your bad interaction.

*** Almost.

That cup of coffee was good.

Good enough to make you check their company website and check their 'about us' page.

And of course it just so happens that you stumble onto their google reviews.

Fuga Coffee Shop | reviews (54)

Naturally, your laptop cursor clicks onto their reviews. They only opened two months ago so it's understandable why the reviews must be so low, they're just starting out. The reviews are automatically filtered to their top reviews, which is from just over two weeks ago.

ihatemonkeys009

The grumpy tattooed barista is a little anti-social but he makes the best lattes ever! will be coming back again! four stars.

"A little?" you say aloud to yourself, "give me a break."

The review that follows under that is also highly popular.

ghostsarerealiswear2334_67

free wifi and they open early and don't close till late?! best study place ever! (please like my review!) five stars.

kentoforwork89

A nice and newly established restaurant under the Japanese name 'Fuga', the name is fitting for its elegant service and high quality coffee. They have a wide range on the menu and serve food too. The cafe is spacious, plenty of space to study or work and if you use electronics they have power sockets dotted around. Good prices for the service and highly reliable. I will be coming here again as it is not overwhelmingly busy or loud like some other places. I highly recommend. four and a half stars.

ilovesweetssooooooooooomuchhhgojo9838

tHE tattooed barisSta maybe be cold hoever his coffees are the warmest!!!!! xoxoxoxo peefect date location (soz for typos idid this fast on my phone so i coulget fre emochi) FIVE STARTS

You let out a sigh reading the reviews, it's a little cheesy but you get the point. Reading all 54 reviews you've come to find that a lot of people find the same tattooed barista annoying but miraculously all is forgotten once you've tried a coffee from him.

There isn't one totally bad review — maybe from an AI bot who says that the location is in a whole other city but other than that it's clear that this cafe is a new and upcoming contender as one of the best spots in the city.

And that doesn't sit right in your soul.

Taking this personally as someone who runs a company, you understand that if people were talking about your employees in this manner then they would be subject to being fired. You're confused on how this man is still employed even after fifty reviews, surely the owner must be reading them.

You sit in silence for a while as you contemplate.

Should you?

Or shouldn't you?

Hesitant, your fingers hover over your keyboard, testing out a sentence.

i tried this cafe as a new customer — no, no, too cliche, you backspace your sentence entirely.

Thinking for a moment, you reflect on what you want to say. You start typing slowly before it all flows within your fingertips, a mini paragraph forming on your screen. You're writing in the heat of the moment, out of pure frustration and embarrassment. Most people would be able to forgive and forget but well…unfortunately you're not most people.

anonymouscapybara45

this place is relatively new in this city and as a coffee lover i was extremely enthusiastic to try this place out. my high hopes for this cafe were quickly crushed once i was (not even greeted) but completely mistreated by the tattooed barista.

i did not like this service, no matter how good the quality of the coffee was.

i do not think a barista should be talking to customers like this. i felt severely unwelcomed and i am having second thoughts on returning to this place.

there's better and kinder staff in other cafes in the city who i will gladly give my money too.

1 out of 5 stars.

Sure, it's a little…Karen but you feel petty. Highlighting all the adverbs makes you think that your english teacher from high school would be proud. There's a small feeling of guilt in the pit of your stomach as it dawns on you that your review will be the first one star review the company has ever had.

But this is not a baseless review. You actually felt this way at the time. It's a little exaggerated but who cares, they don't know you and they never will because you're not stepping foot there ever again.

There's not much satisfaction in the world that you can get other than pressing post on your review.

***

An hour later you've moved on with your life. You've settled into your home, following your post-work routine and you're now sitting on your couch. Your phone lights up with a notification and your eyes land on the screen.

You get a notification from your gmail that someone has mentioned you in a reply and with your thumb clicking on the message your eyes slightly widen.

The owner has replied to your message.

And for the first time it seems because they haven't seemed to reply to all the other positive messages on the site.

You'd forgotten that this was an option for them, simply thinking that your review would just get the employee removed. Your eyes skim over the reply.

From the Owner of Fuga in reply to anonymouscapybara45

Hello valued customer,

we apologise that you have had this experience recently, it is never our intention to make our customers feel this way. Our company and brand relies majorly on the respect and communication with our customers which is always taught and trained to our employees. We apologise for the actions and behaviour of our barista and on behalf of the company we would like to invite you to have any item on our menu free of charge over the course of the week. We would like to give you a seven day voucher and invite you back to a better atmosphere of our cafe to show you truly how we treat our customers.

Please pop into our cafe at your convenience. We look forward to seeing you and we apologise again for your experience.

Kind regards,

Fuga Owner (Jin Itadori)

Your mind is baffled.

Free drinks…for a week? Because of your bad review?

Not even the other low starred reviews have had this level of response from the owner. You're the first one star review they've had and they haven't even responded maliciously. You can't pass up on this good of an opportunity to have free coffee for the next week? You could be saving a ridiculous amount of money.

You re-read the review a few times to make sure that it still seems real to your eyes.

Maybe it will be the last time that you'll see that barista again.

**

You try your luck the following day. You're a bit more hopeful walking into the coffee shop the next day. It's a little less busier than the previous day and the queue is a little shorter.

But most important of them all, you don't see that tattooed jerk around.

This time serving the till is the white haired figure you saw making the drinks the last time you arrived. Behind them works another person that you haven't seen before who has their back turned making orders.

Soon enough it's your turn to go up to the till.

"Hello." They greet and almost immediately you feel comfortable that you won't be shunned for simply being a customer at this cafe.

"Good morning," you greet back with a smile before explaining your situation. "This may be a bit awkward but uhm, I was the customer who wrote a review of this cafe and uh— the owner said I was given a voucher as some sort of compensation."

For a second you thought you were scammed or that the entire thing was a lie just to catch the poor customer who's written terrible reviews but you watch as the wave of recognition hits the barista.

Instead they nod and say, "one moment" before turning around to head to the back. You shift from one foot to the other, patiently waiting and in the meantime thinking of what you'd want to get as your first free drink.

Your smile soon drops once you see the figure that follows the person that you were speaking to at the till.

That tattooed bastard.

His eyes widen slightly at the sight of you before turning into a miserable frown, clearly he wasn't expecting you to be the customer who wrote the review but there's also something that tells you that he's not totally surprised.

The white haired barista makes their way back to you, "If you go over to Sukuna he can help you with your voucher."

Sukuna. Now you know his name. And now you know he's somehow still employed by this damn coffee shop.

You walk over with hesitation and you can't help but notice Sukuna's eyes watching you as you make your over to a quiet area.

"It was you." he says but there's no bite to his tone. It's merely a statement he's making but you don't miss the judgement in his eyes.

"I was being honest." you shrug, holding your head high. You have no regrets whatsoever, you were merely giving constructive feedback about an environment that felt hostile to you. About a certain someone who was hostile.

Sukuna leans in a little closer to you, one hand placed on the counter as he speaks to you. "Because of you and your stupid review I have to serve you free drinks for a week, which is coming out of my pay by the way."

"Maybe it'll teach you how to speak nicer to customers." you retort back.

You notice his hand turning into a tight fist, gripping the counter, clearly holding back on responding to you. With his other hand he slides over a piece of paper. "Here's your damn voucher and, no I didn't write it, so what do you want?"

You tilt your head a little at him.

Sukuna corrects himself and in a deadpan monotone he starts over. "Hello. Welcome to Fuga. What would you like today?"

A satisfied smile reaches your lips. "Much better. I would like an iced strawberry matcha with oat milk please."

"Regular or large?"

"Hmm since it's on the house, large please."

"It's not on the house…" he mutters.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Hmmmmm."

Sukuna disappears, diving into the hustle and bustle of his other colleagues making your own personal drink. As he makes your drink you look over your voucher, Sukuna's written today's date already and the expiry date is set seven days from now.

Once again, your order doesn't take him long and you spot your green and pink drink in his large hands. Approaching he hands your drink over to you which you thank before taking a sip.

On your tongue, the grassy flavour is immediately sedated by the sweetness of the strawberry at the bottom. There's the perfect amount of ice and matcha in your drink for you to enjoy and it takes everything in you not to fall to your knees and praise Sukuna on how great he's made this drink.

"Not bad." you murmur, downplaying your enthusiasm. "Can I get another free drink?"

"One per day stupid."

"The voucher doesn't clarify that, it's handwritten."

"I don't care."

"Would you like me to write another poor review?"

Now this is what gets Sukuna clenching his jaw together. He takes a pause, calming himself down before speaking to you again. "No anonymouscapybara45 I wouldn't like that because you got me in a lot of shit for this."

You don't flinch when he mentions your username. Ah, so he's read the review then. You quip back, "Your boss fire you yet?"

"No," and there's a slight pout, "he's just annoying the shit out of me at the moment."

"Hmm right, if you make me an iced vanilla latte with oat milk to go I think I might just refrain from writing a bad review about you for today."

You watch as he clenches his jaw in frustration. "Just this once. For the rest of the days you get one drink only."

"And a sweet treat!" you chime in.

Sukuna pauses, mulling over your suggestion. He lets out a sigh.

"A free drink and a snack." He offers.

"Deal." You outstretch your free hand to shake on.

Sukuna looks at your hand in pure disgust like you've just offered to spit in his mouth. "Deal. Just don't make my job harder than it needs to be." he mutters.

"I don't think I can promise that." you reply and you watch in pure satisfaction as he walks away mumbling to himself.

He doesn’t even look up at you, simply turning another page of his copy of an entertainment magazine. He’s treating you like an insolent brat throwing a tantrum and, suddenly, you’re fifteen again, begging your dad to pack your entire life to move to the city of angels for the sake of your dream. It took months of convincing before he relented — and look where you are today.

However, he knows what he’s doing, thumbing another page and leaning back into the private plane’s cushy leather seat, raising the magazine a fraction higher to match your line of sight. The front page is one you cannot miss, considering it features you and your latest… incident.

Your lips twist. It’s not fair; this one wasn’t even your fault.

The last few headlines before that are a different story: a high-definition photograph of your underwear when you accidentally flashed some sleazy pap who snuck into a very private party while you were blackout drunk, a tell-all from a PA who had gotten a pissed-off tirade after he fucked up your coffee order — after he spilled the first one all over, not one, but two of your photoshoot outfits, and your ongoing feud with international supermodel Natasha Romanoff who had won a part in a Spielberg blockbuster despite zero acting experience and only because she’s good pals with the main sponsor, Tony Stark.

You’re not entirely, solely to blame for these clickbait stories. Your life and actions have been under a microscope twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You’d be lucky if you could take a piss without someone hiding inside your toilet. Paparazzi are constantly camped outside of your apartment building, so much so that management has had to bump maintenance fees for more extensive security measures. Some days, you think you should just move to the peace and quiet of a Hollywood gated community.

But that’s never been you — there’s a reason why you moved away from your hometown, why you wanted to chase bigger and brighter dreams. What’s the point if you end up isolating yourself again from the rest of the world?

Unfortunately, this life under scrutiny — combined with the fact that the deadline for your next album is coming up quick — is not one for the weak of heart. You think you’ve trained yourself enough to survive the criticism of strangers, but your patience and limited kindness have worn particularly thin as of late. Your record label, your stylist, and your manager are all hounding you for updates, wondering if they could start preparing for your single. Your little (big) flare-ups are no excuse, but you were hoping that your dad, of all people, as your parent and your manager, would understand.

Now he’s committed the biggest betrayal of all.

You should be on your way to New York. A monthlong schedule filled with fall Fashion Week preparations, meetings with casting directors for movies with guaranteed Oscar nominations, and lots and lots of aperol spritzes to distract you from your thoughts. Anything but write another mindless album of pop hits that the general masses enjoy.

Instead of fun-in-the-sun in the big apple, you hear the pilot announce after you’re in the air that you’re on the way to bumfuck Tennessee.

The stewardess looks anxiously between the two of you, lips quivering and hands flying like she can do anything to ease your rising temper.

“I paid for this private charter,” you growl, “I can turn it back around if I want to.”

“Booking’s under my name, darling.”

“Paid for with money that I earned. I have people I have to meet, things I have to do. You can’t just drag me away for a trip down memory lane. These are insane opportunities that won’t come twice. What kind of manager are you?”

“The kind that is your dad first,” he gives you a pointed look. 

“Is this because of what happened? You know that one isn’t my fault!”

He doesn’t say anything. 

“You know it isn’t.” 

“Regardless of what happened, this break should do you some good. A little bit of grass, a lot more fresh air—”

You deadpan, “It smells like literal horse shit everyday.”

“Let’s not get into the technicality of things. The point is you could use a break.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“I’m your manager, so I get to decide it for your career. You keep going down this path and who knows where you end up? Trust me, honey, rock bottom is a long, hard fall.”

“You would know,” you mutter under your breath.

The moment those words leave your lips, remorse floods your system. Your eyes flick up to meet his. It’s not hurt, it’s not disappointment. It’s sympathy. You’ve just insulted your own father and he’s pitying you.

Perhaps rock bottom isn’t a long way down after all.

“I’m sorry,” you quickly sigh, “I didn’t mean that.”

“I know you didn’t.” He gets to his feet, pulls you close to press a reassuring kiss on your forehead. “But this is how I know you need this. Trust me on this one, the weeks will fly by.”

You jerk back. “Weeks?!”

Your childhood bedroom feels like a breeding ground for anxiety.

With your bags with New York-esque clothes tucked away into a corner, you stand there with the door closed as your eyes travel around the space. Posters of pop icons that you’ve now befriended and adopted as mentors, aging floral wallpaper that’s peeling in some corners from the years of humidity, a vanity that looks like it belongs in an antique shop from the seventeenth century.

Music filters muffled through the gap underneath your door, a sound that you haven’t heard in quite some time but still echoes like a distant memory. It’s one of your grandma’s favorites, and she’s no doubt leading the charge with the rest of the family and friends who live nearby. They tried to keep your welcome party small, trusted confidantes who wouldn’t breathe a word to the press.

The only thing that’s drowning out the noise downstairs is your publicist and best friend, Yelena, who has somehow worked through every expletive in the Russian dictionary until she came up with more creative and colorful ones of her own.

“You better tell your dad to drive your ass back to New York right now. I don’t care if you have to use a beat-up pick-up truck from the barn next door but we have people waiting for you. We need to get some damage control done before it all goes to shit.”

You sigh. Yelena gives a little uh-oh. “That’s not going to happen. You know my dad; when he’s got his mind made up like this, nothing’s going to change it. He thinks I need a break.”

She says something else in her mother tongue, one that you’ve learned over time translates to something along the lines of I’ll break something else of theirs. “Do you need me to book you a new flight right now? We can literally land in the cornfields in like two hours and bring you to New York. I promise you I’ll make it happen.”

Do you want to be disowned and be shown your father’s look of utter disappointment that will stick in your people-pleasing brain for the rest of your life? No. 

Sighing, you glance out the window again. Endless stretches of open fields, green on green on green. You haven’t seen this much green since you face planted during rehearsal for a summer show in Central Park. 

“No, I’ll be fine. If I behave and play along, then maybe he’ll let me come back earlier. Two weeks is a long—”

“Two weeks?! Do you know how long it took me to get on Nolan’s calendar? That man is booked and busy, more so than the mayor of New York.”

Wincing, you bite down on another upset noise. “I know. I’m trying to get out of here earlier, but we’ll see how it goes.”

“I can come visit you, you know. Try and talk to him.”

It’s tempting. Yelena has a way of convincing people to do her bidding, even if it means doing a bit of arm-twisting. Literally. You’ll spare your dad from that today. She’s loyal to a fault and the last thing you want is a broken arm on his body.

“No, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

Silence settles on the other end. A brief pause before you can practically hear Yelena’s voice melt, the rough curl of her tongue unfurling into concern. “Will you?”

You can’t say for certain. You haven’t been back here since you packed up your entire life and moved. This place feels familiar, but it’s no longer your home. Nothing here feels like you anymore; it’s like being in the mind of a stranger. A stranger who knows exactly what bone to pick with you.

You hate to admit it but being back here feels as if you’re back in square one. The place where it all started. You can still hear the ghost of your songs, scribbled messy into a songbook that you haven’t touched in years, because that isn’t what the world wants. Your fingertips tingle with the memory of learning how to play the guitar for the first time, testing out your dad’s old songs on his very first guitar that he gifted you for your tenth birthday.

Then you started making some of your own, the kind of music you’ve always loved and ones that touched the heart. Call it bias but your family always thought you had the talent to make it out there. It’s the whole reason you had the confidence to make the move.

But the world has a way of chewing you up and spitting you out. You learned how to toughen your shell, block out all the negative so that you can keep pushing through. Because when you’re at the bottom, the only way to go is up.

Now that you’re at the top, you don’t want to find out if you’ve reached the ceiling.

This is a part of your life you don’t like to dwell on, anxiety attached to the fear of failure painted onto the decor every time you look at these four walls.

“I will be,” you murmur.

“Maybe your dad is right. This is a good chance for you to get away from all the drama. The cameras. Unplug for a little bit.”

“Alert the media, I think Yelena Belova might have lost her darn marbles.”

“Darn marbles? The countryside has changed you, little one.”

A giggle slips past your lips. “Alright, diva.”

“Let me get your schedule sorted and I’ll check back in with you. In the meantime, try to have fun?”

Fun and this bumfuck town are complete opposites. You know from firsthand experience.

“You’re cute when you’re being funny,” you drawl.

“Love you.”

“Love you more.”

Then you’re left in the silence once more.

There are very few things in life that can faze you nowadays. Being raised in a tough, soul-sucking industry will do that to you. Your days have been one thing after another, a schedule packed to the brim that insomnia has become a welcome friend.

You’ve gotten used to drowning and choking on the sea that you can’t taste the difference between clean air and saltwater anymore. You adapt. You learned what it means to come up for air when you need to and swallow that intense, briny ocean when your head is being dunked into it.

Still, things have always happened within your control.

This situation right here is out of your control.

It’s fazing you.

You’re not talking about your dad being progressive and caring more about his baby girl’s mental health, placing it above her career that’s paid off the mortgage on this Tennessee home plus a few others scattered throughout the world.

No, you’re talking about these damn chickens.

You really should’ve just kept your mouth shut and stayed in your room for the next two weeks. If you could convince your dad that you’re sane enough to survive that, he’ll surely let you go free. But you got impatient, you figured that if you could make friends with nature once more, he would release you into the wilderness again.

Here you are now having a staredown with five chickens who have been eyeing you like feed. They know an easy target when they see one and a pop star who hasn’t touched a pail in decades, nor has seen a real-life chicken outside of television segments recently, is definitely one.

They’ve squawked. They’ve pecked. They’ve chased you around this coop, turning you into a headless chicken.

There’s about to be more than one headless chicken if these little shits don’t let you get their eggs.

You now learn that there are only three things that can stand up to you — your dad, Yelena, and these damn chickens. They let out another battle cry before rampaging towards you again, yanking a yelp from your lips as the bucket clangs in your hands.

Fifteen minutes later and you’re flat on your ass for the second time that morning, straw entwined into your hair and probably chicken shit stuck to your sequined denim shorts. Still no eggs. It isn’t the most ideal farming outfit, but you packed for a city, not for a tiny town.

It’s only when you’re this close to giving up that you hear the deep rumble from the door.

“Need some help?”

A snarky “you think?” sits on the tip of your tongue as you whirl around from your spot in the ground. That response dies fast when your eyes land on the six-foot man before you.

Your mouth dries when you first notice the cowboy hat. God, you’ve always been a sucker for a good cowboy. It’s the country girl in you that never left. Regardless of how many polished and shiny men you’ve met in Hollywood, nothing beats a rugged cowboy with dirty hands and broad shoulders and–

He tips his hat back slightly to get a better look at you. Blue eyes. Bluer than the late morning sun outside. Bluer than the sapphires you have in your safebox back in your penthouse. His pink lips are curled into an amused smile as he appraises the state of you on the floor.

Fuck, he’s hot.

He looks like your biggest mistake waiting to happen. He looks like he belongs on the front page of Vogue rather than on a farm. He’s got a coil of rope hanging from his shoulders and the filthy image that invades your mind should put you in the asylum.

High risk, high reward, your brain and the heat between your legs whisper traitorously. 

But then you remember the “incident” and you remember how many times you’ve had people approach you for their fifteen seconds of fame, and an irritated glare descends on your face. He doesn’t look affected by the quick change of emotions; in fact, he looks even more delighted that he’s put that look on your face.

“If you could murder some chickens for me, that would be great.”

“We try not to eat our friends here, we usually get ours from old man Jenkins down the road.”

God, even his stupid voice is hot. This is not going to go well for your undomesticated libido. Clearly, you haven’t learned your lesson with sex and men.

“Alright, then a few eggs should do the trick. Enough for breakfast for three.”

“Four.”

You cock an eyebrow.

“I’m joinin’ for breakfast so it’ll be breakfast for four. Why don’t you go on back up to the house? I can handle things here.”

I’d like you to try and handle me. Preferably naked in five different positions in bed.

What you need is a vibrator, the mental image of this man, and ten minutes alone in your room. That should do the trick.

(You’re lying to yourself because you know that wouldn’t be enough but it may be sufficient to sate some of your curiosity and this hungry little thing between your legs.)

“And who are you again?”

The corners of his lips tip up higher. “Don’t remember me?”

“I’ve met a lot of people. I don’t remember everyone.”

“I’d think you would remember the boy you tortured more than the chickens are doing to you now.”

Your brows pinch in a confused frown. “Who?”

“You pick on all boys, princess? Or am I special?”

Fuck. Warmth creeps up your cheeks at the insulting pet name, and his stupid flirty tone, and you find yourself glaring at him again. “Only the ones that clearly deserve it.”

“I can’t say I’m not disappointed that I’m not the only one then.”

If there’s anything worse than a man, it’s a man who knows exactly what to say to have you twirling your hair in your fingers like a schoolgirl.

“Well, he-who-must-not-be-named, I don’t really want to hear an I-told-you-so from my dad so how about you get me a few eggs and we can go our separate ways?”

The man smiles. It’s not a smile you trust. “Anyone ever teach you to say please and thank you or did the city take all your southern manners?”

“Please,” you grit out, caving far too quickly — but you prefer not to have your dad come out to check on you and realize you really have lost your roots.

His eyes twinkle with the kind of mischief that makes your stomach flip. He looks like he’s about to say something else, lips parting in preparation but then he shakes his head with a low chuckle before he easily navigates towards the nesting boxes. The chickens flock around him eagerly, none of them attacking him the same way they’ve been coming at you. 

With ease, he nabs a few fresh eggs. He places them into a basket, one that he then hands over to you. 

“Thanks,” you mutter.

Your fingers brush over his as you take the basket from his hand, a spark crackling between your fingertips that zings straight through your core. It’s unexpected and you jump back slightly at the feeling. His eyes flick up to meet yours — there’s something unnerving about them. Too blue, too earnest. Too knowing. Like he knows something you don’t. 

You ignore that feeling, kicking it to the curb before it can take root inside your vulnerable mind. 

He makes a gesture towards the door. “Shall we?”

The man doesn’t try to make any more conversation as the two of you venture back towards your house — no, your grandma’s house. In fact, he seems deep in thought; mouth pressed into a firm line and brows slightly furrowed. He’s even taken off his hat, holding it to his chest as his fingers rake through his thick brunette hair. 

Seriously, frustratingly hot.

You force your eyes away from him for the remainder of the walk. When you come through the kitchen doors, your dad and grandma are right where you left them. They look mildly surprised to see you, probably in one piece. “Farm-fresh eggs ready for breakfast! How would you like ‘em? Scrambled? Sunny side up?”

The two look at each other then at the man hovering close behind you. 

“Oh, I see you’ve met Bucky!”

Only Buc-ee you know is down Route 40. Who the hell is Bucky?

“Ma’am. Sir. Morning.”

“What a lovely day of reunions,” she chirps.

Reunions? You don’t get a chance to ask when your father holds up the perfectly-intact eggs. “You didn’t have any trouble with the chickens, darlin’? They can be nasty. Been a while since you’ve done it.”

You can hear Bucky’s cocky grin. You ignore it and opt for a bright smile at your family. “Of course not. Who do you think you’re talking to?”

As they turn away to begin cooking, you feel a tickle in your ear. 

“They teach you to lie in those acting classes, princess?” Bucky’s voice is close — too close. He’s ducked his head behind you, lips grazing the shell of your ear with his whisper. 

You swiftly leap away from him with a glare. “Yeah, same place they teach me to stay the fuck away from condescending, attractive men.”

His lips twitch. “Attractive, huh?”

“Don’t act surprised. You know what you are. I know what you are and I know what not to trust.”

“You don’t know me, princess.”

Your expression goes ice cold, a hiss slipping between your teeth. “I’m not a princess.”

“Five-time Grammy winner, America’s pop princess,” he recites and you nearly get whiplash.

That was your introduction for a recent awards show you attended as a presenter. The fact that he knows it— you didn’t trust him before, you trust him even less now.

“Stalker much?”

“Your grandma was watching it, I was helping her fix the kitchen faucet.”

You didn’t even know your grandma kept up with your activities, last you heard she was struggling to even work the new television upgrade you got her. It was a gift of part love and part apology for not making it home for Christmas. She always sends quick texts whenever you release a new song or win an award. The last few months have been turbulent. You haven’t had the time to respond to her texts, let alone check in over a phone call, when you’re prioritizing work opportunity emails.

Even when you do get the chance, video calls mask most of the fine lines on her face. Only now do you see how much she’s aged.

A piece of your heart breaks with guilt. You’ve been so focused on your own life and your own work that you haven’t had the chance to pause and look back at everyone else who’s supported you. Your grandma has been your biggest cheerleader from day one, arguing against your dad to support your dreams. 

After all, she’s constantly calling you her favorite granddaughter (her only one, mind you). 

Bucky must sense your mood because he then tries to remedy the situation, “She’s doing fine. She misses you a lot, takes every chance she gets to talk about everything you’re doing. God forbid anyone try to badmouth you in this town; with her influence, that person is shunned within seconds.”

A laugh bubbles up your throat at the thought. She’s always been a firecracker, it’s where you inherited your temper and energy from. 

“It’s been a busy few months,” is all your manage to say. Your throat tightens and you blink away the tears. The last thing you want to do is cry in front of this man who looks like he feeds on girls’ tears. 

“I didn’t say anything.”

Your lips pinch as you turn to him with an annoyed look. “You didn’t have to.”

“This is gonna be a fun two weeks, princess.” He throws you one last smile over his shoulder before he joins your family.

The next few days don’t get any better. Your grandma’s been so busy with an issue in town that you’re been mostly left to your own devices.

By that, you mean you’ve been left at the beck and call of one Bucky Barnes.

Bucky Barnes who you learn is the farmhand who’s been tasked to keep all of the animals alive, including your horse that you haven’t seen in some time. She’s one of the only good things left in this place, one of the things you regret leaving behind. Winter is a little antsy when you first approach her. 

“She doesn’t do well with strangers.”

Your lovely homecoming is quashed when you hear that familiar voice interject. “I know that. She’s mine.”

“I know,” Bucky echoes with a small smile. “Wanna ride her?”

For a second, you’re embarrassed that you feel a spark of fear. It’s been a while since you’ve been on a horse, trading for a different kind of horsepower that’s much safer and faster. You would hate for Bucky — your new arch nemesis — to see you fail. 

“Maybe later.”

He looks at you like he knows, that ghost of a smile dancing on his lips.

You learned that the two of you were raised together, despite having no recollection of it. Apparently you had gone through all of grade school together but you’ve met enough people that you can’t seem to remember the children you spent time with — no matter how many times they try to slide into your DM’s with “Oh my god, we went to school together! Can I get some tickets?” 

Somehow, you doubt Bucky is the type to slide into anyone’s messages. He probably doesn’t even have social media; the man acts like a dinosaur sometimes when you mention your popularity on certain apps as reason why you shouldn’t be getting your hands dirty and he simply blinks and congratulates you. Then he hands you a shovel to help him with the horses. 

That history seems to matter as much to you as it does to him. He still calls you princess with that patronizing tone; sometimes you think there’s a soft tinge to his voice but that thought evaporates the moment he rolls his eyes when you can’t seem to do anything to help around the house.

He also seems to have a problem with the way you dress.

“Really? You’re going to town in that?”

You look down at your silk lace top complemented by the cutest denim skirt tailored to your shape, a pair of low black heels on your feet. “What’s wrong with this?”

Bucky’s gaze traces the length of you. When blue sweeps over you, warmth sinks into your bones again. He looks at you like you’re a piece of meat — and you apparently seem to like it.

“I packed for New York, this is as casual as it gets.”

He stares are you for a brief second again before he shrugs off his flannel, draping it over your shoulders. You’re too stunned to move. He takes this moment to wrangle your arms through the sleeves. 

“I’m not wearing this,” you deadpan, raising your arms to find that the sleeves droop lower than your fingertips.

“It looks nice.”

It certainly does, but it smells like him and that scent — masculine, earthy, and a touch of cocky — seems to rouse that inappropriate beast inside of you from its slumber. The one that growls possessively whenever someone comes too close to Bucky or one that salivates over the sight of his exposed arms whenever he’s lifting bales of hay. 

Instead of acknowledging his compliment, you roll your eyes. “Whatever.”

“I think this would help with your whole effort of going incognito in town.”

“I have some glasses and a hat to go undercover. It usually works. I’m this generation’s Clark Kent. But, hey, if I get recognized, I want to make sure I look good.”

Bucky blinks at you. “You always look good.”

And you’re not sure what to say to that. 

But when you do get spotted by two teenage girls later that day and they fawn over how good you look, you can’t help but shoot him a smug smile. 

The two of you disagree on most things; you can probably count on one hand how many things you do agree on, including the fact that you disagree on a lot of things. That and how your grandma is the most awesome person in this city, but that’s not news. 

She worries about the two of you being at each other’s throats, biting remarks flung across the room until she has to tell the two of you to shut up and sit down for dinner — which is a whole other question because why is he always here?

While Bucky pokes fun at you all the time for your incompetence, you also take your shots at him. Harmless ones. 

One time you found him asleep on the couch downstairs after you finish doing your nails, so you decided to do his. He ends up with neon pink on his toes and blood red on his fingers. You snicker to yourself thinking you’ve just done something to get on his nerves.

Except, it doesn’t. Instead, he walks around proudly. Nails gleaming in the sun whenever he’s doing work and he doesn’t break a sweat. He even gets compliments on them. 

It sours your mood — partly because your ruse didn’t work, but mainly because that confidence is stupidly hot. You don’t need another reason to find him attractive when you’ve already got a list longer than the Nile. 

When your grandma tells you to be nicer to him, you’re extra prickly because— “Why do I have to be nicer to him when he’s the one being annoying with me? Aren’t I supposed to be resting? Manual labor is not part of that agenda.”

“You did all this when you were younger, sweetheart. It’s like riding a bike.”

“Riding a bike didn’t have me breaking my fresh manicure,” you say pointedly. “And I didn’t have anyone bossing me around. Being told what to do by someone my age versus by my dad are two completely different things.”

Your grandma only laughs, stroking your cheek like she finds this little tantrum endearing. You lean into her touch, her fingers softened by the years. “He’s just a kid pulling on his crush’s pigtails.”

His crush. You would find it cute (you do find it cute) if you weren’t so miffed after you chipped your index finger trying to lift a bag of feed for the horses. When you told Bucky, he only quirked his eyebrow at you before returning to his own duties.

So no, he doesn’t have a crush on you. In fact, you’re convinced that he hates you. In his mind, you’re probably this diva who lost her roots and whines about every single thing in her life — which isn’t incorrect per se, but he has no right to dislike you for that. He doesn’t even know you. He doesn’t know the shit you’ve been through to make it in the industry, how many times you’ve had to grit out a smile at shitty producers, even shittier paparazzi, and everyone in between.

If he really does have a crush on you, he sure as hell has a crap way of showing it.

“Well, we’re not kids anymore,” you huff, “and I don’t like bullies.”

Your grandma gives you a look as she leafs through her farm ledger. The numbers look alright from where you’re sitting, nothing in the red, which is a good sign. Part of the reason why you’re so adamant about being and staying successful is for her; you never want her to want for anything.

“You do know you were the one who had him crying growing up. Poor boy put up a lot with you forcing bugs onto him and teasing him for falling off a horse lord knows how many times.”

Oh. Your cheeks warm at the thought. Maybe you do have some vague memory of a gangly kid who wouldn’t stop weeping no matter how many times you tried to coo him to quiet down, lest you risk the wrath of your father. Again.

“Maybe he shouldn’t have been such a crybaby then,” you shrug instead with a huff.

Your grandma’s grin stretches a little wider. “I think you even made him play house once. We thought it was adorable. You had him stay at home with the baby while you went off to work. Singing your silly heart out to the rest of us before coming back to him.”

Oh god. You’ll never live this down. So maybe Bucky does have some right to abusing his power for the sake of tormenting you. From what your grandma’s shared, it sounds like you’ve put him through the wringer.

Then again, Bucky has grown — and he’s grown a lot. His shoulders have filled out, hair darker than his horse’s mane, thighs thicker than a tree trunk—

You put the brakes on those thoughts. You really need to get yourself a fix. Or get yourself fixed at this rate.

What you need is one really good dick. A good fuck to wipe all of these thoughts from your mind. The only problem with being so famous is the need to keep your private life private. You don’t need any more scandals on the front page and you certainly don’t know Bucky well enough to trust him — no matter how good his dick looks in the imprint of his jeans.

“He’s a good one, you know,” your grandma smiles softly. “Been with the family for years. Always around to help whenever needed.”

You hate to point out the obvious but— “That’s his job, grandma.”

“He’s also one of your biggest supporters,” she says with a look. “Has all of your albums in his house. Sits right here next to me in front of the TV whenever you’re on it.”

Your jaw practically drops to the ground. “That’s ridiculous,” you sputter, “there’s no way.” 

“Yes, you should ask to see his place sometime. He’s quite proud of the collection, even said that he’s going to ask you to sign them one day.” 

You have a feeling he’s burned down his collection after meeting you again and realizing what a raging bitch you are. Plus, the thought of asking to come over to Bucky’s place feels a touch too desperate for your personality, even if there is nothing you want more. Imagine yourself getting bent over backwards on his kitchen island with your album covers staring right back at you. 

“All I’m saying is, give him a chance. He’s not a bad fella.”

You try. You really do, but Bucky somehow always finds a way to push your buttons. Like today, he decides to reward your hard work with lunch in town at Sal’s Diner. It’s the best diner here — arguably the only diner here. 

“No, I’ve been coming here since I was a baby. Pretty sure my dad fed me the French toast here to help me teeth,” you argue, cutting a fat slice of your dish. 

You caved into ordering this meal that would give your nutritionist a stroke. Deep fried, juicy toast dripping with maple syrup and topped off with a dollop of house whipped cream and slices of fresh strawberries and blueberries. You’ll allow yourself this cheat meal if it means proving Bucky wrong.

That and you’ve been on a strict diet of certain vegetables and proteins for your Fashion Week fittings, so this is a welcome change. Think of it as a form of protest against your father bringing you here unwillingly. 

“You’re out of your mind,” Bucky chuckles. “Everyone knows that Sal’s crown jewel is his waffles.”

Said waffles sit before him. A stack of perfectly crispy, doughy goodness. The perfect burn on the outside complemented by the soft chew on the insides. Topped off with the same maple syrup and cream and fruits, the only difference rests in the vessel for the brunch dessert.

You can’t tell what you want to eat more — your toast, his waffles, or him. 

He looks even more delectable today with his hair disheveled from the sun and sweat. His beard has grown out a little more to frame those pink, kissable lips that Hollywood wishes they could naturally have. 

“Alright, try yours then try mine. We’ll decide here and now.”

You’ve never once backed down from a challenge so you eat yours first. Delicious, the flavor is nostalgic and the toast is tender and sweet. You recall all the times your dad brought you here, you with snot in your nose after a kid picked on you. You vaguely remember another boy next to you, blue-eyed and a dark ring around his eye, fists with red scrapes clenched next to his stack of waffles. 

Based on your grandmother’s stories, said boy must be Bucky. He doesn’t seem like a troublemaker but you wouldn’t be surprised if he was the type to pick fights with other people. That’s what he’s been doing with you all this time. 

“Now mine,” he says and swaps your plates, smirking a little too wide as he watches you grudgingly slice into his waffle. You lift it into your mouth, your teeth sink in, and— fuck.

It’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. The texture, the flavor, the balance. The combination of the crunch and the soft give of the waffle against your teeth. The square gaps filled with the perfect amount of cream and syrup, serving as a ship to carry the sweetness onto your tongue. The french toast soaks it in a little too much and the texture is all around too soft now that you’ve had a taste of this. 

The waffles are Sal’s masterpiece. 

Your eyes flick up to Bucky, he catches your gaze immediately. His lips tug up a little higher.

You quickly school your expression. 

You’d never admit this. You’d never admit that Bucky’s right. Over your dead body.

“It’s fine,” you shrug nonchalantly.

“Bullshit,” he laughs, leaning back against the booth chair with arms crossed. His biceps flex and your teeth tingle with the urge to sink into them. “You like it better.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you respond, reaching over to switch your plates around again. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my lunch now.”

When you take another bite of your dish, it no longer tastes the same. The magic has faded and now you can’t stop comparing how mushy it is compared to Bucky’s mindblowingly scrumptious pick. You bite back a cringe when your teeth clack together, overestimating how much effort it would take to break through the food. 

“You don’t have to pretend with me, princess,” he grins, “I can see right through you. If you ask nicely, I’ll take your toast and you can have my waffles.”

“I’m fine,” you grit out again. 

“You sure? Do you really want to die on this hill?” 

“This is the best dish here and you can take your opinion and shove it up your—” the waitress gives you a look from behind the counter and you quickly shut your mouth. 

Bucky tilts forward this time with a glint in his eye, arms propped up on the table. You don’t like where this is going. “I think I know what the problem is.” You cock an eyebrow. “Maybe you just don’t know what good food is anymore. All those fancy, tiny, overpriced tasting menus have altered your tastebuds.”

A scoff falls from your lips. “They have not! Those are incredibly refined and curated dishes that the chefs dedicate their entire lives to. It’s definitely different from a diner that serves greasy food that only you can enjoy.”

His lips twist, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, well then maybe you’ve just forgotten your roots, princess. All those years in the city and suddenly you think you’re too good for everyone else here, including your family.”

The words knock the breath right out of your lungs. It grips your heart and rips it from your chest. As if your own guilt isn’t enough, having Bucky of all people dogpile on what a terrible granddaughter you’ve been isn’t exactly ideal. Between losing quality time with your grandma and the sound you’ve nurtured here that brought you your success, one feeling crawls over your skin.

Fear. 

Fear that you no longer know who you are anymore, a cog in the machine so desperate to keep turning. Fear that you’ve become what you hate: fake, pretentious, disgustingly greedy for wealth that you don’t even need. Fear that, if you lose all you have now, when you’ve already lost everything you had, what would be left for you?

Because that’s the thing they don’t tell you about making it to the top — to get there, you have to make plenty of sacrifices. One you convince yourself are worth taking, until you’re looking down at what you’ve left behind and you realize that nothing will ever be enough to make up for it. 

Perhaps your dad is right. The fall to rock bottom is a long and arduous journey, a path where you’re forced to reckon with everything you’ve lost and everything you have to lose. 

A warm hand covers yours on the table, dragging you out of your reverie. Bucky’s no longer looking at you with disdain or arrogance. Worry is now carved into the furrow of his brows as he squeezes your hand. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

You jerk your hand away from him, lips pressed into a thin line as you swallow the lump in your throat. You know how to stop yourself from crying, you know how to not show your weakness. You’ve done it countless times before to survive; you can do it again with him. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“It’s whatever,” you mutter.

“No, it’s not whatever. I crossed a line.”

You don’t appreciate the look on his face. It’s an expression akin to pity. You’ve gotten enough of those looks your entire life, you don’t need it from him. It makes you sick to your stomach. You’re a strong, successful woman who’s achieved everything you’ve ever wanted; there is no reason to pity you. 

In lieu of responding, you grab a few bills from your purse and toss it onto the table. “I’m full. I’m going to head out first.” 

Ignoring Bucky’s shit, wait, hold on, you’re slipping out of the booth and stomping out into the streets. The breeze outside is helpful against the heat flaming your cheeks as you bite back tears. 

Deep down, you know that it isn’t Bucky you’re upset with; nothing he said was untrue. In fact, you hate that it hits a little too close to home. 

You start walking — somewhere, anywhere — just away from there. You need space, you need room to breathe and digest what this means for you. It’s one thing to think about how much you’ve lost, circling the issue without calling it out directly, it’s another for someone to point it out so blatantly to you. 

“Wait,” Bucky’s voice reaches you before you feel the hand around yours. “Don’t go.”

“Let me go, Bucky.”

“How are you going to head home?”

“I’ll hitchhike if I have to,” you snap.

Bucky looks conflicted again, baby blues darker than usual. “Don’t do that, that’s not safe,” he murmurs, “please. You can be mad at me, I deserve it, but let me take you back. I’ll drive you home.”

“I don’t need your help.”

He licks his lips. “I know you don’t need it. You’re perfectly fine on your own. I get it. But I want to help, so please just take the offer.”

You yank your wrist away from him. “I’m good. Seriously. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I don’t need to do anything. I can’t do anything but worry when it comes to you,” he practically spits out, “I wish I could stop worrying, but I can’t. Not when you look like you’ve lost everything good in your life. Not when you don’t smile the way you used to.”

That stops you, your movements halting. 

“It’s not just your grandma who’s concerned about you. Do you think I don’t notice how distant you sound in interviews? Or all that shit in the papers?”

“Go fuck off your high horse, Barnes.”

“I’m not on my goddamn high horse,” he defends, “I’m just saying it all sounds like a cry for help, okay.”

“Oh, so you think you know me now?”

“I know you. I’ve always known you. I was there defending you from those stupid kids growing up. I was there for you to pick on whenever you wanted to destress. I was there to support you and your dreams because I believed in you.”

Your breath hitches in your throat. There’s a lump lodged there that has your lungs constricting. The next words that come out of your mouth are a feeble attempt to hold your ground. “I’m not a kid anymore. I’m not the person you knew.” 

“Jesus, you think I don’t know that?” He whispers, “I know you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. I’m saying that you don’t have to do it all alone. You have so many people who love you — your grandmother, your dad, m—” He stops himself, seeming to bite his tongue. “All I’m saying is that you’re not alone. You don’t have to be.”

“I—” you find yourself at a loss for words for the first time in a very long time. 

Before you can find the right response, you hear your name followed by a blinding flash in your eyes. It takes you a second to register that there is a camera in your face and the grating noise in your ears is this man bombarding you with questions.

“Is this your new man? Have you moved on already? Tell us who you are, man!” More flashes. More questions.

Your blood runs cold.

You should’ve known that trouble would follow you here. You’re quick to turn around, ready to remove yourself from the situation and avoid giving him the content he wants.

The man lets out a low whistle, smirking. “Oh come on, sweetheart, give me a smile. Your fans miss you back home. Everyone thinks you got kidnapped.”

Don’t give in. Don’t respond to this fucking moron. 

“Aw, you’re always so sweet in front of the press. Now that it’s just me, you won’t even give me one smile? What kind of celebrity are you? You want everyone to think you’re a fucking bitch?”

Gritting your teeth, you continue brushing past people, Bucky close on your tail, and the guy still hot on your heels. He’s still lobbing words at you, ridiculous comments like just one smile, baby and don’t be a stuckup bitch. 

You don’t respond. You’ve been taught better. If you give them the time of day, they’ll keep coming back for more. Ignore them long enough and they’ll label you a cunt and move on with their lives. 

However, it’s only when he brings Bucky into it that you stop dead in your tracks. “This your new man? I can give him that publicity he wants right now. How’s she in bed? Did you make a video too? Come on, give me a quote and I’ll even put your face on the paper.”

“Will you piss the fuck off?” You snap. 

His lips curl into a smirk far too proud for a man of his occupation. “Pop princess has claws. You wanna curse for the camera too? Bet your kiddie fans will love that.”

“I am here on vacation. Leave us alone.”

“It comes with the territory, honey. Now that I have you, why don’t you tell me about this stud, huh? What’s your name, man? You give me a tell-all on how good she looks in bed and I’ll pay you. Triple if you’ve got a video like the last one.”

Bucky steps forward, clearly ready to be your knight in shining armor, but you move faster to put a hand on his chest. As much as you dislike Bucky, you don’t want him to be subjected to the bullshit that these tabloids publish. He doesn’t need his face splashed on the front page just because he’s doing a good thing and taking you out to lunch. 

Shaking your head, you signal him to back down. He doesn’t seem to like that idea, frowning until you pin him with a glare that has him pursing his lips. 

“Just ignore him. He’s not worth it.”

“Whatever she’s offering you, I’ll give you more! Name your price.”

His jaw clenches, blue eyes sparking with the kind of rage you’ve never seen with him. “Leave it alone, Buck.”

His eyes melt, if only a fraction. 

You don’t try to decipher that look. Instead, you turn around and point your finger at this man. “You leave me alone or I’ll sick the cops on your ass.”

“Public space, sweetheart. I can do whatever I want.”

“And when I get you barred from every press event I attend? I’m about to file a restraining order if you keep harassing me like this — with plenty of witnesses at that. Think about what you’re doing before you keep running your mouth like that.”

With that, you shove Bucky forward and back into his truck. The two of you peel off before the man can chase you back down again. 

It is only in the quiet of the vehicle that you finally hear the thundering in your chest. Your heart hammering in your veins like it’s about to jump out of your chest. With a hand over your heart, you try to take in what shaky breaths you manage. You pull your phone out of your pocket to text your dad, but your fingers are trembling too much for you to type properly.

Cursing under your breath, you type, backspace, type, backspace, until you’re frustrated and flinging the device onto the dashboard with a loud clatter. 

“Shit, sorry,” you wince. 

“Hey, you’re good. You’re safe,” Bucky whispers next to you, his voice calm as it slips between the crevices of your palpitating heart. 

His hand reaches out to close around yours on your thigh. He squeezes, thumb brushing over the back of it in circular motions. You’re momentarily distracted by the act, eyes following the repetitive movement until your heartbeat matches its rhythm. The ringing in your ears quiets, fading into a light buzz before it eventually ceases to let you focus on the rumble of the truck over dirt roads instead. 

Bucky pulls to a stop outside the house. Your house. Your grandma’s house. 

His hand is still on yours. 

You pull it away quickly. Habit. You’re always alert, never sure if there are any more cameras waiting to catch you slipping. 

“You’re fine. He didn’t follow us. I did a few reroutes to make sure,” he murmurs. 

“Thank you,” you exhale slowly. “I’m sorry. Shit, this whole thing is so stupid.”

Bucky tilts his head. “Why are you sorry?” 

You open your mouth, only to realize that you don’t have an easy answer. “Um, well, he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”

“His own actions are his responsibility. You do not need to apologize on his behalf.” 

He’s not wrong. It’s annoying. All this guilt that you shouldn’t even be feeling. 

“I guess,” you mutter.

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, an eyebrow raised. “I hope you know that none of this is your fault — him showing up, the crap in the papers, all the bullshit around you.”

With a grunt, you press your lips together. “I know that. It’s just… unfortunate circumstances.”

“That’s one way to put it,” he smiles, “though, I should also apologize again. I am sorry. I crossed a line, it won’t happen again.”

You can’t even find it in you to come up with a snappy retort. Instead, you shift your gaze away. He seems to understand, letting out a low chuckle. Your lips thin. “I’m not a fan of the word princess.”

That seems to surprise him, a twinkle in his widened eyes. “That so? You used to make me call you that all the time.” 

“What were you then? The prince?” You drawl sarcastically.

“Actually, you designated me court jester.”

A laugh bubbles up your throat — probably the first sincere one since you got here, maybe in years. The thought of you acting all high and mighty, making Bucky perform for your entertainment is comical, especially when you consider how massive he is now. 

“Find it funny, do you?”

“A little bit.”

“I should send you the bill for my decades of mental anguish.”

Your lips curl into a smile of part amusement, part foul delight. “You could sell all of those childhood stories for a pretty penny.” 

“I think your grandma has a few pictures of you in the bathtub.” A gasp falls from your lips. “I was helping her clean the attic. She’s got quite the collection.”

Your cheeks warm. “Haven’t you heard? If you wanted to see me naked, all you have to do is go online.”

You’re not entirely sure why you prompted the idea of you being naked to Bucky, it hardly seems appropriate but Bucky then appraises you with those eyes. Blue drowned out by his blown pupils. You see the indent on his cheek where he’s pushing his tongue against the walls, likely biting back an equally inappropriate comment to respond to yours. 

“I’d prefer to experience the real thing for myself.” 

All of a sudden, your throat feels like sandpaper and Bucky’s looking you up and down in a way that has your entire body tingling with need. 

This can’t be happening. Not right now. Not when you’re supposed to have a clean slate. 

Not with Bucky of all people. 

However, your grandma’s in your ears, whispering, He’s not a bad fella, is he? He’s not. He’s a good one — perhaps the only one left — but he’s still a man at the end of the day and can you really bring yourself to trust another? 

“Too much too soon?” He asks gently. 

“No,” you choke out. “Not at all.”

Bucky’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and you’re momentarily distracted by the way his bottom lip glistens. His voice drops a pitch— “Don’t tempt me, princess.”

Your heart stutters between your ribs. Heat snakes between your thighs and you’re forced to bite your tongue before you can let out a sound that would embarrass the both of you. 

“I’ll check in on you later, yeah?” Bucky tips his hat with a charming smile before wandering towards the barn. 

Leaving you and the timber of his voice echoing in your ears. 

Something shifts between the two of you after that. It’s nothing monumental but you no longer dread the hours you have to spend with him out with Bucky. Laughter comes a little easier when you’re not viewing him as the enemy. He still teases you but you match that energy right back, with significantly less animosity. 

The first time you jump back on Winter, you nearly fall flat on your face. You half-expect Bucky to make another jab about how you’ve lost your skills. However, you’re pleasantly surprised when all he says is “easy there” before he’s encouraging you back on the saddle. 

The two of you start taking rides into the mountains. With the wind in your ear and the scent of wild grass, you can’t help but feel like you’re finally home. 

However, even when the two of you are sharing picnic lunches that he packs at the top of your hike and he’s tugged off his t-shirt after he gets drenched under a waterfall, Bucky doesn’t do anything more or less. 

He keeps a comfortable distance — close enough that you find yourself leaning in, far enough that he finds the excuse to pull away. 

As someone who’s always, always gotten whoever you wanted whenever you wanted, you almost want to grab him by the collar and kiss him senseless just to make it a done deal. But as someone with a little bit of pride left, you want him to make the first move. 

Unfortunately for you, none of your usual tricks have worked. You’ve spritzed on a little bit more perfume. You’ve worn your lowest cut tops without your tits spilling out. You’ve even given him enough sultry looks that you’re starting to get a twitch in your eye. 

Your final tactic, which has never failed you, requires a third participant. A third participant that you didn’t have until today. 

You and Bucky are helping your grandma at the farmer’s market. Bucky as the pack mule, hoisting crates of jam onto the vegetable stall that she runs with all of her prized produce. You’re cutting up samples of watermelon and, of course, your presence draws a big enough crowd that your grandma sells out quickly.

“If business can be this good with you around, maybe you should move home,” she beams. 

“Good to know that I’m only useful for marketing,” you drawl with a teasing lilt.

“Oh, honey, what can I say? You’re not much help around the farm.”

You feign a gasp and turn to Bucky who’s chuckling to himself on the sidelines. “You’re not gonna defend my honor? After all I did for you this week?”

“Was that before or after you broke the new stepladder we got?” Bucky prompts.

With a roll of your eyes, you wave the two of them off and continue to slice up the fruits. “Two traitors, that’s what the two of you are.”

Before either could respond, a man comes up to your booth. He’s tall. He’s blonde. He’s rather handsome, if you liked the all-American sort of thing. He’s got blue eyes like Bucky but not even half as bright or kind. “That looks like a good one, sweetheart. How about cutting me up a slice?”

The sweetheart is like ice rolling down your spine. You force out a trained smile. “‘Course. I can even give you a bigger one if you promise to buy a whole watermelon from us.”

He strokes his chin thoughtfully. “You drive a hard bargain but you have yourself a deal.”

You flash your prettiest grin at him; you know exactly what men like him need. A little stroke of his ego and you’ve got a hook, line, and sinker. As you’re pushing the knife into the fruit, you feel a sudden warmth next to you.

Bucky. His shoulders are squared, eyes partially narrowed. “John.”

“Bucky,” the man — John — smiles easily in response to Bucky’s tight lip curl. “It’s been a while, man. How’s the farm?”

“Good.”

Curt. Terse. Very unlike Bucky who you’ve grown to understand is very talkative. “Good to hear,” John responds, voice light, “I see you’ve got yourself a pretty new helper. A famous one at that. Bet you’re the reason the stall’s doing extra well today, sweetheart.”

You open your mouth to respond but Bucky beats you to it. “She’s great. Why don’t you run along now? I’m sure there are other people you can pester today.”

“Pester? Now, am I being a bother to you, sweetheart?”

Yes, but you’re not going to give Bucky that satisfaction. Something about this man irks Bucky. Not a lot of things can get under his skin, which only piques your interest further. So you slap on a saccharine-sweet smile. “No, definitely not. He’s a customer, Bucky. Play nice. He’s buying a whole watermelon and two squashes today.”

“Am I?” A flicker of surprise crosses his eyes, fading into a humored sparkle.

“You are, sir.”

“Well, if the lady says so, then it must be true.”

You let out a giggle, one that you know will grate on Bucky’s nerves. The two of you continue to make light conversation as you offer John a sample and John seems to take his time nibbling on the slice while he looks you up and down. You don’t like his look, but you do like the color on Bucky’s face right now. The perfect shade of green that you’ve been waiting for.

Because of that, you can’t help yourself. You up the ante a little bit — giggling a little more, flicking your hair over your shoulder, batting your eyelashes at him. Throughout your entire conversation, you can practically hear Bucky’s blood rushing in his veins. Jealousy is a good look on him.

Still, he doesn’t say a thing — at least, not until John finally, finally walks away. You didn’t know how much longer you could’ve pretended to find him entertaining; stale jokes were never your foreplay of choice.

“He’s bad news, you know,” Bucky utters next to you.

You’re busy cutting up the last of the samples as you reply with a light, “Sometimes I like bad news.”

He frowns. “You can’t be serious. Him of all people?”

“If not him, then who?” You deadpan, turning to look at him.

Bucky’s mouth opens then promptly slams shut. He once again appears to want to say something but he’s holding back, biting his tongue. Coward.

“Hey, kids, I’m just going to check on Mr. Oliver over there. He’s been getting harassed by that developer I told you about, James. Start cleaning up, we should be good to head back soon.” Your grandma ducks out of the stall and disappears.

You raise an eyebrow at Bucky. “James?”

“My first name,” Bucky shrugs.

“James,” you repeat — then it clicks, “James the Jester! I remember now. Oh, you were such a crybaby.”

At that, a deep scarlet blush sprawls across his face, up to the tips of his ears. “I was not. You were just evil. Instead of princess, I used to call you the wicked witch of the west.”

You bark out a laugh. “Yeah, I bet you did. Grandma told me you’d let me do whatever I wanted.”

“You were a spoiled princess after all.”

Ignoring that comment, you choose to ask, “What’s going on with Mr. Oliver?”

“Developers have been coming around these parts to try and turn it into something more modern. They’ve been offering hefty amounts to buy out property owners in the area. Talks about luxury apartments and a shopping mall.”

“Who in the world would pay for luxury apartments around here?” You crinkle your nose.

Bucky shrugs, his hat tipping forward. “Who knows? Guess they found a market for it.”

“That kind of sucks.”

“Yeah, the town’s been trying to fundraise to help support a lot of these small businesses to make sure they can stay afloat. Otherwise, they’ll get priced out and before you know it, everyone’s going to be gone.”

While the idea of a shopping mall does appeal to you, you hate the thought of losing this place. Neighbors who know each other by name. People who come from near and far, spanning generations and building relationships for years to come. All the lush greenery, soft sunlight filtering through the leaves, the crisp fresh air. The idea of all of that replaced by a concrete jungle is a nightmare.

“How much have y’all raised so far?”

Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Not a lot. It’s tough to get funds out here when folks barely make anything for themselves. We need some outside help but it’s not easy, not many care about a small place like this.”

But you do. You care. This is your home. No matter how many times you’ve avoided coming back, or how much you try to deny the past, this is where you came from. If you lose this place, who would you be?

“Why don’t we throw a fundraiser? I could do something. I don’t need to be the main attraction but I could help bring people out. We could sell tickets, do a little open mic night.”

“You’d do that?” His eyebrows practically jump to his hairline.

You give him a look. “You think that lowly of me?”

“No, not that I don’t think you’d do it,” Bucky quickly clarifies, “It’s just— it’s obviously a lot to ask when you’re trying to stay incognito here.”

“I just have to convince my dad.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Dad!” You say at the same time your grandma scolds her eldest son with his full government name.

“I didn’t come here so you could be the center of attention,” he brushes off, “again.”

“This is different.”

“This is going to attract unwanted press.”

“This is the kind of press we want.”

The two of you are locked in a stare-down with your grandma and Bucky standing on the sidelines, waiting for one of you to be the first to break.

“In all fairness, she is doing it for a good cause,” your grandma chimes in the hopes of alleviating your father’s wrath.

“Sounds to me like she’s trying to get back in the spotlight. What if the press says this is all pretense to clean up her act? What if it brings unneeded scrutiny to our small town?”

You let a heavy exhale escape. Your eyes fly to the ceiling only for the briefest of seconds before you redirect your gaze to your dad. “Honestly, they can say what they want. At this point, they’ll pick on anything I do. It doesn’t matter if I have good intentions — or even if I don’t do anything at all, they’re going to find something to be upset about. They’ll twist everything I do to fit their narrative because that’s what they do. It shouldn’t stop me from living my life — or supporting things that I care about.”

Three pairs of eyes land on you. You try not to squirm but the weight of their attention is enough to make you shift. You look at Bucky first — his eyes are soft, understanding almost. He saw firsthand what it’s like to be in the spotlight, chased after in the middle of the most menial activities. Friendship twisted into a scandal.

These people are vultures and, while there’s nothing you can ultimately do to stop them, you have control in the way you respond and behave. In this case, perhaps the only correct response is to stop caring.

Your life is yours and you need to stop listening to these assholes who think that they know you, who think that they can shape your reputation to the image of you they have in their heads.

Your father looks thoughtful, almost surprised by your words. He’s silent, mulling over it for a moment before he looks at you. He’s searching your eyes — for any doubt or uncertainty — but he finds none of it. Because you haven’t been this sure of anything in a long time.

“Alright, fine. We’ll make it a community event. We won’t use your name because we don’t need a frenzy; this may be a small town but you’re not a small name, darling. I don’t need to hire security for a fundraiser. However, we can sell tickets to a live stream that will ultimately go to supporting this town. Hopefully that helps alleviate the traffic.”

You’re throwing your arms around him before he even finishes his sentence. “Thank you! Thank you!”

He chuckles, “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you. I’m expecting you to do a lot of the planning.”

“Wait, what?” You balk, jerking back.

“You proposed this so you need to see it through.”

A pout forms on your lips. “But—”

“I’ll help,” Bucky cuts in, mouth stretched into a proud grin. “You’re doing enough already. Just get yourself ready. I can help organize the live feed.”

“You can set up a livestream?” You ask, doubt creeping into your voice.

He smirks, “Such little faith. I know my way around technology. Trust me on this, princess.”

You’re not one to argue with him so you can only nod. “Okay then, let’s do this.”

Things come together relatively quickly in the next couple of days. You spend most of your time figuring out how to make your extremely pop songs acoustic with minimal support from a local band. True to his word, Bucky does eventually set up the live stream and even does a little test to make sure it works.

“Smile.”

You force out a grin before it’s quickly wiped away from your face. “Are we good?”

“You’ve got something on your face. I think it’s the whipped cream from the waffles earlier.”

Your hand immediately flies to the corner of your mouth. Clearly it doesn’t work because then Bucky’s coming up to you. His hand reaches up, thumb brushing gently over the corner of your lips, swiping along the bottom. As if possessed, he sticks his thumb in his mouth and sucks it clean.

His eyes don’t leave you once.

Your heart slams against your ribs, core squeezing. You don’t get a chance to question him before he’s clearing his throat and pulling away with a quiet “got it.”

With all the marketing up, the event comes together fast. In a blink of an eye, you’re in this large backyard space with fairy lights strung across trees, tables for the buffet that your grandma has cooked up, and a makeshift stage where the band has set up. It’s beautiful and cozy. Perfect.

Instead of wearing one of your usual concert getups, the bedazzled bodysuits with matching rhinestoned boots, you opt for something more casual. A find from a thrift store and Bucky’s flannel layered over you; the latter isn’t by choice, he took one look at how much skin you were revealing and insisted you would be too chilly.

With your guitar propped up on your well-worn sneaker, you take a deep breath.

“Ready?” Your dad asks, bumping his shoulder against yours.

“Yeah. Of course. I do this all the time.”

The corner of his lips quirk up. “It’s alright to be nervous, you know.”

You worry your bottom lip, turning to look at him. “I’ve done this a billion times before. Why am I so worried?”

“Because it matters this time, because you care, and that’s a good thing,” he soothes, placing a hand on your shoulder. “I’ll be right there with you.”

“What if nobody else wants to perform? I’m only singing at the end. What if nobody participates?”

“Darling, you know your grandmother. She’d get up there and start the macarena if she has to get the party going.” A giggle rises from your chest. “You’ve got good people here and everyone’s here for a good cause.”

“If it’s dead silent, maybe I can get Bucky to get up there,” you snort softly, “he apparently had been my court jester in the past.”

Your dad lets out a tiny grunt. It’s one that most people won’t blink twice at, but you know him better than that. 

“What’s with that sound?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. That’s the sound you make when the spare ribs don’t fall off the bone. So what gives?”

“I don’t like that boy.”

You shoot him a look. “You don’t like any boy.”

“That’s also true.”

“Grandma says he’s one of the good ones.”

It’s your dad’s turn to give you a look. “He’s a boy. There are no good ones.”

Your lips curl into a smirk. “I haven’t seen you go all protective in a while.”

“Well, none of them were serious before. This one — this one looks like the type who can break your heart.”

Both your glances wander over to Bucky who’s helping your grandma set up the food table. It’s still early enough that nobody’s filtered in but you expect a good showing. Tickets are basically close to selling out, the space will hopefully be at capacity. You’ve raised a good amount of money already and that doesn’t even include the massive success of the live stream sales.

But Bucky — heaven-sent Bucky. He really is a good one. In your world, that usually means that he is too good to be true. Someone always wants something. Whether it’s fame or fortune — or both, you’re merely a gateway to it. You’ve lost most of your trust in humanity since you started succeeding; your industry mentors tell you that’s how you know you’ve made it.

However, you’re not in your world right now. Not fully at least. So maybe you’re allowed to hold onto that tiny piece of hope that things may just work out with him.

“I know,” you murmur. “Let’s hope he doesn’t.”

Your dad wraps an arm around you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m going to check on your grandma. Break a leg out there. You did good, kid. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad,” you smile softly up at him. “For trusting me this and… for bringing me back here.”

“Anytime, darling.”

Just as your dad said, the party comes into full swing in the next thiry minutes. There’s no shortage of people wanting to perform — anything from singing to dancing and even standup comedy (though this last one is a little bit questionable when you hear the awkward filtering of laughter through the crowd).

People hop onto the makeshift dance floor for the next performer. An upbeat number that has everyone twirling and shimmying all over. You glance at Bucky only to find that he’s already looking right back at you.

Ask me to dance, you idiot. You raise an eyebrow and Bucky only coughs and shifts his eyes away.

You roll your eyes. If he doesn’t do something soon, you may end up taking matters into your own hands.

“Now, what’s a pretty lady like you doing all alone here?” The familiar voice interrupts your irritation. John. He’s got that boyish smile on his face again. “Would you care to join me for a dance?”

You look to Bucky again, finding him already looking at the both of you with stone-cold eyes. Well, if he’s not going to do anything about this, then you might as well find another form of entertainment.

Sliding your hand over John’s outstretched one, you nod. “I’d be delighted.”

John’s a decent dancer. He spins you around, matches your rhythm, and still manages to make conversation throughout. He asks you about life in California, if you have anything exciting coming up soon. You give him noncommital answers about how you’re working on your next album.

“I sure hope you’d save me a backstage pass for your next tour.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” you force out a smile.

On top of that, he’s too handsy for your taste. His grip starts safe on your hips before they drift a little too low like he’s trying to reach for your ass. You have to carefully navigate away from him every time he does that.

“Anything going on between you and Barnes?” John asks.

You look at Bucky again. His gaze has been burning a hole through your skull and probably John’s. As much as the two of you try to ignore it, it’s near impossible to not feel the weight of his impressively intense stare.

“No, nothing,” you answer honestly.

“He looks like he wants to cut off my head,” he chuckles.

“That’s just his normal face,” you brush off brusquely.

“If you say so.”

However, when this song ends, you feel another pair of hands on your waist that quickly manhandles you to land with an oof against a firm chest. You look up to find Bucky who’s now holding your hand and your waist for a spin around the floor. When you glance back at John, he looks none too pleased and stomps off in another direction.

“You don’t like to share your toys, do you?” You smirk.

“I don’t share, period,” he mutters.

“Then you should’ve claimed your prize from the start.”

Bucky’s brows meet in the middle. “You’re not… a prize,” he begins, “you’re more than that. I didn’t— I didn’t know how to even begin to approach you.”

“You had no problem berating the shit out of me when I fucked up the horse and chicken feed.”

His shoulders shake with laughter. “That’s different. That’s my area of expertise.”

“And this isn’t?”

His lips thin. “I’m not… experienced with all this.” He clears his throat, “Romance. Women.”

“You’re kidding,” you blurt out before you can stop it. He shakes his head. “You look like this and you’re telling me you don’t have experience with people?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean you’re hot, Barnes.” Bucky jolts back in surprise. “Come on, that is not news to you. I’ve seen at least five girls come up to you in the time John and I danced.”

His fingers tighten on your waist. “They wanted me to introduce them to you.”

“That’s an excuse to approach you. They probably wanted a dance.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Bucky huffs, “How would you know?”

“Because that’s what I would do. You’re a catch, Bucky.”

“High compliment coming from you.”

You swat his chest playfully. “Playing humility when you are anything but isn’t a good look, Mr. Barnes.”

“I’ve only got eyes for one. Always have,” Bucky mumbles, hand squeezing yours.

“Yeah? How long has that been? Since we were kids?” You tease lightly, fully expecting him to scoff and call you ludicrious.

However, the sheepish look that settles on his face has you gaping.

Before you can question it further, your dad is announcing your performance next. Bucky nudges you towards the front with a small smile. “Go get ‘em, princess.”

It’s a bit of a blur of you getting up there and preparing yourself for your first performance in a while. It’s one thing to be on a stage with hundreds of thousands silhouettes watching you, it’s another to be able to see every single face in the crowd waiting for you with bated breath.

Your fingers circle the neck of your guitar, fingertips pressed firm against the strings. The steel bites into your skin but your focus is really only on the people before you.

“Hi, everyone. I just wanted to say a very big thank you again for coming out tonight. I hope everyone’s havin’ a good time!” The crowd explodes in cheers and applause. “We’re all here because we love this town and I’m happy that I have the opportunity to contribute to saving it. There’s no other place like home. A big shoutout to all the viewers watching from the comfort of their houses as well, we couldn’t have done it without you. Without further ado, I hope you all enjoy this last segment of the evening.”

The rapid beating inside your chest is a drum against your ribs. Your eyes trawl over the crowd, over strangers’ faces and familiar ones. Your dad who shoots you a proud grin, your grandma who’s waving her fist in encouragement, and Bucky — Bucky who smiles soft and nods at you.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of motions. Once you finish your set, you’re greeted by a round of congratulations when you step off stage. Your hand hasn’t cramped from signing autographs in a bit but you relish in the attention. Whenever you look up, you catch Bucky watching from the sidelines.

I’ve only got eyes for one. Always have.

The echo of his words have your ears burning.

By the time you finally make it back to him, the crowd has thinned, with only a smattering of close friends and family still chattering over food.

“Sometimes I forget how good you are live,” Bucky says, a tinge of awe in his voice.

“Please, when was the last time you heard me live?”

His teeth catches his bottom lip for a second before he clears his throat. “Your Nashville show last year.”

You can hear your jaw land on the floor. “You went?” He shrugs. “Why didn’t you tell me? I invited grandma but she couldn’t make it out.”

“You didn’t know me, princess,” Bucky chuckles.

Well, he’s not entirely strong. But still. “Grandma could’ve told me. You shouldn’t have to pay.”

“Why not? I’m supporting a good cause, aren’t I?”

You exhale a laugh. “So I’m a charity case now?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny—” Your punch on his arm gets you a laugh, it probably felt like a tingle. “I didn’t want to be one of those people who pulled that card. We haven’t spoken in years and I would’ve gone anyway even without the free ticket.”

Bucky needs to stop giving your heart reasons to shift towards him. You haven’t been in love in a very long time, and you’re not sure you’re ready for it yet — especially not with a man as good as him, one you cannot bring into your world.

“Plus, I was talking Madeline. Her mom’s our foreman.”

“Playing chaperone, cute,” you murmur. “Next time, just shoot me a text. You have my number. My dad or someone else can arrange something.”

“Noted, appreciated.”

You wring your fingers behind your back, hiding evidence of your nerves. “So, I sound good? I’m not sure how the music would play out without the usual production, acoustic felt more fitting here—”

“It was great, seriously. I was reading the comments from the stream and everybody loved it. A lot of them seemed to have been fans for a while and they were happy to see you perform like this again.”

It reminds you of the smaller gigs you used to play — coffee shops and dive bars before you were promoted to opening for bigger artists and then going into your own sold-out world tour. Part of what you were missing in your work is that connection with the fans, doing more intimate engagement for your more loyal listeners.

“Yeah, I think it would be fun to do something like this once in a while,” you smile.

“Well, if you need a tech guy, you know where to find me.”

You roll your eyes but your lips twitch into an amused smile. “Come on, let’s go help my grandma clean up.”

“Hey,” Bucky catches your hand just as you turn, drawing your attention back to him. You cock an eyebrow in question. He scratches his cheek, looking almost… nervous? “Are you doing anything tomorrow? I thought we could go for a ride. A picnic maybe.”

“We’ve done that before,” you say slowly, puzzled, “but I’m down.”

“Okay, yeah, sounds good.”

That’s when it hits you. “Bucky Barnes, are you trying to ask me out on a date?” The laugh that slips past your lips has Bucky tinting red as he swallows and pulls away from you. You realize then that he may think you’re poking fun at him. “Wait, no, don’t do that. I wasn’t— I wasn’t teasing you, promise. I think it’s cute.”

Bucky’s mouth twists a little. If you didn’t know him so well, you wouldn’t have known that he was sulking. It’s such a tiny reaction that you could miss it if you blinked.

“Bucky, come on. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Yeah, I know.” Does he? “I know I’m probably not as… I don’t know, cool as all the guys you’ve dated before but—”

You take his hand in yours and squeeze. “No, that’s not it at all. I’ve just— I’ve been waiting for a bit for you to make your move. Even now, you’re still beating around the bush. Just ask me out, Buck.”

He chuckles, ears still red. “Alright, will you go on a date with me?”

“Yes, yes, I will,” you grin, “now, was that so hard?”

“Might be harder than getting back on a horse after a decade.”

You gasp, “That’s uncalled for.” He beams sweetly right back at you, turning your hands so that he’s holding yours now. It’s your turn to warm to the tips of your toes. “Okay, let’s go help grandma, casanova.”

The ride shouldn’t be any different. You’ve done this route a million times before. You’ve done this ride and this picnic thing with Bucky before. You shouldn’t feel like your heart is about to burst out of your chest any second now. Maybe it’s time to summon your on-call doctor to make sure it’s not a seizure.

“You’re fine, you’re just nervous,” Yelena says from your laptop. “I think you should go for the lace top, it makes your tits look great.”

You pick up the flimsy piece of fabric. “I’m not nervous. I don’t get nervous for dates. I definitely do not get nervous for a man.”

As you tug the shirt over your head, Yelena laughs, “Nobody knows that I’m getting a strip tease from a five-time Grammy winner.”

Tossing a withering look over your shoulder, you shrug on the top. “I’m serious, Yelena. This isn’t cool. I’m not being cool.”

“No, you’re being a girl with a crush.”

“I’m this nation’s favorite pop performer. I don’t get crushes.”

“Sweetheart, you’ve been there a little over a week and I’ve never seen you smile this much.” That explains why your cheeks are aching. “Face it, you’re head over heels for this man.”

You rub your face furiously. “God, this is so uncool. What if he’s making me uncool?”

“Then you guys can be uncool together.”

“That’s not an option,” you grumble, “what do you think?” You do a few turns in front of the floor-length mirror.

“Perfect. They grow up so fast,” Yelena mocks a tear.

“You’re a terrible friend.”

“I’m the bestest friend. Seriously though, you deserve to have a bit of fun. I think he’s good for you.”

“You’ve never met him.”

She gives you a look, one that is both chiding and soft. “But I know you and you haven’t been like this in a long time.”

Instead of acknowleding her words and potentially the gravity of your feelings, you instead choose to tease her. “Since when are you such a lovergirl?”

“Since I realized it makes you less of an asshole.”

“Rude.”

“You love me.”

“I do,” you grin.

“Have fun, kiddo.”

You’ve heard Bucky hustling and bustling outside since this morning. You, on the other hand, take your sweet time getting ready. Makeup light and pristine, nothing that would smudge even if you dunked your head underwater. Not a hair out of place. You’ve tested a few perfumes and there’s one that Bucky always leans towards so you spray a little on your neck and your wrists.

By the time you come downstairs ten minutes before the time he promised, you find him in the kitchen cooking with your grandma. Your dad is giving him dirty looks from the dining table.

“Morning, sunshine,” your grandma smiles, “don’t you look lovely today?”

“You’re saying I don’t look lovely everyday?”

“You have your days,” she jests with a pat on your cheek.

Bucky slides up next to you next, an appropriate amount of distance in front of your family. “Morning,” he murmurs, “you look beautiful.”

“I know,” you try to play it off but your heart feels just about ready to combust. “You ready?”

“Packed and ready to roll.”

You roll your eyes but can’t bite down on your smile in time. “You’re so lame.”

He only chuckles.

“I don’t need to give you the talk, do I?” Your dad chimes in next, glare darting between the two of you, before landing solidly on Bucky. “No funny business. I expect you to be on your best behavior. Curfew is at—”

“Oh my god, Dad!” You snap with your own scowl at him. “We’re not kids. We’ll be back whenever we’re back.”

“Still living under my roof, darling.”

“Technically my roof,” your grandma chirps and gives her son a scalding look. She turns to the two of you with a gentle smile. “Take your time. Have fun. Be safe.”

“But—”

Your dad’s full government name rolls off her tongue again and he immediately clamps his mouth shut. You’re pushing Bucky out of there before he can interrupt again.

“I’m so sorry,” you grouse, “he’s so overprotective sometimes.”

“He means well. I can see why he would be,” Bucky says as he leads you towards your horses.

“He’s overbearing is what he is,” you mutter as you hop on your horse. He makes sure that you’re settled safely before he climbs on his own horse.

The both of you set out on your usual route, your horses galloping deep into the woods as far as they can go. You take it all in — the fresh hair, the abundance of nature, the untouched beauty. It’s hard to imagine that you’ve been privileged enough to experience this life for the past week, let alone remember how this had been your life growing up. It’s even harder to imagine losing all of this. The nature in your gated apartment complex doesn’t feel natural. It feels necessary. 

Out here, it just… exists.

Sometimes, you miss that — simply existing. If anything, this trip has become a reminder for you to come home more often and visit your grandma — and now, Bucky.

“You seem deep in thought.” Speak of the devil, he’s unpacking the lunch he’s tucked into his backpack. A selection of sandwiches in ziploc bags, fruits perfectly sliced and peeled, and pastries to top it all off. The food is simple but delicious and you can tell a lot of care has been placed into the prep — crusts off the bread, lightly toasted, fruits fresh and ripe, and pastries sweet.

Your stylist is going to tear you a new one when she realizes you no longer fit into your usual sizing. However, right here, right now, you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Thinking about how nice it is out here,” you sigh, gaze wandering to the world around you.

The two of you are perched on a rock at the base of a waterfall after a casual stride on your horses and a quick hike down to the stream. The symphony of water pouring down from the cliff mixed in with the sounds of birds singing in the distance and the rush of a coursing river — all of this brings you some semblance of peace. It reminds you of the quiet, the isolation. Things you could never have in the big, urban city you now call home.

Bucky laughs. “It’s always going to be here, you know. You just need to come back more often.”

“My schedule is crazy enough as is,” you stomp down on the urge to whinge like a child, “I’d love to pre-book my vacations but when opportunities come up, I have to prioritize that. I have to stay relevant. Things change so much in this day and age. In a blink of an eye and I could be rendered a has-been.”

“Have faith in your most loyal fans, you have plenty of those.”

Your eyes track the movement of the clouds above as they trail across the bright blue sky. “Maybe,” you sigh, “I’m just tired.”

Bucky tucks in close next to you, bumping your shoulder with his as he plucks a grape from the vine for you. You take it gratefully and pop it into your mouth, the sweetness bursting on your tongue.

“Maybe, what you need is to cool off.” You frown at him. He nods his head towards the waterfall. “There’s an old rope some kids put up a while back.” He points in the direction of the trees. “The water’s deep enough to break the fall.”

Aghast, you make your dismay very, very clear. “You want me to jump in there? Wearing this?”

“Unless you prefer to strip down, which I think only one of us would mind.”

Your fist lands a punch on his bicep. “Perv,” you mutter.

“Live a little,” he encourages as he jumps to his feet. He begins the short trek up the stairs, towards a small landing where a thick chord of rope hangs from a tree. His fingers curl around it tight, then he’s launching himself off and crashing straight into the water.

Your heart jerks in your chest as you peer over the rock into the water, waiting for him to surface. Bucky comes up for air with a huge splash, grinning as he slicks his hair back with his hand.

“The water’s fantastic.”

“You’re insane,” you deadpan. “I’m absolutely not doing that.”

“Man, here I thought you were finally free of the stick up your ass—” you gasp, he laughs, “—but I guess I was wrong.”

“I do not have a stick up my ass. Sue me for not wanting to get soaking wet in a Prada top.”

Bucky leans back, hands reaching up to wipe the water from his face again. It’s then you notice his t-shirt clinging onto his arms — like second skin that does nothing to mask the thick muscles that could probably lift you with a finger. “You can always buy more Prada. You can’t buy another day like today.”

“Think I’ll take my chances.”

“Alright, princess. I didn’t know you forgot how to have fun. You used to be the one who took me out here, would be the first one to jump in too before you dragged me in with you.”

That ticks you off. Your jaw clenches and you finally rise to your feet. Screw him for thinking you’d ruin your perfectly nice outfit for this. Your fingers catch the hem of your shirt before you’re tugging it over your head, then you shimmy out of your shorts.

“Wait, you’re really—”

“What? Never seen a girl in her underwear before?” You smirk, climbing up to where he stood only moments ago. Bucky looks even redder in contrast against the pool of blue.

You look at the rope and take a deep breath. You’ve done this before. You can do this. It’s just a swing and a jump. After that, you black out and by the time you come to, you’re already soaked from head to toe, coming up for air with a gasp as the water laps cool against your skin. You still hear the echo of your scream before you crashed into the pool.

“Shit, it’s freezing. You didn’t warn me.”

Bucky chuckles as he swims closer towards you. “Doesn’t it feel nice?”

“Feels like I’m about to catch a cold.”

The two of you splash around for a little while, Bucky even coming out only to jump back in and drench you in another wave. Your screech echoes in the quiet of the forest, muffled only by the waterfall behind you.

He looks at you when he comes up, grinning as he approaches you. His hand reaches up to drag the wet strands of your hair away from your face, fingertips brushing your cheek. His touch is cool but your entire body feels like it’s been set on fire.

You’re well aware of how little you’re wearing, even more so when the thin fabric sticks to your wet skin. Your nipples are stiff in the chill, pushing against the material, and you can feel your panties squeezing between your cheeks.

Your arms wrap around yourself, partly because of the cold, but mostly because Bucky’s watching you a little too closely. His eyes travel down your neck where strands of your hair are clinging to your skin, to your collarbones, down to the valley of your breasts that peek up from above the water.

You see his throat move as he swallows. Blue finds you. The color a shade or two darker as he assesses you, drinks the sight of you in. Instead of addressing it, he begins to move towards the surface where he manages to stand, water kissing his calves. You follow after him slowly.

He turns around then, looking at you when you come close enough. There’s a depth to his gaze that you can’t read, but you’re almost too scared to ask.

“What?” You try to play off.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. Gentle. Honest.

“You’re just saying that because I’m practically naked,” you taunt, fully aware of how much you’re showing now that you’re out of the water.

“I’m saying that because you look incredibly tempting right now and I think I’ll have a hard time keeping my hands off you. For both our sakes, I recommend that you put on some clothes right now.”

Your breath catches, snagging in your lungs. The words that depart your lips are one born from days of frustration and longing. An honest, desperate question. “What makes you think you have to?”

Bucky inhales sharp, deep. “Do you know what you’re saying right now, princess?”

“I am,” you respond calmly, though your voice wavers.

He takes a step closer and suddenly you’re backing up against a large boulder, the cold surface kissing the swell of your ass.

His hand stretches out. His touch ghosts over your skin, hand trailing lightly over your hip where the hem of your panties rests, traveling up to your waist, right beneath the wiring of your bra, fingertips brushing over your exposed torso. Your breath hitches in your throat, chest rising as your lungs expand. Bucky’s blue eyes, warm where they’re focused on how his large palm moves over your stomach, flicks up to meet yours.

“This okay?” He whispers.

You only manage a nod.

“You’re gorgeous, princess.”

The pet name crawls up your spine and grips your lungs. You’re too busy looking at how Bucky’s lips look, the way they part, and his eyes, pupils blowing up to swallow the blue, to notice how his hand is slowly creeping up your bare stomach. His hand leaves a trail of fire where it crawls up to your chest, burning through your skin when he cups you gently.

He lets out a garbled sound. “Fuck, you’re so soft.”

“Generally how tits are, Barnes,” you try to tease.

A flush sprawls across his neck. “You’re such a brat. I should really shut you up.”

“Why don’t you try?”

Bucky doesn’t hesitate before he seals his lips over yours, drinking in the surprised little gasp you let out. He gulps down your whimper as you arch your back into his touch. His touch grows bolder, stronger, as he squeezes your breast over the fabric. His hand wanders to the space between the rock and your back, fingers deft as they quickly work to unbutton your bra.

“I don’t like how you did that so quickly,” you mumble against his lips. “Have you been practicing with other girls?”

“Just good with my fingers,” he chuckles.

“Good answer,” you grin.

He slides the material off your body, leaving you open for the taking. A low growl rises up his throat as he gropes your breasts harder, fingers finding your nipples, and relishes in the small moans you make. He takes his time with it, kneading your tits to the shape of his hand, kissing you warm and slow — all the while heat accumulates between your legs and you’re reduced into a quivering puddle in his hands.

But he doesn’t let you slip; he presses you back against the stone, his touch cool and warm, a chemical reaction against your skin. He distracts you from the chill, moving his mouth languidly against yours. God, kissing him feels like the first touch of summer after a long winter. He tastes like the icing on the cake he brought, sweetness that melts on your tongue. His hand — a working man’s hands — are rough where his palms are calloused, creating delicious friction with the way it rubs up against your delicate skin.

“Bucky, come on,” you whine.

“Patience,” he only says as his lips trail to the corner of your lips to imprint kisses that leave you wanting more. Much, much more.

“Move it along, Barnes, or I’m gonna have to find someone to do the job for you.”

Bucky pulls back abruptly, your stomach sinks. His eyes are dark as they look at you, lips set into a firm, irritated line. “You’ve really got such a mouth on you,” he snarls, “been wantin’ to put you in your place, princess. You keep running your mouth, just waiting for someone to tell you to behave.”

Oh. Oh, you shouldn’t like that this much. But you do. And Bucky knows you do.

His lips curl into a smirk. “Is that it? You need someone to teach you some manners again?” Bucky’s nose brushes over the pulse in your neck, feeling it stutter beneath him. “I can do that for you — all you have to do is listen.”

An expletive slips past your lips and Bucky brushes his lips over yours again, teeth nipping on your bottom lip.

“Language, princess.”

A whimper climbs out your throat. “I want you.”

“I know you do,” he says, voice gliding over your skin like silk, “but you need to be patient. Can you be a good girl for me? Can you listen to me?”

You nod, your entire vocabulary flaking into ashes as he smooths his palm back down your body. You don’t register when he slides it over your hip, you barely register his hand cupping the warmth of your pussy, your ass raising to give him access. It’s only when his index finger traces the line on your panties where the fabric sinks into you does your gasp wake you from your stupor.

“I can tell you’re so wet already,” he whispers, disbelief clinging to his syllables, “is this all for me?” Your breathing stammers an uneven staccato in your chest. “Tell me it’s for me.”

“‘S for you,” you choke out.

“Good girl,” he breathes out, “shit, you’re so wet. I can feel you through this lace.”

Your hands instinctively fly to cover yourself up as much as you can, cheeks flaming and it’s not from the heat.

“Gettin’ shy on me?”

“What if someone sees?” You hiss, but the sound melts into a whimper when Bucky starts to trail his finger up and down your slit over the mesh that barely hides you.

“Nobody comes out this way. Just you and me, princess.”

Your protest dies when Bucky tugs your panties to the side, sliding his finger along your slick folds, brushing over your clit until your voice splits into a long groan. He peppers your face with kisses, enough to sear a mark onto your skin that you’ll feel for weeks. All the while, his fingers tease you open slowly, coaxing moans from your lips as he dips his fingers in only to leave you in the cold. He repeats the movement over and over until you’re squirming, your fingers catching his wrist to keep him going.

“Come on, Buck.”

“What is it?” He feigns confusion.

“Touch me.”

“I am touching you.”

Through gritted teeth, you manage to say, “Properly. Touch me like a man, you fucking coward.”

“I need to teach this mouth of yours some manners. Need you to ask me one more time.” Your lips stubbornly sew shut. “Come on, you can do it,” he coos.

It’s patronizing. It’s demeaning. You shouldn’t let him speak to you this way. You are a five-time Grammy winner, the nation’s favorite pop star, you don’t need a man to—

“I’ll finger you open properly if you ask me nicely. I’ll make sure you’re good and ready for my cock. I promise.”

Fuck. Your mouth moves before your brain can catch up. “Please.” The plea escapes you. “Please finger me, Bucky.”

“That’s a good girl,” he beams, “that’s my girl.”

Your insides positively melt. My girl. It shouldn’t be so easy to get to you. You’ve had your fair share of men who know what sweet nothings to whisper in your ear, so you shouldn’t be fazed by such a simple phrase.

But it’s different — because this is Bucky and the thing about Bucky is that he always means it.

When he calls you his girl, that means you’re his, and that’s that.

Your thighs fall apart as his finger finally pushes in, thick and intrusive to spark the fire in your core. He curls it inside of you, brushing up against your walls and you’re curling into him. He kisses you again, taking in the gasp that bubbles up your throat.

“My pretty girl,” he murmurs sweetly, “look at you. So easy for me when you’ve got something in this pussy of yours.”

The fuck you stops cold on your tongue when Bucky adds another finger in, stretching you out with a delicious burn that has you spilling needy little noises into his mouth.

“Such a good girl when you’re filled up. Who knew I could stop you from acting like such a brat just by stretching this gorgeous cunt open? I should’ve done this that first day. Should’ve made you spread your legs for me if you wanted my help.”

His name forms on your tongue, like his fingers are forcing you to say it out loud. To beg him.

“I can’t wait to have you wrapped around my cock. Bet you’d feel so tight, fit around me like a glove. I know you’ve had others before me, but I promise you none of them can make you feel as good as me. None of them will worship you the same way I will.”

“God, Bucky, please.”

“I know, I know,” he utters tenderly, “I’m here, princess. I’ll take good care of you. Tell me what you want.” His fingers spread inside of you, urging you to open up real good for him. “I need you to use your words for me.”

“You know what I want,” you whine, fingers clawing at his chest.

“I know, but we talked about this. I need you to be good for me and ask me nicely.”

Your eyes burn with embarrassment, chest blazing with the warmth of a thousand suns. “Bucky, please. I need you.”

He cocks an eyebrow as he fingers you open again, pumping his fingers in and out of you as he teases you with a third. His thumb finds your clit, finds the surprised, wanton-filled sound from your chest. He rubs you slowly, gentle as he once again asks you to pose your request.

“I want your cock. Please. Please,” you whine, “I want you to fuck me open.”

Bucky lets out a guttural moan as he covers your lips with his again, kissing you senseless, stealing every single breath from your lungs until you’re gasping for air as he finger-fucks you open. You’re soaking him, you can feel yourself leaking all over. You’d be more ashamed if you weren’t so caught up in the delirium of pleasure.

“Attagirl,” Bucky chuckles, kissing the top of your head. He moves fast — fingers ripping off your panties so you’re exposed to him. You don’t get the chance to complain about losing a very nice pair of underwear, not when he takes a second here, admiring the way your pussy glistens in the sunlight. You’re suddenly shy, hands moving to shield yourself again, but he moves faster, gripping them and pinning them down above your head. “Don’t hide from me. You look sweet like this. So vulnerable.”

He uses one hand to pin both of yours above your head, all the while he’s nudging your legs to open up further with his knee. Bucky looks bigger from your vantage point, height towering over you, blocking the sun until your line of sight is completely consumed by him. You hear hiz zipper being undone, but your focus is entirely on him.

“I’ve got a condom,” Bucky exhales, tugging at the seams of your consciousness and rational thought. “In the bag.”

“You brought a condom? Were you expecting this to happen?”

“Expect, no. Hope? Always,” he offers a wry smile.

“Fuck a lot of girls in the woods, Barnes?”

Bucky stifles a laugh. “No, just the one,” he smiles, “just you.” For a second, the two of you simply stand with each other, stewing in the tension that hangs heavy in the air between you. “I should go get it first,” he says, making his move to pull away.

You aren’t sure what possesses you but then you find yourself grabbing him by the soaked collar of his shirt. He halts, eyes wide. “I’m clean,” you mumble, “I don’t want to wait.”

“Princess,” Bucky says slowly.

“Please, Buck.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“I’m clean, I promise you, I got tested after—”

“That’s not my concern,” he interrupts cautiously, “I’m asking if you’re sure about this. With me.”

You give a small nod. “I trust you.”

“Shit,” he hisses, “can’t say things like that and expect me not to fuck you stupid, princess.”

“Again, what makes you think you can’t?”

Bucky lets out a low roar that fuels the heat coiling tight inside your belly. Your eyes finally drift down to his cock in his hand and, like you’ve been unknowingly trained, you begin to salivate. Your mouth waters at the sight of the thick length, tip red and leaking. It twitches with need, moving towards you like it’s drawn.

He’s big. Bigger than anyone you’ve had before.

“I—” you start only for the words to choke out. Bucky raises a questioning brow.

“Did you change your mind? We can stop right now. Say the word.”

“No, that’s not it— I’m just—” you look at it for a heartbeat then two. “You’re really big,” you blurt out. “I don’t know if I can fit you.”

His lips twitch up into a smile, a mix of cocky confidence and amusement. “I’ll ease into you, princess. Promise it won’t hurt,” he says then pauses, “it might hurt a bit but you let me know if it gets too much, yeah?”

Your own giggle fizzles out when Bucky props up one of your legs, closing in on you with your folded thigh against his chest, and notches the head in your entrance. It’s a bit of a stretch, you can feel a slight sting, but your greedy pussy has other ideas. It opens up to him with the second nudge in, caving under the pressure much too quickly. You hate to admit how good he feels.

For a man who claims to have limited experience, Bucky seems to know exactly what to do. A vein on his forehead pulses as he slowly inches himself inside you, sweat beading his skin. His neck strains as he slowly sinks himself inside you, fucking up to bury himself deep inside your aching pussy.

A desperate whimper climbs out your throat. His name on your lips.

Bucky throws his head back, breathing in harshly through his nose. “You keep saying my name like that and I’m going to cum right now,” he rasps.

And because you can’t help yourslef, you do. You say his name again in a needy little cry that has him lifting you up with a growl, your legs wrapping around his torso as he shoves himself all the way inside you.

You’ve never felt so full before, inner thighs burning with his cock inflating inside you. His length stretches you open as he presses you back against the rock, leaning you back so he can properly fuck into you with deep, intentional thrusts.

“Look at this pretty pussy spread open for me,” Bucky groans, “you’re fuckin’ perfect. I’m gonna feed her my cock, gonna make sure she’s full.” His fingers bury in the flesh of your thighs as he drives himself deep inside you.

His other hand wanders to your neck, squeezing around the outside just enough to have your mind dizzy. His eyes search yours, vision glazed over as the pleasure slips through every crevice of your brain. Once he confirms that you’re okay, he tightens his grip enough to limit the airflow into your lungs, your breath hitching in your chest as he does so.

Bucky’s name leaves your lips in a hoarse whisper and he groans when he feels your core tighten around him. “My perfect girl, squeezing my cock like you’re tryin’ to milk me. You feel like you haven’t been touched in so long, princess. Was this all you needed to stop acting like a brat? If only people knew that the only way to get you to behave was to put a cock inside this pretty little cunt.” 

He reaches down between your legs and circles your clit until your moans pierce through the waterfall raining down behind you. You say his name over and over again, like a prayer. Like a plea. Your entire body shakes every time he thrusts deep inside you. Your heart stutters in your chest when you hear an unknown sound, your eyes flying to see if anyone’s witnessing the debauchery occurring out in the open. 

“Shit, princess, look at you,” he hisses when he looks down where the two of you are joined, “you’re creamin’ all over my cock. Soakin’ my cock so easy.”

“Bucky, please,” you manage to rasp, chest tight as the burning between your legs intensifies. 

You can feel it. It’s been a while, but it also has never been like this. A mind-numbing concoction of breathtaking pain and pleasure. Bucky’s cock opens you up, your folds swallowing him in like you’re desperate for more, like you need to fit as much of him in as possible.

The tip brushes up against the deepest parts of you and yet somehow it’s not nearly enough. Bucky mutters about how tight your pussy feels, how there’s no way anyone has been in here before.

“Not with how your cunt is choking me, princess,” he groans, fingers sinking deeper into your hip now. “She’s so sweet for me, practically sucking me in. I can’t wait to cum inside you.”

That has your panic flaring again, only for a second because then your stomach twists with the desire for exactly that — to be filled to the brim with him. 

“I’ve never—” you gasp, “I’ve never let anyone cum inside me.”

Bucky chuckles softly, leaning forward to kiss you again. It’s hypnotic how easily he has you putty in his hands. “Won’t you let me be the first?”

Your heart beats a little faster. You’ve never been good at saying no to him. Especially not when you want him as much as he does you.

“Yes,” you whimper, “please, cum inside me.”

Another deep groan resonates from his belly. “You’re going to be the death of me, princess. Spoilin’ me rotten like this, you’re gonna get me used to cummin’ inside this gorgeous cunt. I’m gonna have to be inside you everyday, never be able to sate myself unless my cock’s buried in this pussy.”

“Fuck, Bucky, I can’t—” oxygen is punched out of your lungs with every thrust, “I can’t hold it— I’m going to cum.”

“Cum for me, princess. Cum around my cock, need to feel you pulse around me,” Bucky groans.

Like the obedient girl that you are, you do. The orgasm wracks through your entire being, zapping through every nerve in your body. Your back lifts off the stone as you gasp, straight into Bucky’s touch. He buries his face into your neck as his body shudders, spilling liquid heat into you. 

The stickiness clings to your skin but the waterfall is cooling on your skin as you come down from your high. Bucky slumps on top of you, wet t-shirt between the two of you. You giggle breathlessly against his skin and feel him shake with laughter against you too, all the while his cock is still buried deep inside you. Twitching. 

“You’re a bad influence,” you mutter, smiling. 

“You’re one to talk, practically jumped me first chance you got,” Bucky chuckles and you hit him with a solid smack to his arm. “Let’s get out of here before you catch a cold.”

He pulls out of you slowly and you can feel his cum trickling down your leg. It stirs warmth inside of you again and, before you could think about quashing how good it feels, you watch as he moves towards the rocks to push himself up and out.

It certainly doesn’t help your still overeager libido to see how his back muscles move, traps flexing, as he lifts himself out before he turns to extend a hand to you. You take it and he looks away as you climb out of the water. He hands you his dry button-up, once again without looking back at you.

“Figured this would be warmer,” he clarifies.

“Thanks,” you mumble and slip your goosebump-riddled arms through the sleeves. The fabric is quick to absorb the water and your fingers make quick work to scrunch up and squeeze out water from your hair. Your hard work, down the drain.

Well, down to the bottom of the pool at least.

“Are you okay? Was I too—”

“Stop,” you wave a hand to halt him, “I’m fine. I’m not made of glass.” 

He murmurs an okay but still looks at you with that look in his face. For a moment, you think it’s some form of sympathy, but you quickly realize that it’s awe. He’s looking at you with the kind of adoration that has your heart doing somersaults in your chest. 

As fast as that feeling came, the one that follows is from your years of experience: fear. Trust is a fickle mistress in this industry. The last time you slept with someone, you ended up on the front pages of every entertainment site on the planet. Who’s to say this isn’t the same? It’s a quick money grab. Who doesn’t want another scandal with one of the most famous celebrities on the planet? Though, the payout is probably less now that you’ve already had one of these—

“Hey, what’re you thinking about?” Bucky’s hand is warm as it takes yours. His hair is still dripping, droplets landing on the blanket and your thigh as he leans closer. You open your mouth to deny his question, but he’s already shaking his head. “I can tell something’s goin’ on, princess. Tell me so I can fix it.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes. It’s a sweet thought. “It’s a personal thing, don’t worry,” you insist, but he’s not letting you go. His hand squeezing. Your teeth catch your bottom lip before you relent. “Trust. It’s not an easy thing when you’re in the spotlight. I’m tired of constantly second guessing people’s intentions, why they do what they do with me. I’m scared of being the subject of another public issue — mostly because it creates a massive headache for my team, including my dad. I just— I hate that I’m putting those around me in an uncomfortable position of having to defend my actions, even if I’m fully aware some of them are completely defensible, but the general public always has to have a witch on the stands right? It’s just the way the world works. Regardless of whether you’re a real villain or not, you’re put at the stake and subjected to the constant judgment.”

Bucky stiffens, lips tightening. He holds your hands closer to him. “You are not responsible for these shitty people and their behavior. None of this is your fault. You’re living your life, you’re defending yourself. You should never apologize for any of that,” he adds sternly. His hand trembles and his jaw stiffens. The fury rolls off him in waves and your heart liquifies at the sight. “Need you to know that you got a lot of people here — and out there — who love you and will protect you. We don’t give a shit what they say because we know you, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you whisper.

“So as long as you have us around, we won’t let anything happen to you. It’s not because we have to, but because we want to.” Your throat closes and the salt in your tears prick your eyes. Bucky throws an arm around you, pulling you close to kiss the top of your head. “We got you, princess.”

You would think that your unmeasurable need and curiosity would be satisfied from that one time with Bucky Barnes. You’ve never been more wrong. If anything, your desire for him has only grown — you can’t help how distracted you are by his hands, remembering how they feel on your hips, or his eyes that are icy when he’s irritated but thaw when they turn to you, or his cock—

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, drawing you out of your own thoughts. 

It is then you realize that you’ve been staring at his lap for far too long to be subtle. His question isn’t innocent. It’s a prompt. An invitation. Safe to say, when you find yourself with your back pressed against the barn walls and Bucky bullying his cock into you as he muffles his moans into your neck, fingers sinking into your ass firm enough to bruise, you accepted that invitation. 

Then you stare at his fingers a little too long when the two of you are at the bar for a night out with a few of his friends (who knew that this man even had friends?) and he takes you out the back door and presses his fingers inside you until you’re gasping for air, legs clenching together as he curls them in and whispers how you’re so fuckin’ wet out here in the open where anyone can walk out and see America’s favorite princess getting finger-fucked in an alleyway. 

And then again in your childhood bedroom with your creaky bed when your grandma and dad were out. And one more time by the waterfall, this time with your tits pressed against the rocks. And finally in his truck when the two of you don’t quite make it to the drive-in theater he promised. 

For once, you’re not thinking too far into the future. Bucky keeps you grounded in the moment. Between the times he spends kissing you, you manage to also get some writing done. Affection bleeding into your melody and lyrics as you pluck the strings to your guitar. Once, Bucky hears you playing a new one in the morning and tells you that that one’s going to be his new favorite song. He tells you that it sounds honest, more… you.

He doesn’t know that it’s inspired by him. 

In your last few days, you refuse to worry too much about what this all means once you leave. For all you know, this is an easy, temporary thing for Bucky. You’re a blip, a shooting star that’ll fizzle out the moment you leave. 

The thought hurts more than you expect. 

However, you at least wake up feeling rejuvenated. Maybe the world hasn’t completely destroyed every piece of you, maybe you can still find her somewhere inside of you. Your phone blares with a shrill noise and you are roused in irritation for the first time in a while.

“What?”

“Lovely way to greet your friend slash fierce protector,” Yelena snaps. You grumble about how early it is and how on earth are you awake right now. She hesitates briefly, which has you peeking an eye open from where your face is mushed against your pillow. “Have you checked your notifications?”

That’s never a good sign. 

You push yourself up and lean against your headboard, thumb immediately scrolling through the barrage of messages and news alerts on your screen. Your blood runs cold. The last time this happened—

“I’m sure it’s different,” Yelena chimes in first but your eyes are scanning through every word.

Your name. Bucky’s. Evidence. Sources close to the pair. Another sex scandal. Pictures and pictures and more pictures. Every single news outlet has published grainy pictures of the two of you, photos that look like they’ve been taken from behind bushes and trees. An absolute obliteration of your privacy.

Shame settles firmly in your gut. This is exactly why your dad brought you here — and yet here you are again. Fuck.

“I need to—” your breath catches in your throat. What do you need to do? What can you even do? The damage is done. It’s more red on your ledger and you’re running out of ways to wipe your slate clean. 

“Listen,” she interrupts softly, “I don’t want to add more to your plate but I talked to one of the reporters. They were apologetic but they had to report it. It seems like it came from someone who knows what you’ve been up to very well.”

“It’s a small town. Everyone knows what I’ve been doing,” you hiss, “better yet, who I’ve been doing. I just didn’t think anyone would sell me out after the shit I did.”

“You don’t think there’s a chance it could be— no, it couldn’t possibly.” She’s quiet, waiting for you to deny it, but the thickness in your throat doesn’t allow you to. “Right?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I’ve known him two weeks, Yelena. Maybe more if you count the memories I can barely remember but—”

What if this was his plan all along? All those years of tormenting him. All the shitty things you’ve said to him. You acting up— 

Been wantin’ to put you in your place, princess.

You shake your head. There’s absolutely no way. He said it in the moment, a comment meant to stir heat between your legs. 

But the voice inside your head, the one that insists that you doubt, is louder. It questions everything. Every interaction you’ve had with Bucky. Every touch, every kiss. It burns uncertainty into your skin until you see the creeping skepticism on the back of your hands. Because, at the end of the day, you don’t really know Bucky Barnes. Regardless of how much time you’ve spent with him the last couple of weeks, you’ve learned the hard way that anyone could put on an act, even — no, especially — ones as charming as him.

“You should talk to him first. I doubt he’s the one who spilled.”

You also doubt that you can say for certain that he isn’t. Swallowing thickly, you try to ignore how your heart feels like it’s been ripped out of your chest, beating bloody in the palm of his hand. His smile, one you always picture to be soft and sincere, twists into something ugly, something sinister. 

You spend the morning scrolling through the articles. Countless pictures of the two of you, all of them similar so you at least know they were captured by one invasive individual. However, the articles are where the meat sits — criticisms of your promiscuity, accusations of being a terrible role model, and even comments on Bucky’s worth as your partner. 

It doesn’t sit right with you. Why would Bucky bad mouth himself to the press if he wants to get his fame? To throw the scent of him. Even so, it paints him in a negative light. Any press is good press. Why would he even need the press? Maybe, just like you, he’s trying to make it out of here.

Both the angel and devil on your shoulder are working overtime, stitching doubt and questions into what you thought was a healthy relationship with Bucky. Now the dark clouds are sewn into every memory you’ve had with him.

Coming down for breakfast, you’re sufficiently pissed off. All that hurt has simmered into a rage that you’re ready to channel towards the one person you think deserves it. Luckily for you, he’s standing in the kitchen. Cooking breakfast.

He smiles wide when he sees you, “Hey, I’m making some french— what’s wrong?” The joy wipes off his face to make room for confusion. 

“You’re fucking kidding me right,” you snap, arms crossed over your chest. You don’t bother cleaning yourself up, hair in a tangled mess and pajamas rumpled from your deep sleep. You don’t bother paying attention to the way Bucky’s eyes had softened when he saw you in this state.

“Gonna have to give me more than that, princess. I’m not followin’.”

You turn your phone to face him with the article with the headline: America’s Favorite Pop Princess Caught Rolling in the Hay with Local Farmhand. It’s a disgusting piece but all the details are there — censored pictures, firsthand accounts from the source, and the scandalization of it all. 

“Maybe I should’ve made you sign an NDA like everyone else. I’m an idiot.”

It takes him a second before he’s whipping his gaze up to you, disbelief scratched into his irises. “What? You think I did this? That I would tell the press about us? That I would do this to you?” 

“I don’t know what to think! It doesn’t matter what I think or what I do. This is the shit that I have to deal with and—” and I would never want to put you through this. You swallow that bitter realization. No matter what you do, even if it wasn’t him, it would be someone else. God knows what else the press will do to him. “And it doesn’t matter,” you say, defeated. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t do this.”

Bucky says your name and the sound knicks your heart. 

“I should’ve known better,” you mutter, “this shit just isn’t worth dealing with. I should be focused on my next album, focused on writing those songs and getting them to chart. What’s the point of putting myself out there when all I do is end up in the news?”

“Because it’s worth it,” he insists, hands catching your arms. “Please. You gotta believe me, princess. I didn’t do this. I would never do this to you.”

You offer him a wry smile. “That’s what the last guy said too.” Tugging yourself away from him, you rub the places where his touch has burned. “I can’t do this, Buck. I’m leaving in a couple of days anyway and I can’t risk anymore of my career. Every time this shit happens, I cause trouble for the rest of my team, my family.”

“That’s not on you—”

“I know that!” You snap, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’m well aware that these are circumstances outside my control. I’m aware that I cannot control people whose entire livelihood depends on me losing mine. It doesn’t change the facts. Even if we keep whatever this thing is going, you and I are going to be dragged through the mud and neither of us will recover.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches, tongue digging into his cheek. “So, what? You’re just going to give up every shot you have at happiness? Life beyond whatever the fuck they’re putting you through? You’re going to let them win?”

“No, I’m playing their game. I don’t have to like it but what choice do I have?”

“Stand up for yourself. Don’t let this shit derail you from what you can do. You have the world at your fingertips, millions who love you — including the very people in this house.” 

It’s easier said than done. It’s too tempting to fall into this myth of falling in love, of being allowed to fall in love. Your life isn’t one that permits it. You’ve seen the making and breaking of one too many relationships to believe that it’s possible for someone in your life. The rare few that succeed are lucky — lucky to have found someone in the right time, the right place. 

“Appreciate the vote of confidence, but this won’t work, Bucky.” 

He looks like he’s about to interrupt again and, for a second, you wish that he does. However, he keeps his lips sealed — and that’s the end of it. 

On your last evening, the dinner table is quiet. It’s just you, your dad, and your grandma. A small family affair. When your grandma asks if you’ve invited Bucky, you tell that that you’d rather keep it to a small, intimate dinner. She gives you a suspicious look but doesn’t press further. 

As you’re doing the dishes after, your grandma makes sure that your dad is out of earshot when she finally questions you. That is when you tell her everything — the scandal, the media, the pictures. She doesn’t shame you for engaging in extramarital affairs, god knows that’s the least of your problems. 

“He wouldn’t do that,” she whispers as you tuck herself into her side. 

“I know,” you murmur, “I know you believe in him. I want to believe in him. It’s just hard to draw lines between those you can trust and those you can’t, and I’d rather… not trust anyone at all if those are the two choices I have.”

She flicks your forehead gently. “That’s not the way to live, honey. As hard as it may be, taking those risks are a part of life and — yes, you’ve gotten hurt, but you always bounce back. Always. The people that love you know who you are, they know who’s in the wrong, and it is not you.”

“Thanks, grandma,” you smile, “but it wouldn’t have worked anyway. We live different lives now. He probably wants nothing to do with a girl like me. This life isn’t for everyone — your every move scrutinized and published for everyone to see. It’s a lot to ask of someone.”

Her laugh tinkles through the air. “You’d be surprised.”

Then you’re heading home. The plane rumbles as you climb the stairs up. You take one last look at the land before you, at your grandma who stands at the base of the plane waving. You take a deep breath and then you take your seat. 

Los Angeles is the same as you left it. The only difference now is that the paparazzi has been made aware of your arrival at this airport, your flight manifest leaked somehow. You arrive to blinding flashes and questions about your latest tryst, one too many of them asking where this guy is. You grit your teeth and let your dad push through the crowd into the car. 

Life is the same. Busier than ever. Now that you’re working on your album full time, it’s hard to find time for anything else — which is ideal because, if you were left alone with your thoughts, you tend to wander to that small town and a certain not-so-small man. The last guy who you had been with already milked his fame and you worry that the media is now hounding Bucky for more details. Guilt carves itself into your bones. These are the days you’re tempted to reach for your phone, to call him and ask him how he’s doing, but you stomp down on that urge. 

It’s better this way.

The paparazzi hasn’t let up. They’re at your door, they’re outside the studio, they’re camping out the restaurant that you’re at with Yelena. She gives them the stinkeye and a proper middle finger as the two of you enter. 

“So, that’s it then?” She asks when you give her the full rundown of what’s transpired. “You have hot sex with a cowboy and then you go home? You’re really living the Hollywood life.” You give her a look as you take a sip of your third glass of wine. It’s that kind of night. “Your dad seems to like him, which is surprising because he doesn’t like anyone.”

That has you stopping. “What? How do you know that?”

“He told me,” she shrugs, “we were catching up on your schedule for the next couple of months and he mentioned that, despite him wishing you would stay single for the rest of your life, if he had to choose one man for you, that one isn’t a bad choice. I saw the pictures, I’m sure he’s more than enough.” Her wiggling eyebrows has you flinging a fry her way.

“I didn’t know he said that,” you mumble. “Bucky is a good guy. He just… deserves better. He doesn’t want this life.” You gesture to the flashing lights and the men still lingering around the entrance, waiting for your exit. “And I am tired of figuring out who to trust. I don’t want to play this game of roulette and being made a fool. Again.”

“Better a fool that got played once than be wise enough to never fall in love.” 

You bark out a laugh. “Just made that up?” She states that it’s a Yelena original. “It’s a nice thought in theory. I don’t know. He hasn’t reached out again since our last conversation. Maybe he’s realized that I’m also not worth all this. It’s a fair assessment, I wouldn’t wish this life on anyone.”

“One day, you’ll realize that you’re worth it all, sweetheart. If anyone knew what it meant to have you love them, they would do anything for you.”

The one thing you did take away from your time in Tennessee is that you do need to stop taking everything they do on the chin. You stand up for yourself when the paparazzi become too demanding and entitled, snapping at them to be more polite at red carpets and telling them off whenever they’re absolutely crossing the line on invading your privacy. While you received backlash for the incident, you also received an outpouring of love. Fans who defend your stance, industry peers who echo your sentiment. It’s one weight off your chest. 

But you go home at the end of the evening to your penthouse and the place is much too quiet. Sometimes you can hear Bucky whispering reassurances in your ear and that hallucination is the only thing that keeps you tethered to this life. 

When you hear him say your name, a little too clearly this time, you think you may be losing it. 

When you see him standing in the middle of your living room, you think your imagination has gone too far. 

The second emotion that lands is panic. You’re immediately reaching for your phone. Your grandma can say that he’s a good guy all she wants but when you find this man standing in the middle of your apartment looking every bit as delicious as ever, you should be calling security. 

It’s even worse when he takes the phone from your hand before you can ring up your ex-military doorman downstairs. He catches the flash of fear in your eyes and immediately backs up, even seeming a little hurt by that minute reaction. 

“Not here to hurt you, princess. Promise. Your dad let me in.”

“My dad? Since when do you talk to my dad?”

“I figured you wouldn’t take my calls so I reached out to him,” Bucky clears his throat. “Hope that’s okay.”

“Sure, that’s what most people do anyway. It doesn’t matter what I want, they always figure out a workaround,” you snip a little too bitterly. A flicker of regret crosses his eyes and that claws at your chest. You take a deep breath. “Sorry, that wasn’t fair. It’s fine. He’s met you,” you relent, “what’re you doing here?”

“To set the record straight.” He tells you about how he spent the last few days asking around, investigating on who would be sharing such intimate details about your life with the press. “Everyone there loves you, especially after what you did with the fundraiser. I knew it had to be someone who had an issue with you. That led me to John.”

John… isn’t he the—

“Yeah, that guy,” Bucky drawls out in annoyance. “Apparently he felt jilted that you flirted with him when he caught us one night. He reached out to a tabloid and realized he could get paid, so he started telling every single one of them.”

“Fucker,” you spit out venomously. 

“Tell me about it.”

“You could’ve told me all this over the phone.”

He cocks an eyebrow, “Would you really have picked up?”

“An email would’ve sufficed too.”

“I wanted to make sure you couldn’t avoid me.”

Blue washes over you and you can’t help but give into the pull of the water. “I’m sorry for thinking it was you,” you murmur, “I knew — I knew that deep down it wasn’t.”

“You couldn’t have known for certain,” he shakes his head, “you’ve been burned before and you had the right to doubt me. I get that.” His teeth catches his bottom lip, his attempt to hide his sheepish smile. “Plus, if I’m being honest, I’m out here because I missed you.”

Your jaw practically drops to the floor. You manage to rasp, “What?”

He chances a step towards you, cautious. When you don’t move, he takes another. He reaches for your hand, thumb brushing over the back of it. “Didn’t realize how much I missed you until I saw you walk through those doors. How much I wanted you.”

“Wanted?” You squeak, pain bleeding into your voice.

“Want,” he emphasizes, “Present. Always.”

“You think I’m a bitch,” you choke out.

“No, I think you’ve put up walls around your heart and this picture-perfect image of yours because you know what you have to do to protect your dream,” he smiles softly, “I think you’re smart, funny, incredible. You know exactly how to push my buttons and I don’t want to imagine you doing that with anyone else.” 

Your heart soars, climbing to cloud nine and — for a moment, it levitates. For a moment, you have hope. But the realization of where you are, who you are quickly sinks in. “Bucky… this could never work.”

“Why not?”

“First of all, we live in different places.”

“Planes exist.”

“For how long? I’m never— I’m never gonna leave this place and you have your house there and the animals and the town.”

The corners of his lips quirk up. “There are farms everywhere. But you do also realize I can do a lot of things. I’m a certified mechanic and a city like this could always use another one.” His name leaves your lips, but he cuts you off. “I’m laying it all out on the table. I’m ready to make this work because I want you. I want you. The question is do you?”

A whimper crawls out your throat. “It’s going to be a pain to deal with me. Everyone follows me everywhere.”

“I’m one of them. Next question.”

“Paparazzi will be hounding you.”

“I know ten different ways to say fuck off.” You’re scrambling to find more excuses, but all of them die on the tip of your tongue. You don’t want him to leave. You don’t want to scare him away. This is it. “What do you say, princess? Want to take a chance with me?”

He holds out his palm out, fingers stretched out. You look at his hand, one that you’re used to having wrapped around yours. You look at him, those honest blue eyes that never seem to stray far away from you. “Yes,” you whisper. 

“Good girl,” he grins as he brushes his lips against yours. “Now, let me take my time showing you what you’ve been missing out on.”

“Better make it worth my time, Barnes,” you laugh breathlessly. 

“Always will, princess.”

+ sam: thank you for reading if you've made it this far!!! longest bucky fic to date but holy heck, glad i finally finished a wip ha. shoutout to @singulartoast for being my farm x city lover too with her fic!!!

bucky is kissing (taglist): @superbassbuck @earthsmightiestbenders @houseofhyde @its-in-the-woods @flockoff-featherface @winterdecember18 @chateaubarnes @54nboo @phoenix-in-writing @tofuonfaiya @avengersfan25 @miraclediviner @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @heldbybarnes @blowingbarnes @stanmarvelous @pinksplace @lunexiax @54nboo @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @esunarint @captain-shannon-becker @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @alli0-0 @amoremarveloustime @natskisses @sarah1barnes @parker-barnes-af @sarah1barnes @onecojg @/iamthatonefangirl @stegosaurussims @angelryex @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @mathcat345 @flippedccc @lynnidc @winnichu173 @/singulartoast @zhaixiaowen @c3liaaaaa @buckysdecaflove @epiphanyrogers @itsmadamehydra @cutttteeee @macbaetwo @blobfishlol @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @erina00 @idkbeautiful @goobers-mcgee @globetrotter28 @rach2602 @star-yawnznn @my-drvidess @deeninadream @fruitypebsworld @ella-rowen @smorgasbrods @ruptureedspleen @awkwardgiraffe726 @a-very-fictional-girl @misswhiddless @femmewithmommyissues2001 @onyx8514 @pandasslol @eiaf4uwn @wickedfun9 @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @umm-ok-fine @its-pomegranite @67-angelofthelordme-67 @dontputyourfckingdrinkonmytable @wowitsafemale @shoutingcardinal @theyluvreynira27 @sunnliqht @victoriuhmm @obsidianwidow @micnicmabel

Sam Wilson tapped the end of his pen against the counter in a steady rhythm, deep in thought, the metallic click filling the silence. Leaning over, he pressed his elbows to the cool surface and released a long, dramatic sigh. The ceaseless ting of metal hitting acrylic was beginning to irritate Bucky, but to be fair, everything about his friend seemed to irk him most days. His jaw ticked before the pen even made a sound, as if he were bracing for it now.

A barely there, unhelpful voice echoed in the back of his mind, suggesting that he reach over the table and snap the pen clean in half. Oh, it would be so satisfying. The hurt look on Sam's face, combined with the following silence after, was getting too tempting by the second. However, he thought better of making a scene, opting instead for taking a steady inhale through his nose and blowing it out through his mouth.

It really wouldn't matter if he did cause a scene. It was one of the slower days at the shop. The kind where only a couple of customers drifted in with quick replies and hurried footsteps, so they could continue on with their day. But most of today was like this—an empty room with a pressing stillness and lingering pauses. Ones that Bucky wasn't keen on filling.

"I don't know, man," Sam finally broke the silence. "The common denominator between all these relationships ending is you. Maybe you need to adjust your attitude."

"I don't need to adjust nothin'," Bucky muttered stubbornly.

Sam raised a brow. "Right. It's them. Every single one. Not the guy who's always in a mood and has a staring problem."

"'m just particular. There ain't nothin' wrong with that."

"Some might say too particular," Sam murmured under his breath. "Look, I just don't want to see your sad little face walk in here, moping around like someone punted your cat."

"Don't bring Alpine into this," Bucky's scowl deepened, his jaw twitching again. "Besides, Alpine and I are fine. Don't have time for anythin' serious anyway."

"Did you ever send a message to…what was her name?" Sam trailed off, tapping the pen against his forehead, as if that would jog his memory. "Oh, Violet."

"No. 'm not textin' your barista, just because she gives you an extra shot of espresso and happens to have a nice smile."

The man behind the counter huffed air out of his nose. "Fine, just know I'm done playing matchmaker for your sorry ass."

Bucky rolled his eyes. Never asked for your help in the first place, he thought. Then, that same instigating voice nudged him, and he gave in this time. "How's Sarah?"

Sam's posture straightened rapidly, pointing the pen at him like it was a weapon instead of a writing tool. "Don't you fucking dare, Barnes."

"What? I was just askin'," Bucky shrugged, a smirk gracing his lips.

"My sister is off limits. You know that."

"Okay, okay." Bucky held up his hands in surrender, dropping the subject completely. Still, it gave him that brief, cathartic release he had been searching for earlier, even if it was fleeting.

Glancing around, his eyes drifted out of the wide windows. The sun was a bright statement in the clear blue sky, only partially blocked by the towering 'Barnes' Towing & Auto Repair' sign outside—bold enough that it could be read by anyone speeding down the highway. The reflection of the window pane left a white cast on the tiled floor. A small black rectangle carved in the bleached reflection forced his gaze up to the flimsy paper posted by the door, its edges slightly creased. The ink fading betrayed just how long it had been hanging there.

Now hiring.

Sometimes, Bucky wondered if this place was less a job and more a coasting point for people to move through to something better. No matter who he and Sam hired, they would leave within a couple of months—the universe was never gracious enough to gift them someone for more than that. Then the cycle would start again, and he'd have to reprint the sign.

So, there it stayed—a permanent decoration on the glass until they could find someone permanent.

The rays of the sun were interrupted by a dark Rolls-Royce pulling into the lot, snagging Bucky's attention immediately. His eyes flicked over the body of the car—spotless, glistening even. Tinted windows. Freshly polished rims. Even the emblem of the tiny woman with wings appeared untouched.

He scoffed at the ridiculous sight. Obviously, this car wasn't a potential customer. This was someone who took a wrong turn along the way and needed a place to swing around, so they could head back to whatever mansion they stumbled out of.

But the car idled. Right in front of the shop. Unmoving.

The driver's door opened, revealing an older man in a pressed suit. The fabric was all clean, sharp lines—tailored perfectly for him. He even wore one of those chauffeur caps, the kind Bucky only saw in movies that Sam would force him to watch on his rare days off.

The whole get-up screamed wealth and status, as though money itself dripped off of him—none of which belonged anywhere near the likes of Bucky's shop. Yet, there he stood.

The man moved around the front of the car, adjusting his gloves and smoothing out wrinkles that weren't visible. After assessing his surroundings, he wrapped his fingers around the chrome door handle, keeping his chin high as he pulled it open.

A single pearlescent pink heel appeared first, the pointed toe hovering for a beat before carefully finding purchase on the oil‑stained pavement below. You were smart enough to avoid the puddles that could potentially ruin your expensive shoes.

You stepped out, rising to your full height. Sunlight glinted off your dark sunglasses, adding a shiny sheen to your hair. You straightened your designer coat and fixed the creases in your pale pink dress before giving your driver a practiced, polite smile.

Then, you sauntered forward, hips swaying as you adjusted the strap of your small handbag over your shoulder. Bucky could hear the loud click of your heels before you ever entered the shop.

"This oughta be good," Sam whispered behind his dark-haired friend.

As you entered, the bell above the door chimed, announcing your arrival. Bucky was hit with a gust of warm vanilla layered with grapefruit, which he could practically taste on his tongue.

You pushed your sunglasses up with two manicured fingers, resting them on your hair. Bright eyes darted around the room as you inspected it with your clear vision. You took it all in before you spoke. Walls filled with old metal signs. Counters lined with tools and little bobbles.

You breathed in the air that smelled faintly of strong coffee and even stronger motor oil, but you didn't wrinkle your nose. You looked…prepared, trained not to visibly react.

Finally, your gaze drifted to the two men who were frozen in place, as if just noticing their existence.

"Hi, I'm here to pick up my car," your voice came, velvet confidence. You introduced yourself, muttering your last name so quickly, he would've missed it if he wasn't listening. He swore he had heard that name, but immediately brushed it off like it was inconsequential.

"My father brought it in for a routine check-up, and he received a call that it was ready," you clarified.

For a moment, no one moved. Bucky didn't even blink. And even though you explained why you were here, he still thought you took a wrong turn on the way to the mall.

Eventually, Sam snapped out of it, fingers finding the computer's keyboard. "Right. The Porsche?"

Of course. He should have known that your car was the most expensive thing to ever roll through here. And if the price of the car didn't give it a way, surely the color did. Pink. The first time he saw it, he wanted it out of the garage, almost called to have it sent to another mechanic because he couldn't stand to look at the damn thing.

"That's correct," you said sweetly, causing something in Bucky's gut to sour.

It must've shown on his face because you gave him a small, courteous wave. The kind of gesture people made when they were raised to address everyone in the room, even the ones they actually didn't want to make conversation with.

Your gaze flicked briefly to his metal arm. He no longer bothered to hide it like some kind of secret. In those first few years, still adjusting to the foreign weight, he’d kept it concealed under layers of clothing—even in the heat of summer. Most days, it was less a badge from his time in the Air Force and more an inconvenience at best.

But as the years rolled by, he cared less and less about what people thought. Customers would stare at him with pity, similar to the look you were giving him now. You offered him a tight-lipped smile, and he hated the feeling it carried.

Instantly rolling his eyes, he turned away; he clearly wasn't interested in your fake-friendly facade. He knew that look all too well, and he knew that under the practiced posture and fancy clothing, you wanted to get the hell out of this place. And he wasn't going to stop you.

Noticing the slight edge of tension, Sam tapped away at the keys as he kept his eyes on the screen, feigning professionalism. He cleared his throat. "Ahh, here it is…Porsche 918 Spyder. Yeah, it looks like all you needed was an oil change and a tire rotation."

"Did you happen to take a look at the weird sound it was making? It sounded…" You paused, pursing your lips, "mechanical."

Bucky let out a dry, humorless laugh, "It's a car. Everything is mechanical."

"Right," you giggled, light and airy, and it sounded like it belonged somewhere less cramped. More open, like a rose garden, to complement the warmth of it.

Was he really comparing your laugh to fucking flowers? Maybe that perfume of yours had gone to his head and messed up his brain chemistry.

"I mean, it sounded unusual," you added after your laughter had faded.

Bucky opened his mouth to respond with something snarky, but Sam cut in immediately. "After the tire rotation, the sound went away. But if you happen to hear it again, bring it in, and we'll assess it further."

He typed out something else, then clapped his hands together as he met your eyes. "Alright, if that's all, I can bring her around."

"Thank you. I appreciate your help, Mister…?"

"Sam will do just fine," he corrected, and you offered a sharp nod in return.

Then, he disappeared into the back, heading towards the garage, leaving you and Bucky alone.

You turned to him, your expression open and approachable, as if you didn't even notice his hostility towards you. "So, you work on cars, then?"

"No, I just stand 'ere and look pretty," he grumbled sarcastically.

"Well, you're doing a great job," you teased, obviously not perturbed by his glum behavior. "Don't let me stop you from your hard work."

The tips of his ears turned red, but he recovered quickly. "'m just glad to get that pink monstrousity outta the garage," he mumbled.

"You don't like it?"

"It's…loud."

"Well, isn't it supposed to be?"

He narrowed his gaze at you, impatience flickering over his expression. "I didn't mean the engine.

"Ohh," you said with a lilt of amusement in your tone. "The color."

"It's pink," he deadpanned.

"Good observation, Sherlock," you shot back, but it lacked the bite he was expecting. Your grin stayed plastered on your face, unflinching. "Maybe you should take up detective work when you're not…y'know…standing there looking pretty."

Bucky leaned against the counter, the cool acrylic biting his heated skin. He clenched his jaw, shaking his head as his eyes flicked over your appearance. "It doesn't take a detective to know that color is hideous."

You crossed your arms, but for the most part, you were keeping your cool. "Like I'm going to take fashion advice from someone who only sees the world in greys and blacks. And is appalled by the simple sight of color."

"I like color just fine."

"Really?" you questioned, arching a brow. "Let me guess, your closet is full of the same black shirt. But when winter rolls in, you'll throw on a flannel to spice it up."

Something shifted in his expression, irritation sharpening on his features. "You think you have it all figured out, huh?"

You leaned in, not backing down from the challenge in his words. "Don't you? You seemed to have made up your mind about me as soon as I walked in the door, without knowing a single thing about me."

"Oh, I know exactly who you are," he smirked, amused. "Bet you don't know what half the buttons in that car do. You just get behind that wheel because Daddy bought it. He even spiffed it up for you. Ain't that right, princess?"

The words hit hard, and it showed on your face. Your expression changed in an instant. Before he could even blink, your smile twisted into a grimace, as if you’d just tasted something bitter.

This time, you didn't brush off his words. Instead, you took a step closer, not backing down. "Here's the thing, I don't expect you to like my car, or the color, or even me." Your voice never wavered, bold and composed. "But don't mistake my kindness for ignorance."

And with that, you made your rushed exit—the echo of your heels lingering long after you disappeared from view.

A moment later, your car zoomed past in a pink blur, merging onto the busy streets of Brooklyn. He wished the image of the hurt etched on your face would have faded, along with the smoke from your exhaust dissipating. But it stayed, lodged between his ribs like a thorn in his side.

Sam stepped into the room a minute too soon, and Bucky could already hear the criticism forming on his tongue. "What the fuck was that? What the hell did you say to her?"

"Nothin'."

"Bullshit. She hopped into that car like she was fatally wounded and needed emergency assistance."

"Don't be dramatic."

"I'm not." Sam shook his head, eyes to the ceiling as if he was praying for strength. "Do you know who her father is?"

"No."

"You don't want to. At least not personally. He's…intense," Sam sucked air through his teeth, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ever heard of Apex Motors?"

Bucky promptly nodded; he was very familiar with the brand. Apex Motors was everywhere. Their parts were the gold standard. Their engines were the kind mechanics whispered about—if you hadn't seen them, you wouldn't believe they truly existed. Their logo showed up at every car show, every charity race, every community event that was always over-advertised.

"Of course, I know Apex. Who doesn't?" Bucky scoffed.

"Yeah, well, her father owns it, dumbass," Sam barked. "He doesn't just own it. He is Apex Motors. The founder. He's the one who elects to sponsor all those races we're lucky enough to attend. The one whose logo is clearly plastered on all the major drivers' cars and even bigger on the fucking banners outside those events."

Bucky's stomach dropped. "Fuck."

"Yeah, fuck is right." Sam dragged a hand down his face. "That man has enough influence in Brooklyn—hell, New York—that he could get us shut down. And forget about getting a job after that. Our names would be on everyone's blacklist."

"I didn't know."

"That's the problem, Bucky. You just don't know when to stop, do you? Not everything needs your input," Sam griped, then his voice softened. "Just pray she doesn't tell her dad, before you apologize."

Bucky's eyebrows knitted together in protest, but Sam raised a hand to stop him. "It's not up for discussion. Act like the adult you are, and apologize to the poor girl."

Poor girl.

Bucky couldn't help but notice the irony in his words; her purse likely cost more than his monthly house payments. However, he decided that it probably wasn’t the best time to laugh at the joke he had thought of, let alone say it out loud.

He spent the rest of the day mulling over his stupid mistake, and the constant side-eye from his friend didn't help.

The ballroom was grand, but at the same time, it was too congested. The weight of everyone’s piercing stares made it hard to breathe. You felt less like yourself and more like an accessory on your dad’s arm at these pointless, flashy events.

The marble floors seemed to glitter under the tasteful chandeliers above. Everything accented with gold looked like embers from a fire in this light. The Champagne flutes were polished to perfection, sparkling on the silver platters that waiters carried with ramrod-straight spines. Banners were strewn around the room, reading 30 years of Apex Motors.

You should be used to this scene by now. Used to the less-than-heartfelt speeches, the handshakes, the forced smiles, the way you tilted your chin just right to make it look like you were interested when you were anything but.

Tonight, that cracked mask felt heavier, and it was slipping.

You weren't sure if it was the series of fake grins and unwanted conversations, but it was overwhelming.

Your father must be so proud.

You look so much like him in this lighting.

Are you thinking about following in his footsteps and running Apex someday?

One too-polite statement after the next, and the pain of it began to ebb at you. The sting burrowed beneath your thick skin like an incessant sliver that refused to go unnoticed.

Or maybe tonight was different because of the feeling of being profiled. Again. You really should be used to that, too. But it never got easier. Living in your dad's shadow meant you were constantly being measured against him.

To your face, they might say that you'll fill his shoes perfectly. But behind your back, they whispered that you'll never be him. You'll never be as smart as him. You'll never amount to his achievements.

Because a girl in a pink skirt could never command a whole room.

Truthfully, it always rolled right off your shoulders. You didn't want to be your father anyway, so those words never struck you.

But now, those words tangled with a deeper voice.

It had been a week. A full week since you visited the auto shop, yet his words were just as loud in your head as the day he said them to your face, without guilt.

Bet you don't know what half the buttons in that car do.

Princess.

The words punctured deep, but what hurt worse was his expression. The certainty in his eyes, the way he looked at you like he’d already solved you. Like you were a simple equation he’d seen a thousand times before.

The thought of your walls—the ones you had so expertly built—crumbling under his penetrating gaze was baffling. How could a stranger know you?

You told yourself he didn't. That you weren't like half the people drifting through this ballroom. You were different. You had to be. Even if it was a thinly veiled lie, you were adamant in believing it.

Click, click, click.

Three snaps of a camera sliced through your train of thought. You glanced up, focusing on the photographer and the scene he was capturing. Your father was chuckling at something one of his business friends said, booming laughter traveling across all corners of the building. It made your jaw twitch; you hadn't heard him laugh like that in years. At least not when you were around.

He spotted you, laughter dying on his tongue as quickly as it bloomed. He muttered something to the man beside him that you couldn't make out, then he excused himself.

He crossed the room like royalty—small groups parted, and guests dipped their chins in acknowledgment. When he made it to you, he paused like he didn't know what to do. He eventually settled for an awkward side hug, the kind that felt void of affection. Hollow. Forced.

When he pulled back, he scanned you as if he hadn't seen you in a while. And frankly, he hadn't. The last time he saw you was when he picked up your car for its routine check-up.

Your regular mechanic had closed up shop and moved across the state, so you asked for recommendations on a new auto shop. He said he'd handle it.

His assistant handled it.

"You came," your father trilled.

"Wouldn't miss it," you said too hastily; it sounded like a lie. It was.

His eyes narrowed, searching for the deception in your words. He always noticed the cracks in your mask before anyone else did, but he didn't comment on it. Too many investors to please and cameras to smile at to break the facade that this was a happy pair—a dad and his daughter simply catching up.

Instead of voicing the slip in your guise aloud, he adjusted the sheer pink shawl over your shoulder. It could've been viewed as a tender gesture to any onlookers, but you knew it was a silent correction to fix your mask.

"Good. I wanted you here for the big speech," he started casually. "I was hoping you could take some notes on what points you'll need to touch on when you're up there."

You opened your mouth to object, but he was waving someone over a second later. "John," he called. "Come here a minute. I'd like you to meet my daughter."

A dirty-blonde, tall man broke away from a nearby conversation. It clearly wasn't as important as your father's needs because he was eagerly striding towards the two of you. He was refined—crisp suit and a nice smile, revealing his pearly white teeth. Exactly the type of man your father wanted for you.

Great.

John gave your father a firm handshake, exchanging pleasantries, then turned to you. You offered your hand, and he took it with a gentle touch as if you were fragile and couldn't risk breaking you. Leaning down, his lips brushed your knuckles. Something in you recoiled at the contact, but you kept your composure.

"I've heard so much about you," he said by way of greeting.

The grin you gave him didn't quite reach your eyes, but he didn't notice. Guys like him didn't notice much. He was too busy gliding his thumb over the back of your hand, like he was trying to convey something unspoken. You reclaimed your hand, gingerly prying it from his grasp.

Noticing the tension in your posture, your father interjected, “This is one of the drivers competing in the NASCAR Cup Series.”

Apex Motors had been sponsoring one of the NASCAR Cup races consistently for the past ten years. You started memorizing the competitors by name around the fourth year you attended. But you were out of touch with the more recent drivers.

This year, Pocono Raceway was hosting. Your father had invited you a month in advance; you still hadn't gotten back to him about whether you'd be joining him.

John nodded, adding, “Yeah, your father hooked all the drivers up with head-to-toe Apex gear and spruced up our rides.”

You forced down the bile rising in your throat. "That’s him all right. He's always been the generous type."

But you knew it wasn't generosity that drove him. It was selfish. Strategic. Anything for the good of the company. More advertisements meant more customers, which always led to more people talking about him. If it didn't benefit him or his company, it wasn't worth his time and energy.

"Maybe you could swing by and watch him drive sometime. You know, to get a feel for the kind of things Apex invests in," your father suggested. He reached toward John, gripping his shoulder tenderly—the son he always wanted. "He's very talented on the track."

"You honor me, sir," John murmured coyly, though the confident smirk on his face betrayed exactly how highly he thought of himself.

The corner of your mouth twitched, but you kept that same easy smile on your face. You leaned towards your father, lowering your voice. "Can I speak with you in private?"

Your gaze flicked to John, who instantly took a step back with a quick nod. "Of course."

You led your father a few steps aside, far enough that no one could overhear, but not so far as to draw attention. Your tone stayed light and casual, the kind you’d practiced and perfected, ensuring nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

"We talked about this," you said softly. "I don't want anything to do with Apex. At least not right now."

Something shifted in his expression, anger carving out the edges of his features. "Then, what are you going to do with your life?"

"I don't know," you muttered brokenly.

"Well, that's not an option."

You inhaled slowly through your nose, keeping your cool. "I'm just not ready to figure it out quite yet."

"You said that after your mother died," he replied, tone clipped. "I'm going to need a different excuse this time."

He rarely brought up your mother these days, so the words landed like a punch to the gut. It wasn't like he didn't include her in your conversations because her death still stung. No. Instead, it seemed like he didn't talk about her because it was better to ignore that she existed altogether.

"No daughter of mine is going to be unemployed the rest of her life," he added, voice rising. "The world doesn't wait for you just because you ask it to. At some point, you're going to have to catch up, and I can't stand here and hold your hand forever."

You didn't recall a time when he ever held your hand.

"I've given you ample time to screw around and grieve," he continued bitterly. "But you need to grow up and reevaluate your life."

You flinched, the words hitting like venom rather than offering sympathy to a daughter who was still mourning. Your breathing stuttered, and you tried to push down the tears welling in your vision.

He sighed, his voice going soft. "We can talk about this later."

Or never would be the better option, you thought.

"Go have fun. Mingle." Then, he hauled you into another uncomfortable hug, kissing the crown of your head.

This time, when he pulled away, he didn't look at you. He didn't notice the tension in your shoulders or the way your fingers curled into your palm, your nails leaving tiny crescent-moon shapes in your flesh.

He simply turned and walked back towards the guests, only to be instantly swallowed by the crowd.

You stood there, feet firmly planted on the ground. Frozen in time, while everything around you seemed to speed up. Maybe your father was right; you couldn't just will the world to slow down.

But there was also no reason for you to stick around here.

You slipped into the crowd, brushing elbows with investors and bumping shoulders with drivers who were probably begging for a sliver of your father's time. None of which made room for you to get through. A photographer said your name as you passed, but you ignored them and kept moving toward your exit.

When you finally made it to the front, you pushed open the door. You didn't even wait for the gentleman stationed there to hold it for you.

The city was calling for you to do something reckless, and that, you couldn't ignore.

The blaring music and strobbing lights inside the bar were enough to give someone a severe migraine or a trip to the emergency room. Thankfully, the former was what Bucky was dealing with as he stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk. The noisy contents of the bar spilled out of the door as soon as he opened it, and somehow it sounded exactly the same beyond the walls. He swore it even sounded louder, if that was possible.

He patted his pockets to make sure he hadn't forgotten his wallet in his rushed exit. Once he found the familiar square outline tucked safely in his leather jacket, he reached for his keys and started toward his truck.

He made it about four long strides before he stopped dead in his tracks. Loud, off-key singing. With the combination of drunken shouting and the thumping bass echoing behind him, he hadn't noticed the noise until he was face-to-face with the image of a very hammered girl.

Streetlights flickered above the woman as she threw her head back, belting out the lyrics to a song Bucky recognized. Yet, the way she was singing, made it feel as if he were hearing it for the first time. Her voice cracked on a high note, and it caused him to wince in response.

"Only the young can saaaaay," she screeched, tripping over her own heels.

His lips twitched upward before he could stop it. She was wasted, no doubt about it, but there was something…blissful about her. Completely carefree. Untouched by the world around her. Chaos incarnate.

She twirled, the night air getting caught beneath her silk dress and lifting at the hem slightly. Her legs twisted, her arms flinging out awkwardly, like a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest prematurely.

"They're free to fly away," she bellowed, a melody only she could hear.

Then, she teetered dangerously close to the curb, her heels wobbling. Snapping out of his trance, he stretched out his arms, lunging to her aid. He caught her right before she landed face-first into the asphalt.

"Careful," he rasped, firmly holding her arms as he guided her back to safety.

Her back hit his chest, and she giggled as if it were the funniest thing in the world. Craning her neck back, her head rested on his shoulder, leaning into his warmth. Soft hair brushed over his cheek as she shifted in his hold.

Too late, it hit him. He recognized that laugh. How could he not?

He gently turned her as she used him for balance. And his worst nightmare materialized in front of him.

You.

His smile instantly dropped.

"Of course," he muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.

You were still struggling to focus, your eyes locked on the letters of his shirt. Blinking, your gaze flicked up as your laughter faded into the wind. You tilted your head, squinting your eyes as you attempted to steady your vision.

"Hey, I know youuuu," you squealed, like he was a long-lost friend you hadn't seen in years, though it had only been a week. "I don't think I caught your name, pretty boy."

"'s Bucky," he sighed, already annoyed. "And don't call me that."

"You're the one who said you get paid to look pretty," you slurred, raising a manicured finger to poke his nose.

You broke away from his grasp, raising your arms to the sky while you stumbled backward. "You're just in time," you cheered, your voice carrying a block down the street. The thin shawl draped over your shoulders slipped during your celebration. Bucky scooped it up as he steadied you again, his metal fingers gliding across your warm skin.

"Stay still. You're gonna break your ankles and fall flat on your ass."

"Are you thinking about my ass, Bucky?" you teased, ending your question with a wink. "Is that part of your very serious itinerary? Does it usually fall in the afternoon, somewhere between your third cup of coffee and your ritual complaint about the sun being too bright?"

"I am not— I don't—" he stammered, pink creeping up his neck and blooming across his cheeks.

"Aw, you're all flustered," you cooed, sweeping a knuckle across the flush.

There was a gentleness to your touch and a sparkle in your eyes, as if you were just discovering the beauty of this world, and nothing could dim your joy. It made his expression soften faintly, and something in his chest twisted unbidden. He hated it. He hated that it took you so little to make his entire demeanor shift.

He grabbed your wrist, carefully dragging it away from his face. "Quit."

"Sorry, mister grumpy pants," you said, scrunching your nose.

"Anywayyyy," you sing-songed. "Aren't you going to ask me what you're in time for?"

"My own demise, hopefully," he whispered.

"What?"

"Nothin'. What am I just in time for, princess?"

"The," you paused, drumming two fingers on his chest. "Concert. It'll be the performance of a lifetime."

Bucky snorted, "Yeah, I caught the tail end of Journey before I saved your a—" He was not about to make the mistake of talking about your ass again. He restarted, "Before I saved you…The performance itself needs some work. You were a bit pitchy."

Feigning offense, you lightly smacked his chest, a frown finding a way onto your lips. "Asshole. If you're done mocking me, do you have a song request?"

He gazed up at the twinkling stars above thoughtfully. "How 'bout 'go home, you're drunk?'"

"Huh? I don't know that one."

His fingers lifted to his forehead, massaging in slow circles on either side of his temples. "No, 'm tellin' ya to go home."

You blinked up at him, swaying slightly. "Ohhh," you drawled, his true meaning finally clicking through the haze in your skull. "You meant that literally. How boring. The concert just started."

"This isn't a concert," he said bluntly.

"I'll have you know, this is a sold-out show. Very exclusive." You crossed your arms with a very serious expression, lifting your chin. It was…adorable. "You're lucky I haven't kicked your ass to the curb."

He leveled his gaze at you, a smirk lifting his lips. "We're literally standing on the curb."

You glanced down, as if this was your first time noticing. "And? Haven't you heard? Curbs are all the rage now. Very underrated venue. The acoustics are top tier."

A laugh slipped between Bucky's lips before he could catch it. It was a real, genuine one, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened the hard lines of his face.

Momentarily surprised by the sudden sound, you dropped your theatrics. You stared at him, unblinking.

"What was that?" you asked.

He forced the grin off his mouth, biting the inside of his cheek. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do," you insisted cheekily. "You laughed. You actually laughed."

"That's not what happened."

"I just made Bucky laugh," you screamed from the top of your lungs, like you just won the lottery.

His eyes widened in panic. "Shh…" He slapped his flesh hand over your mouth, scanning his surroundings. "Are you crazy? You're gonna wake up the whole city."

You mumbled something against his palm, vibrating his hand. The expression on your face could only be described as smug, mischief glittering in your eyes.

His eyes narrowed, pointing a single finger at you. "If you bite me, I swear—"

Peeling his hand away, you furrowed your brow. "I'm not a biter," you promised. He lowered his hand once he realized it was safe to do so.

"…Not unless you want me to be," you added flirtatiously.

Bucky shook his head in disbelief. "What am I gonna do with you, princess?"

Your smile softened into something warm and inviting, and he didn't mind the feeling that stirred in his chest. Maybe he really did misjudge you that day in the shop; you were nothing as he imagined.

You shivered, an imperceptible shimmy of your shoulders, but he noticed.

"Cold?" he asked, concern laced in his tone.

"A little," you replied, wrapping your shawl tighter around you. It did less than nothing to warm you, goosebumps spreading across your skin regardless of how well it covered you.

"Here." He slipped his wallet into his back pocket and slid out of his leather jacket. He gave you a look, silently asking for permission to touch. It felt appropriate, even though he touched you only moments ago.

You offered him a subtle nod, and he stepped closer, draping the jacket over your shoulders. His touch was light as he adjusted it over your arms, sliding his hands up the zipper. As he tweaked the collar around your neck, his fingers brushed over your bare skin. You shuddered again, but this time, he knew it wasn't from the chill in the air.

Locking eyes with you, he noticed your pupils dilate. He tried to rationalize it, thinking you might be drunk, or it was darker on this part of the sidewalk.

But rationalizing it didn't change the fact that the air around him felt thicker, and he could taste electricity on the tip of his tongue, as if he had just licked a nine-volt battery. An energy seemed to be swirling around the pair of you, drawing him in.

Bucky's fingerpads grazed over your pulse point, testing. He could feel the rapid thrum of your heart beneath his touch, and it made his breath catch. Because that right there was confirmation that he wasn't the only one feeling this.

Pulling away abruptly, he put some much-needed distance between you. You were still wasted, and he…obviously wasn't thinking clearly.

He cleared his throat after a beat.

"Listen, you're gonna forget all this 'n the mornin'," he began, rubbing the back of his neck. You gazed up at him, beaming, your eyes were a little squinty, and you were still very drunk. Oh, you definitely weren't going to remember this. "I wanted to apologize…for before."

Waving him off, you shook your head. "All is forgiven."

"But," he objected. "I was a complete dick to you."

"Yeah, you were," you admitted. "But I've dealt with worse."

Bucky pulled his eyebrows together, something washing over his face—guilt, or maybe irritation. "That doesn't make it okay."

You shrugged, indifferent. "I didn't say it did."

"I shouldn't've said what I did. I didn't know anythin' 'bout you."

"No," you agreed. "You thought I was some spoiled brat who had exactly two functioning brain cells." You giggled, mostly to yourself. "Which might be true as of right now." hiccup. "But I also made assumptions about you." You pointed a wobbly finger at him.

"Oh yeah?" he questioned, intrigued. "What were your assumptions, princess?"

"Grumpy."

"Fair."

"You hate fun."

"Hey, now—" he started, but you interrupted before he could say more.

"And you were only an asshole to me because you thought I'd bite first," you whispered, almost like you were afraid of calling him out. "If you bite first, you're less likely to get hurt, right?"

Bucky gulped, a little taken aback by your boldness. Racking his brain, he wondered how you obtained that information. He hadn't ever told anyone that. Not even Sam. Was he just that easy to read?

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then tilted his head, not in annoyance but interest.

"I do that, too," you confessed. "Or, at least, I used to. I've gotten better about keeping my cool."

He didn't respond; he didn't know how to. Instead, he just looked at you—really looked—like he needed a second to take in this version of you he hadn’t expected.

"Well, 'm sorry," he repeated because he felt it was necessary.

"It's okay."

"Y'know," he choked on a half-laugh. "I didn't even know who your dad was until Sam said somethin'."

You sobered at that immediately. "Oh."

"He's intense, huh?" he asked, wiggling his hands into his front pockets casually.

"Um…yeah, you could say that," you mumbled, your expression suddenly blank. Your whole disposition had changed in an instant. "Is that why you apologized?"

His eyebrows twitched, confused. "No," he blurted out too quickly.

"It's okay if you did," you assured, but he could hear the tension in your voice.

"No," he restated, firmer this time. "'m genuinely sorry."

You studied him, looking for the lie you swore was hidden somewhere. "Let me guess, Sam said something like 'my father could shut down your shop.'"

Bucky's eyes widened slightly, the color draining from his face. The silence that followed was only confirmation.

You let out a bitter laugh, forcing a smile that didn't quite fit your face. "Right. Well…don't worry. Your shop isn't in jeopardy."

The hurt engraved on your face made his heart squeeze painfully beneath his rib cage because he hadn't meant to hurt you. And he truly didn't know how to fix it. Any response that came to mind didn't seem quite right. So, he just stood there, awkward and foolish.

"You were right," your voice cracked on those three simple words. "I should go home. It's getting late."

You reached for the collar of his jacket, attempting to shrug it off, but he stopped you. "No, keep it. You're cold."

"Thanks," you said stiffly.

The quiet that settled after was agonizing. He stared at you, and you stared right back. Bucky felt exactly how you looked—numb. And for some reason, this felt final.

Two chances. That's what he was so graciously given with you, and he squandered both of them.

You eventually turned on your heels and strode away without another word. You got as far as the crosswalk before he realized where you were headed. Your car.

"You're not thinkin' of drivin', are ya?" he called out, worry evident in his words.

Glancing over your shoulder, your expression was even more pained than before. "I would never," you scoffed, then you restarted, softer. "…I'm calling my driver."

Nodding in understanding, he gave you a tight-lipped grin.

When you reached your pink monstrousity, as he once not-so-lovingly called it, you yanked the door open and vanished behind it as it slammed shut.

And he was sure that was the last time he'd see you.

It wasn't.

Bucky saw you everywhere. Not you physically, but your presence was always there. The color pink. You. Anytime he smelled vanilla. You. A laugh on the wind while he was driving. You. Even the flowers near the checkout at the grocery store. You.

You were a ghost, haunting his every move.

A couple of days after the sidewalk incident, you sent your driver to return his leather jacket, dry-cleaned. It was still in the plastic covering, and the ticket dangled off the neck of the hanger. And even though it had been cleaned to perfection, he could still smell the faint trace of vanilla and grapefruit, as if you were now woven into the fabric.

He wasn't even embarrassed by how many times he pressed the material to his nose, breathing in your scent.

He didn't know how to shake you. He tried throwing himself into work, operating on the vehicles in the shop well into the night—elbow-deep in engines. He worked until his hand ached. Until the only thing on his mind was the soreness in his muscles.

That is, until Sam threatened to leave and lock the door behind him.

It was affecting his work. The way he interacted with customers was unusual; he was short, barely listening to a single word of their monologue of problems with their car. They rattled on about noises their vehicle wasn't meant to make—clunking, or sputtering, maybe both. He nodded at the right times, professional on the surface, but his mind was constantly far off.

It got so bad that on one tow job, he installed the tow hook on the front bumper the wrong way and nearly tore the whole thing off. The one task he used to nail with practiced skill, he botched completely.

The shop lost money that day. Sam gave him shit for it.

Maybe he wasn't the best at human interaction, or he didn't fully comprehend their minds—too difficult a puzzle to put together. But he knew cars. Cars were simple, predictable. He could do a full diagnostic of any vehicle just by hearing the engine purr. He understood them as if they were a second language, and he was an expert in communicating exactly what was being said.

And that was precisely why he royally messed up with you.

You weren’t a problem to diagnose or an engine to operate on. You weren’t some equation he could solve if he just stared at it long enough. But he kept treating you like one. Kept trying to force you into a mold—a predictable one. One he could understand.

And he couldn't get that through his thick skull.

So, no matter how loud the voice in his head got—the one telling him to just call and fix whatever he broke, he didn't give in. Not when he'd pull up a customer's information on the shop's computer, and your name would appear in the system, tucked neatly beneath your father's. Those ten digits sat there, blinking at him like a glaring reminder. Or…temptation.

But he gave you your space. Distancing himself was the best option for both of you…right?

Yet, it was as if the universe kept teasing him with you, like an owner waving a treat in front of a hungry pet. And a man can only be so strong.

It was late that night, legs stretched out on the couch with the blanket half-covering him. He didn't even know why his thumb was hovering over the app, but he found himself pressing it. He barely even used the damn thing, but Sam insisted it would be good for business. It wasn't. He never actually posted anything, except for a single picture of a car mid-repair, and another of Alpine perched by the window, with the sun warming her fur.

He had accidentally clicked the discover page—the little magnifying glass at the bottom of his screen. Twelve posts came into view, blinding him. Blinking, he adjusted to the brightness. He eventually started swiping through the posts. One after the other, depicting images and videos of cars and engines, all curated specifically for him.

Then.

You.

He sat up straight.

How you appeared on his Instagram, he had no clue. Before he could think better of it, he was tapping on the image. You were smiling, green straw between your teeth, and your eyes full of amusement. The arms of a pink sweater were tied around your neck, sunglasses resting on your head as you posed for your photo op.

He couldn't help himself; he pressed on your username. Pretty.in.pink. It suited you.

And, damn, did you have followers. 597.2k hovered between the number of posts you had and who you were following.

Scrolling through your feed, he glanced over your photos. Some showed you flaunting an outfit, pink checkered skirts, and white heels. You were adjusting the strap around your ankle in one. In the next image, you were holding a bouquet of daisies, pressed tightly to your chest, as you gazed up at the sky.

And he definitely didn't zoom in on your cleavage, hidden amongst the petals of the flowers.

You captured images of New York: skyscrapers, billboards, and the Brooklyn Bridge with the sunset as the backdrop. He noted some of the cafes and restaurants you visited, and the reviews that came with them. You had a very clear aesthetic that carried through your posts.

He kept scrolling. A mirror selfie. Pink makeup products on a white marble table. Mid-step off a sidewalk.

He felt like a stalker, looking at you like this. Like he was seeing something personal he wasn't supposed to. But he had convinced himself that this was for public viewing, and it wasn't like he was doing anything nefarious.

Well, that is, until he scrolled too far and saw your series of summer shots.

Sure, some were innocent, harmless. A cute one-piece swimsuit, hugging your curves. You had your hands on your hips, giggling. Or another with your legs dangling off the pier, bare feet kissing the surface of the water.

But most were tastefully suggestive. A floral bikini, barely covering your tits. You were toying with the strings of your bottoms, as if silently conveying that if you tugged just right, you'd be half-naked.

He wished he had stopped there. Because the next one he landed on filled his mind with every impure thought. "Fuck," he whispered under his breath.

You were on your stomach, legs folded behind you, crossing at the ankle with your feet in the air. His gaze dragged down the slope of your back to the curve of your plump ass.

He let out a low growl, his hand already finding the growing erection, pushing against his shorts. A feeling of depravity entered his body, even as he kept stroking himself through the fabric.

Scanning over your body, he noted the sparkle in your eyes as you looked over your shoulder playfully. The soft tilt of your lips. Your silky skin, and how it would feel beneath his fingers. The glimpse of your side boob, spilling out of the cup of the bikini top.

He stroked faster, biting his lip as the pressure built.

He told himself to stop. That this was wrong.

He didn't.

"You see what you do to me, princess," he groaned at the picture. "Y'know what you were doin' when you posted this, huh? Such a 'lil tease, aren't ya?"

Mind drifting, he imagined those same eyes looking up at him, a pout on your lips as he tapped the head of his cock on them. And the way those lips would feel wrapped around—

Hips jerking upward, he let out another low, broken curse. He was close. He could feel it in the way the vein on his neck stuck out, and his thighs tensed. Pressing the palm of his hand harder against his bulge, his breath stuttered.

He realized too late the predicament he was in. There he was, sprawled out on the couch, one hand curled around his phone, the other rubbing his dick through his pants. He came, his release blooming in his boxers and darkening the front of his shorts as your name fell from his lips.

Immediately after, he hissed, his eyes blown wide. Because he just came in his pants. Like a horny fucking teenager. Guilt and disgust flooded his body. He dropped his phone, as if it had burned him, sprinting to the bathroom.

He passed Alpine on his way there, and he swore she looked disappointed as she sat in the middle of the hallway, licking her paw. "Don't you dare," he scolded, but he knew he deserved it.

He banned himself from ever going on that stupid app. Because that couldn't happen. Not again.

After that, things settled. He still thought about you, of course, but he didn't have any more incidents. And the urge to call you faded.

It wasn't until he saw your face in the local newspaper that he almost broke that unspoken rule he had created, and finally called you.

It was dawn, and the sun had barely risen, just peeking over the horizon. The sky was a vibrant orange, and the clouds had a wispy quality that reminded him of the cotton candy he got as a kid on trips to Coney Island.

He was on his second cup of coffee as he reached for the newspaper that was thrown on the counter. Flicking out the paper with one hand, he attempted to right it as he raised his ceramic mug to his lips. The steaming dark liquid hit the tip of his tongue just as he saw you.

Setting down his cup with a sharp click, his eyes fixed on the image just above the article. It was a feature titled, "Upcoming Race in the NASCAR Cup Series: Apex Motors 500."

Your father was clearly the main focus, but that hardly mattered to Bucky. You were positioned behind him, and even slightly blurred, he could see those bright eyes of yours clear as day.

The photo seemed to be taken at some gala—a place he wouldn't be caught dead at. Too fancy and polished for his taste. He doesn't even recall the last time he wore a suit, let alone why he would've worn one.

Flipping the page, he was met with three more photos. Mostly with your father and his team. But there you were again. Another gala shot, but this one you were standing beside a tall man who was leaning in to kiss your hand. The caption read: John Walker, Two-time Lucas Oil Late Model Dirt Series Winner and NASCAR Cup Series Competitor, Seen Getting Cozy With a Potential Girlfriend?

The coffee settling in Bucky's stomach curdled.

John honestly looked perfect for you. Someone you could bring home to Daddy, and he'd have all the correct answers and say all the right things. Someone who fit flawlessly into the world you came from. And, of course, it helped that he was a NASCAR competitor, and in a race your father sponsored.

The smile you gave John wasn't genuine, though. He'd seen a real smile from you; it lit up your entire face. This one looked forced and uncomfortable.

"Buck?"

He jerked his head up, meeting Sam's narrowed gaze, the kind that said he'd called for Bucky more than once. Sam rounded the counter, peering over Bucky's shoulder to see what had so easily captured his attention.

"Man," Sam sighed. "You gotta talk to her."

After one too many of Sam’s knowing looks, the whole story spilled out. Everything that had happened between you and him. Sam had truly listened that day, without judgment or offering any unsolicited advice.

And if Bucky didn't want to talk about it, Sam changed the subject. But now Sam was fed up with it.

"'s…complicated," Bucky replied.

"From where I'm standing, it's pretty clean cut."

"Look at her," he pointed to your picture in the paper. "We come from opposite ends of the world."

"Do you really think she's so superficial that she wouldn't give you the time of day just because you have a different status?"

Bucky's face dropped. "That's not what I meant."

"No?" Sam shot back. "Then stop treating her like that. Stop assuming things you know nothing about." He didn't even wait for a response, just vanished into the garage and got to work.

A few days passed.

Bucky threw himself back into work, a wrench firmly in his fist as he tightened a bolt on an engine. Sam burst into the garage with a wild look in his eyes, panic written all over his face.

Somehow, Bucky already knew without hearing a word. Dropping the wrench, he wiped his hands on the nearest rag. Then, sprang to his feet, snatching his keys off the hook.

“Where is she?” he demanded, already moving.

The difference between the pouring rain and the tears blurring in your vision was indistinguishable. The tears were coming down your cheeks, hot and quick, before you could stop them. It didn't matter how many times you blinked or wiped the wet from your cheeks; they kept coming.

Why did this have to happen? Why today of all days?

The accident happened before you could prevent it. You swore that the family of raccoons came out of nowhere. One minute you were driving, the next you were slamming on your brakes as you yanked your wheel in the opposite direction. Your heart leaped to your throat, gripping the wheel so hard your knuckles had gone white. Swerving on a slick road like that one was always going to be a losing battle. With the combination of braking and swerving too hastily, your wheels locked, and you lost control. That was why the front of your car was curved around a telephone pole.

Now, you sat there with your hands trembling on the steering wheel as the rain pelted your windshield. Your breath was coming out heavy and uneven, fogging up the glass.

You weren't hurt, not really anyway. Your nose hit the top of the wheel from the impact, leaving a warm trickle of blood pooling above your lip. Your ribs ached from the brief constriction of your seatbelt across your chest—a whispering promise of bruising come morning. But you were fine.

After it happened, your hand was already curled around your phone, before you could properly register what you were doing. Anxious fingers flew across your keyboard, typing in the first person that came to mind. Your eyes were locked on ten digits, Barnes' Towing & Auto Repair hovering directly above them.

It wasn't the first time you had been in this predicament. You always talked yourself out of it before. Because you were embarrassed by the display you showed Bucky after he brought up your father. Because you couldn't muster the courage to talk to him.

But this time, as you stared at the phone number, you realized you really didn't know who else to call.

Luckily, Sam picked up the phone instead, so you still had ample time to think about what you were going to say to Bucky. Yet, your mind felt blank.

Weeks had passed, and you didn't even know if that spark you'd felt that night under the stars with too much liquor in your system was still there. Or if it even existed in the first place. You were so drunk that you could've imagined it. Did the laugh that echoed in your dreams ever even happen, or was that something you hallucinated as well? All a trick of the light.

Headlights flared in your rear-view mirror, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts. You squinted against the brightness until the beams dimmed. The truck eased forward, turning around before backing up toward you until there were only inches between your bumpers.

You rubbed the blood from your nose, and you swiped the tears from under your eyes. Adjusting your sweater and running a hand over your hair, you tried to look as presentable as possible.

The driver's side opened, and out stepped Bucky. All six feet of him strode towards your car, white tank top getting soaked as he got closer. You could see the definition in his abs through the thin material, and the flex of his muscles as he…knocked on the glass.

Shit. You'd been gawking as he waited for you to roll down your window.

You were so fucked.

Bucky rapped on the glass one more time as you stared up at him, blinking. Your shimmering eyes eventually met his, lashes fluttering. Fuck, he missed seeing those in person. Your fingers reached for the switch, lowering the window with a mechanical hum. The steady rush of rain began to enter your car, raindrops dotting the interior of the door.

You almost appeared frazzled now that the glass wasn't interrupting his vision. Were you still in shock?

Bucky propped his elbow on the roof, leaning into the opening. "Hey," he greeted. "You still with me, princess?"

"Y-yeah," you stammered.

Now he could see the streaks of dried tears across your cheeks and the smear of crimson right below your nose. His chest clenched, and his skin suddenly felt too tight around his rib cage.

He cleared his throat. "Sam said you assured him you didn't need medical attention…you gonna fight me on that, too?"

"I'm really okay. Just a minor nosebleed. Nothing serious." You offered him a stiff smile that didn't reach your eyes.

He didn't know how to push down the worry stirring in his chest, so he responded with humor instead. "We gotta stop meetin' like this."

"Like what?"

"You're drunk," he teased.

Straightening your spine, you knitted your brows together in offense. "I'm not."

"Just a joke. Bad joke," he admitted, grabbing the back of his neck. "How'd you get in this mess anyway?"

"It's raining," you said, shrugging, as if that alone was an answer.

"I see that, Sherlock," he deadpanned. "But I got 'ere just fine."

"There was a little family of raccoons. Just a momma and her babies crossing the street, and I didn't see them right away. And…well…this happened."

"Adorable." The word slipped before he could stop it. He stared at you, eyes wide, hoping you didn't hear him.

"What?"

"I bet the raccoons were adorable," he offered, too quickly. "And I bet they're thankin' you for sparin' their lives."

Nodding, you sighed. "I just wish I hadn't sacrificed my pink monstrosity in the process."

He softened at the nickname he gave your car. "Uh…before I pull ya out," Bucky started, tapping on the roof of your car. "I'd like to apologize…again. It was never my intention to hurt you, and 'm sorry it came across that way. Your father had nothin' to do with the apology."

You stilled, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. Then, you still didn't move, and the two of you continued to face off in a little staring contest.

But he was getting anxious waiting for a reply, so he kept going. "Listen, I could wait out in the rain all day, beggin' for forgiveness. 'm not afraid to drop to my knees 'n the mud f' you. In fact—"

Doing just as he said, he lowered himself, dropping to his knees. His knees sank into the mud, no doubt darkening his jeans with the sludge. The droplets were streaming onto his face now, hair getting soaked in the process. But he didn't care.

"'m not goin' anywhere 'til you know I mean it," he promised. "'m deeply sorry."

You peeked out of the open window, watching him with your eyes blown wide. "Are you crazy?"

"A 'lil."

"Get up before you ruin your jeans," you order, slightly flustered.

He could ruin a lot more than his jeans on his knees for you. But this was not the time, nor the place.

Realizing he looked like an idiot, he rose with an awful sucking sound as he attempted to free his knees from the mud.

"You did nothing wrong, so there's nothing to forgive," you admitted, gazing up at him as he leaned against your vehicle. "I have some issues to work through, and that's not your problem."

"It could be."

He hadn't even realized he said it out loud, but there the words hung in the air between you like a confession. Lips separating, you released a soft breath, but you appeared too stunned to say anything.

Promptly moving on, he asked, "Did you call anyone to pick you up?"

"Just you."

Bucky hummed. "I know you don't wanna hear this, but maybe you should call your dad."

You instantly looked panicked. "Are you kidding? He'll kill me."

"Okay," he drawled. "How 'bout a friend?"

Grimacing, you shook your head.

"Well, I don't want you to be alone tonight," he mumbled, then thought of the most ridiculous solution. "You can stay with me tonight. You take my bed, and I'll—"

"Yes," you interrupted.

He was taken aback by your immediate response, but nodded. "My house it is," he confirmed. "Now, how 'bout I get you outta this rain, princess?"

The car ride to Bucky's shop was mostly quiet, save for the occasional clinking of the wheel lift that was supporting the weight of your car as it dragged behind his truck. You kept glancing over your shoulder, a nervous tic, though he assured you multiple times that it was secured. It was also an excuse to catch his biceps in your periphery.

You were sitting on a bench seat, so the close proximity was something you hadn't expected. But you weren't complaining. But you didn't know what to do with yourself either. You started by fixating on two separate raindrops on the windshield to distract yourself. In your head, those two clear dots were having a race, and the one you were rooting for slowed as the other one began streaming quicker down the glass, as if it knew.

When that didn't fully shift your attention, you decided to just sit stiffly beside him. You folded your hands neatly in your lap as you tried not to let the faint scent of his cologne mess with your head…again.

You had a hard time sending his leather jacket back after he let you borrow it. Sure, it had undertones of grease and motor oil, but the most prominent scent was a mix of sandalwood and cardamom. You blamed that damn jacket for the reason why you couldn't get him out of your head.

After that night outside of the bar, you had come home and immediately flopped into bed, the jacket still wrapped snuggly around your shoulders. The next morning was torture. You'd draped it over one of your kitchen chairs as you made some coffee and swallowed down some Tylenol to help with your lingering hangover. You stared at the jacket over the rim of your mug until you couldn't take it anymore and started wearing it around the house. It was because of the draft circulating the house, you had told yourself.

And you swore the time your fingers traveled between your aching thighs as you breathed in his scent was only because the alcohol was still in your system. You weren't thinking clearly when you slipped your fingers inside yourself, and you certainly weren't thinking when you came on your palm, his jacket pressed to your nose as your mind drifted to what Bucky's head would look like between your legs.

That familiar scent was flooding your senses as you scanned his profile, following the sharp line of his jaw to the slow bob of his Adam's apple. Your gaze kept dipping to his saturated tank top and the way it clung to his chest. Your lip continued to find its way between your teeth. Because who the hell looks that good fresh from a day's work and a shower in the rain?

His human arm was casually resting over the back of the seat, his fingers kissing the nape of your neck. You hadn't figured out if he was doing it on purpose yet, but it caused a chill to travel down your spine, all the same.

When you reached his shop, it was an easy enough drop-off. He got your car into the garage without any problems, efficient and professional, everything your brain wasn't. The rain was still a wild downpour, and any time he'd had to dry off on the drive over was wasted. He was sopping-wet as he jogged back to the truck.

When he slammed the door shut, his breath was coming out in gasps, his chest heaving as he threw his head back against the seat. The water dripped steadily off his dark hair, and his tank top was plastered to his chest—practically sheer at that point. You couldn't take your eyes off of him, and with the noises he was making from the exertion, you were having a hard time not letting your mind drift to sinful things. If you just crawled over and straddled his lap…would he make the same noises?

Glancing over at you, a slow grin spread across his lips. "You'd think it'd slow down at some point, but 's only coming down harder out there. 'm soaked," he panted.

"Yeah, me too," you sighed before your brain caught up, then your eyes widened, blinking. "I mean— my clothes are still wet. From the rain."

His smile stretched, easy and knowing. You could see the spark in his eyes, but he didn't say anything about your slip-up. Dragging a hand through his hair, he let out a slow exhale. Before you knew what was happening, he was shaking his head frantically, like a dog straight out of the bath. Water went everywhere: the dashboard, the windows, and you.

You gasped, turning your face the other direction as he splashed you with water droplets. "Bucky," you screeched.

"What?" he laughed, a sound that rattled deep in his chest. "I was just helpin' you catch up."

You lightly shoved his shoulder. "You're a menace."

Before you could pull your hand back, he caught your wrist—playfully and unmistakably up to something. His eyes lit with mischief, and that alone should’ve been your warning to scramble away.

"Come 'ere," he teased.

His metal hand dropped to your waist, guiding you toward him into a soaking-wet hug. You squeaked, planting your free hand on his chest in a desperate attempt to get some distance. It was too late, though. His arm tightened on the dip of your waist as his opposite hand curled around the back of your neck, angling you exactly where he wanted you. Like an overgrown golden retriever, he rubbed his face across your cheeks.

The cold droplets smeared across your skin, making you shriek louder. "Bucky! Come on, you're—"

"Drenched?" he finished for you, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. "Hadn't noticed."

You wiggled in his hold, swatting his chest. "Okay, okay. I surrender."

He eventually released you, leaning back. His laughter faded into a gentle smirk, looking way too smug for his own good. Rolling your eyes, you wiped the water off your face with the back of your hand. You thought about scooting away, keeping that distance you so desperately wished for before. But now, as you watched him, the amusement softening his features, you remembered there were worse things than having your skin a little wet.

The ride back to Bucky's house was a stark contrast to the one to his shop. Words were easier. The conversation flowed. It simultaneously felt like no time had passed, and like you'd known him for years and were just catching up.

The pair of you shared soft stories, the kind that made you giggle and made the tension in his shoulders loosen. He shared the time that Sam dragged him to meditation in the park, and it went so poorly that the instructor kicked him out. You shared that time your dress accidentally got thrown in with your father's wash, and it turned all his white dress shirts pink; he had to wear them for a week before they were replaced.

After almost an hour of driving, he turned onto a gravel path surrounded by tall, lively trees. You hadn't seen this part of Brooklyn before. The cityscape slowly diminished, giving way to lush greenery. He passed a sign that read: Green Meadows Farm.

You briefly wondered what your life would've been like if your father had taken you somewhere like this in your youth. If he had just slowed down enough to give you the attention you deserved. Without the buffer of your mother, who was the glue that kept your family stable. But that was too much to ask.

The truck dipped over the rockier sections, but Bucky avoided any major holes. Until he ran over a bump in the road, and despite the seatbelt, you nearly flew out of your seat. But he was quicker, swinging his arm out to catch you and secure you against the bench. He whispered, "I gotcha, princess," then shifted his gaze to the road as if nothing had happened.

Though you were safely back in your seat, his arm lingered, bicep pressed firmly to your chest. When he finally moved it, his hand found purchase on your thigh, calloused fingers bending around your bare flesh. Not gripping, just holding, like he had a right to. Like it was natural.

Eventually, the trees down the path cleared, and his house came into view. The only reason you knew it was his was that it was very…him. There was no other way to describe it. A quaint cabin with a wraparound porch that overlooked the river.

The truck rolled to a stop as he shifted it into park. With the rain softening to an even patter, you could finally hear how quiet it was here. The rustle and bustle of the city felt like a distant memory. Nature was the only soundtrack here, the gentle rush of the river, and you could just make out the faint noises of an owl, high up in the branches of a nearby tree.

Bucky didn't waste any time. He leaped down from the truck, then helped you, offering you a hand. As you hopped down, the heels of your shoes vanished into the mud with a subtle squelch. He sighed dramatically beside you before leaning down and sliding his hands around your waist. With barely any effort on his part, he lifted and threw you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

You let out a startled wheeze. "I do have two legs."

"Can't have your precious heels gettin' ruined," he cooed in an almost mocking tone. Trudging toward the door, he placed a protective hand over your ass as he smoothed out your skirt.

"I can walk," you ordered, but he was dead set on ignoring your protests. "I'm serious, put me down." You lightly pounded your fists into the dip of his back, but he only huffed a laugh in response. Flopping forward, you figured it best not to waste your energy arguing with a brick wall. Your arms dangled out in front of you as he carried you up the steps, the wood squeaking under the weight of his boots.

He gently set you down with a light click of your heels, reaching for the keys in his back pocket. "Better?"

You crossed your arms, tilting your head. "Thank you," you muttered, trying to sound annoyed, but failing miserably.

"Anythin' for you," he replied coolly. And even if he said the words as a joke, they made the corner of your lip lift.

Unlocking the door, he pushed in. He flicked on the light, bathing the interior in warm light, and you followed him in. You were immediately hit with the scent of cedar, and him. The inside was exactly what you expect—minimal decor, yet it had a lived-in feel. A worn leather couch in the living room with a black jacket draped over the arm. A wall of photos with unusual frames. A small fireplace. Everything was practical, but charming.

"It ain't much," he said, exhaling slowly with his hands on his hips. "But make yourself at home." He kicked off his heavy work boots, then disappeared down a dark hallway. A light flicked on as he entered a room, which you could only guess was his room. He closed it most of the way, but kept it open a crack.

You slipped off your heels, and they hit the floor with a gentle thud. You did a rough sweep of the room, then padded over to the wall of frames. You scanned the photos, some from his childhood, some of his shop, some of him and Sam.

But your eyes lingered on two, hanging beside each other. A navy blue uniform, neatly buttoned with a matching cap. Bucky and Sam stood side by side with perfect posture, saluting the camera. Metal arm. The other image was a solo shot, clad in an army green jumpsuit. No metal arm.

A set of dog tags dangled off the corner of the frame, twinkling under the light. They clinked as you twisted them in your palm. James Buchanan Barnes. You tested the name, mouthing it softly.

You peeked around the corner, ready to tell him what you uncovered. Instead, you were met with carved back muscles just as he was tugging up his sweatpants. You nearly choked on your own saliva, your cheeks warming from guilt of seeing something you weren't supposed to. He turned, pulling a dark shirt over his head, and flattened out the wrinkles in the fabric. His arm glinted, drawing your attention downward, and then your eyes drifted lower. And lower.

You caught the patch of hair above the waistband before disappearing beneath his grey sweatpants. You followed the trail. Fuck. Nothing could drag your gaze away from the subtle bulge against the material of his sweats. No matter how hard you tried to reason with yourself that this was wrong, that you were openly objectifying him, you continued to gawk.

"You can ask about it," Bucky said, walking towards you with a plush towel in his hands.

Shit.

You hadn't even noticed him step out of his room, and now you were caught with no possible way out of this one. But was he really giving you permission to ask about his dick size? Wait, maybe he wanted you to ask about the shape.

No, that's ridiculous…just…play dumb? Yeah. Some guys love that, right?

You've been staring for too long with no other excuse to use. Fuck it.

Play dumb. Play dumb. Play dumb.

You swallowed thickly. "What?"

"I keep catchin' you lookin' at my arm. If you're curious, you can ask. 'm an open book."

"Right, I've been wondering about your arm," you drawled. You mentally thanked yourself because, yes, sometimes playing dumb has gotten you out of some sticky situations. "How'd you get it?"

He motioned for you to turn around, and you scrunched your brows, but did it anyway. His hands moved to your shoulders, sliding your sweater down your arms, then hanging it on a hook by the door. Unfolding the towel, he glided it over your upper back, the nape of your neck, and anywhere else that was out of your reach.

"Sam and I were in the Air Force together. It feels like a lifetime ago," he began as he handed over the towel.

You took it, still a little stunned by how naturally he moved around you. As if he'd done it a thousand times. He guided you over to the couch, hand cupping your elbow. He nodded for you to sit as you started to pat down your hair, squeezing the dampness from the strands. Grabbing the plaid blanket from the back of the sofa, he covered your lower half, tucking the edges in. And he did it all without you ever needing to say a word.

Why did everything feel so natural with him? Why did it feel like he was reading your every thought before you even asked?

Lifting the blanket, he slipped under it, scooting closer until your legs brushed. His arm fell to the back of the couch, turning his full body toward you as he spoke. "That's how we met, actually. We served multiple tours overseas together. Got close in the process. Honestly, don't think I'd be 'ere without him."

The vulnerability in his tone cut you deeper than you expected. His gaze drifted, and he had this faraway look in his eyes that told you to let the silence breathe. So, you waited. You didn't force the conversation, just let him take his time.

He cleared his throat. "We had some aerial trainin' the day it happened. The other soldiers in the aircraft strapped on their parachutes. I was the last one to grab mine."

Bucky went quiet again, finding his words. "Y'know, everyone puts their trust in the manufacturers. You kinda have to have a 'lil blind faith that the equipment's been tested and retested. That they're suitable for jumps of high altitudes, or that 's even capable of carrying a large amount. That's why, when I jumped, I didn't even think twice. Just did it."

Your stomach dropped because you already knew the outcome of this story. You looked at him—really looked at him. It wasn't a look of pity, but understanding.

His eyebrows twitched. "I had a faulty parachute. It wouldn't deploy no matter how hard I pulled. Thankfully, I landed in a tree before I fully hit the ground, so the branches lessened the blow."

You felt your heart crack wide open, raw and exposed. Unfamiliar with this side of grief, you didn't know the procedure. You didn't know whether to reach for him or if he even wanted to be touched. You settled for a whispered apology instead. "I know this doesn't help, but I'm sorry."

Sighing, he offered you a small smile. "From you…it does."

You mirrored his smile, but he didn't dwell on the emotion for much longer. Correcting his posture, he coughed. "After that, I settled back in Brooklyn. Needed a job. Figured I've always been good at fixin' things, so I opened my own shop. Sam gave me a call not too long after, and we've been in business together ever since."

His expression softened, as if he were reminiscing. "Though some days I regret that decision," he jokingly added.

You hummed in amusement, easing into the couch as you shifted to face him. "You love him."

"I tolerate him. There's a difference," he said stubbornly.

"Right."

He rolled his eyes, but you knew there was truth to your words. "So, what's your story?" he asked, shifting the spotlight off himself.

You shrugged. "I don't have one."

Arching a brow, he bumped you with his knee. "Come on. Gimme somethin'. How 'bout why you were cryin' in the car?"

You stilled; you hadn't realized he saw that. "Just overwhelmed," you half-answered. Blinking slowly, he leveled you with a glare. Your head dropped back, puffing air through your nose.

"Fine," you murmured. "I was on the way to visit my mother's grave."

Bucky leaned in, not dramatically, but just enough to let you know he was listening.

"It's the anniversary of her death," you continued, quieter. "Which…ironically was because of a car accident." You nearly laughed, though nothing felt humorous about it. But you hadn't really reflected on the similarities until right now.

Your fingers tightened around the blanket, attempting to ground yourself. "Every year, my father and I make plans to honor her, and every year, he cancels. I guess I got sick of it. No, I am sick of it. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who feels the weight of her death."

Your voice wavered slightly, but you pushed on. "I know everyone grieves differently. But I expected…something. Glimpses of pain, maybe? But nothing. He ignores her very existence. And the one time I ask him to acknowledge her, even that's too hard."

Silence settled again, and under the blanket, his hand found your thigh—a grounding pressure you needed. As if to say, I'm here.

You exhaled slowly. "It was a drunk driver that killed her…That's why I got upset when you asked. That night, when I was singing on the sidewalk, was a rarity for me. I don't drink. And I especially don't drink and drive. It's irresponsible and stupid…and—"

Squeezing your eyes shut, you tried to keep the tears at bay. "I lost the most important person in my life because someone couldn't pick up the damn phone and call a taxi."

For a moment, the only sound was the soft patter of rain against the roof and the gentle wind whistling just beyond the windows. Just as you did for him, Bucky didn't fill the silence. He didn't try to fix it. He just offered a light squeeze to your thigh in comfort.

Releasing a shaky breath, you blinked back the threat of tears. "Sorry," you said brokenly. "I didn't mean to dump all that on you."

Reaching up with his metal hand, he tucked a stray hair behind your ear. "You never need to apologize for feelin' things, princess."

His gaze flicked over your features, as if he didn't know where to look. "I know it doesn't help, but 'm sorry," he echoed your earlier words.

You couldn't help the smile that grew on your lips. "From you, it does help," you repeated his earlier words.

The cool metal of his fingers dragged down your jaw, relaxed and measured, as his gaze drifted down to your lips. He inched a little closer, firmly taking your jaw in his hand. Lips parting, he hovered in your space. You felt that same electric energy from all those nights ago. Still present. Still charged.

Your eyes fluttered closed, certainty driving your actions.

Then.

You felt a sudden weight on your lap, causing your eyes to fly open. Backing away, you gasped. A white fluff ball with a pink nose and twitching ears sat on your knees, staring at you with its wide blue eyes. The cat tilted its head, assessing you.

Bucky rolled his eyes, huffing out a laugh. "I guess someone wanted an introduction." His flesh hand loosened on your thigh to scratch under the cat's chin. "Meet Alpine. She's…particular."

Alpine shut her eyes, purring as her owner gave her the attention she'd been missing. "She almost clawed Sam's face off the first time they met. So don't be offended if she isn't the biggest fan of you right—"

He cut himself off as Alpine moved out of the way of his hand. She crept up towards you, her front paws finding purchase on your chest as she lifted her head towards your face. Turning her head, she rubbed the side of her face against your jaw. She let out a long, low purr as she nuzzled into you. Lifting your hand tentatively, you carded your fingers through her thick fur.

"Hey there, pretty girl," you giggled. "I think he's painting you to be some kind of scary monster. You're not, are you?"

"Huh," he said, slightly baffled by the sight. "I don't know what I was worried 'bout. She doesn't usually click with anyone that quickly."

"Aw, just like her daddy," you cooed, winking at him.

Swallowing hard, his cheeks flushed faintly. The tips of his ears turned red, just like that day in the shop. He brushed it off, shaking his head as his hand found your thigh again.

Alpine blinked up at him, then you. Retreating from you, you swore she gave a subtle nod as if to say that she approved. Then she scurried off your lap just as quickly as she came, her tail flicking as she disappeared down the hallway.

A grin still plastered on your face, you let out a soft breath. "She's sweet."

"Don't let her fool you," he mumbled, gingerly rubbing your thigh. "She's opinionated."

The air shifted once more, warmth pooling in your stomach as he touched you. While his earlier grip had been innocent, this felt different. This was eagerness, as if he couldn’t wait another moment longer. The hunger in his eyes was undeniable, silently urging to resume where you’d left off before the interruption.

You forced your thighs together, your heart racing with desire.

"You're a flirty drunk. Did you know that?" he asked arrogantly, his hand still firmly pressed to your thigh, inching higher and higher in intervals so you wouldn't notice. But you noticed. Your body noticed. The space between your legs noticed, which only made you squeeze your thighs together tighter.

"G-guess that's another reason I don't drink very often," you stuttered.

"I dunno, I thought it was pretty cute. You said somethin' 'bout wantin' to bite me at one point?"

"I did not," you objected. "I said if you wanted me to, I would.

"So, hypothetically," he rasped. "If I said I wanted you to right now, you would."

"Bucky," you squealed, lightly slapping his metal arm, which probably hurt you more than him. "I was wasted."

"Yeah, but y'know what they say, drunk words are sober thoughts."

"Are you saying I thought about biting you the first day we met? Because that's as far as my sober thoughts about you went after our little conflict in your shop," you harmlessly teased.

Bucky sucked air through his teeth. "Oof, you wound me, princess." He placed his metal hand over his heart, feigning offense. "But yes, you looked like you wanted to bite my head off that day, so I wouldn't be surprised."

Then, he did something you least expected; he leaned closer. You figured this was all just teasing. That this back and forth was just innocent flirtation. But his lips brushed your ear as he whispered against the shell of it. "Bet that pretty 'lil head of yours is thinkin' real hard 'bout it now."

"Only because you won't shut up about it," you shot back breathlessly, lacking the bite you were intending.

"Ooh, she's got teeth," he chuckled, his warm breath fanning across your neck. He attempted to wedge his fingers between your thighs. A heat washed over your body, your cheeks warm with lust, and your head swimming with thoughts that were anything but pure.

The stubble of his beard grazed your jaw, and your breath caught. "So, when are we gonna stop dancin' around the fact that I've been tryin' to get between these thighs of yours?" he pressed boldly. "Are you ignorin' me? Because we know how well that worked out last time."

"I never ignored you," you said. "In fact, I couldn't get rid of you. You were like a pesky fly that was always there."

Bucky hummed in satisfaction, and you could feel his smirk against your skin. "You missed me then?"

"Yes," you blurted too quickly. "Yes, I missed you."

"I missed you, too," he muttered softly, and you could hear the truth in his words. The way his voice dipped into something gentle and earnest made your chest feel suddenly tight. Then, his tone dipped lower, deep and starving as he nudged your leg. "Lemme in, princess. Wanna show you just how much I missed you."

As if you were under his spell, your thighs parted. His fingers curled around your thigh, squeezing twice in quick succession. "There ya go. Keep 'em spread f'me."

Fingers danced up the inner part of your thigh until they disappeared beneath the hem of your skirt. They kissed the edge of your panties, his touch light as he circled your clothed clit. You sighed at the contact, your chin tipping back blissfully.

"Good girl," he praised, lips scorching the underside of your jaw. "Just relax."

Your breath stuttered at the combination of his lips trailing down your neck and the tantalizing patterns he was tracing over the dark patch on the seam of your panties. Metal-plated digits unexpectedly grazed the heated flesh of your shoulder, causing a shiver to ripple through you.

Bucky leaned back slightly, still keeping his close proximity to you, but needing to see your expression. "This still okay?" he asked, eyes flicking between yours, searching for any indication that you wanted to stop.

You nodded frantically. "Yeah. Please, keep going."

The smirk that graced his lips could only be described as downright smug. He moved your spaghetti strap over your shoulder, dragging it down your arm achingly slow. His mouth followed directly after, lips skimming over your collarbone.

All at once, he began nipping at the protruding bone as his fingers on your clit added more pressure. You moaned loudly—a long, elated noise that made him pause his ministrations.

The realization of how desperate it sounded hit like a force, and you could hear your heartbeat thudding in your ears, louder than before. "Oh gosh," you whispered, shame flooding your face. You raised your arm, concealing the embarrassment etched into your features.

"Ah-ah, don't hide from me, baby," he gently scolded as he pried your arm away. Bringing your wrist to his lips, he pressed them to your fluttering pulse. "Why're you all shy on me now?"

You didn't answer, your eyes sealed shut as the pang of humiliation echoed in your skull.

"What're you doin'?" he asked, planting another kiss on your palm.

"If I squeeze my eyes as tightly as humanly possible, I think I might disappear."

He chuckled, and even with your eyes closed, you knew he was showing off the creases beside his eyes. "No, you can't disappear on me this time. Y'know how long I've been waitin' to hear that?"

Cracking open your eye, you peeked up at him. "Why'd you stop then?"

"'Cause now 'm so hard, 's painful," he confessed, a little breathy. "I would fuck you 'til the ache went away, but 'm not done playin' with you."

You shivered, completely turned on by this bold version of him. If you were wet before, now you were soaked from his dirty mouth alone.

"You gonna lemme keep goin'?" he asked.

Nodding, you silently gave him permission. His hand traveled back between your thighs, running his fingers up the front of your underwear. Your hips jerked as his began rubbing in slow, captivating circles again.

His metal fingers grazed the side of your neck, curling around the nape as he pulled you closer. Leaning forward, his lips brushed the corner of your mouth, then the other. He pulled back a hair, studying your face. "Can I kiss you, baby?"

"Please do," you said, as if it were the most obvious answer.

His mouth was on yours in a second, your bottom lip getting caught between his. You sighed against his mouth, your hand coming up to cup his jaw and draw him even closer. The kiss was a lazy analysis of one another's mouths at first. Each slow graze of his lips elicited sparks coursing through your veins, like tiny fireworks exploding beneath your skin.

The urgency to fully taste you prompted him to force your chin up, his tongue delving into your mouth. He moaned against your mouth, eyebrows twitching as he found your tongue. Tongues swirled, teeth clashed, and your hold tightened on him. You felt light-headed from the kiss, breathing hard into his mouth.

The fingers on your clit picked up the pace as his lips began to move hastily against yours, as if he already couldn't get enough. You whined, your other hand finding his shoulder as your nails dug in. He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, then pulled back.

His mouth met your neck again as you struggled to catch your breath, lips dragging lower and lower. Tongue darting out, he licked along the top of your tank top. He tugged on the material, exposing more of your skin until your tit spilled free. His non-human hand reached up, cupping the underside of your breast.

Heated lips closed around your nipple, pulling a whimper from you. You wiggled under his attention. The dual pleasure was making your head spin and your heart pound. His tongue licked around the sensitive bud, then flicked it before sucking it into his mouth. Gazing up at you, he softly rolled your nipple between his teeth. You sucked air through your teeth, hissing. He switched back to trailing kisses across your skin in deep devotion, leaving no space untouched.

"Have you thought 'bout this as much as I have?" he rasped against your flesh.

"Yes," you mewled shamelessly.

Inclining back, he retracted his hand with a cocky grin. "Show me."

"What?"

"Show me what you did when you thought 'bout it."

Momentarily shocked, you stared dumbly at him. He lightly pinched your thigh, grabbing your attention. "Come on, princess. Wanna hear all those pretty noises you made when you were all alone," he pressed. Scooting to the edge of the couch, he dropped to his knees before you. "Lemme help you."

Spreading your legs further apart, his hands—one icy and the other warm—drifted up your thighs. His thumbs hooked in the band of your underwear, yanking them towards him. The blush pink panties slid down your legs without much resistance. Tossing them aside, his hands snaked under your thighs, sliding you down the couch. He lifted the hem of your skirt, resting it across your stomach, revealing your bare pussy to the chilled air.

"Fuck." Bucky's tongue grazed his lower lip, ravenous. "She's so pretty."

Bending down, he kissed the inner part of your knee. "Put on a show f'me," he urged gently.

Your hands trembled lightly at your sides, nerves curling at the edges of your mind. You’d never had anyone witness something so personal before. But with a deep breath, you steadied yourself, and for reasons you couldn’t explain, being with him felt strangely comforting.

Your fingers met the skin of your thigh, tracing patterns before they moved closer to the place he couldn't keep his eyes off of. Two fingers pushed between your slick folds, gathering wetness as they skimmed through. They found your clit, mirroring the same pressure and pace as he did.

"Just like that. Nice 'n slow," he instructed. "You're doin' so good f'me, baby."

Exhaling roughly, your mouth opened in a soft 'o' as your fingers swirled around the swollen bud. Your eyes stayed locked on him, and the way he was gazing up at you, his chin gently propped on your knee with a longing in his eyes, nearly made you come on the spot.

"Spread her f'me," he whispered gravelly.

Doing as you were told, you straightened your fingers, delicately spreading the lips of your cunt. With your fingers already damp with your arousal, they glistened right alongside your pussy in this lighting. His eyes darkened, his lip getting caught between his teeth as he diligently watched you.

Your fingers dipped, sliding down the length of your pussy, and toying with your entrance. Two fingers slipped right in from how soaked you were. The noise your cunt made in response had you and Bucky groaning in unison. Your fingers sped up, caressing and curling against your plushy walls. Your free hand lifted, covering your breast and massaging it.

"Do you like to watch, Bucky?" You don't know where your boldness came from. Maybe it was being in control of your own body, or the way he looked at you like you hung the stars. Either way, the question hung between you.

"Yeah, fuck," he murmured pathetically. "Yeah, I like to watch."

The obscene sounds of your fingers going in and out of your already weeping pussy filled the air, along with the moans you just couldn't hold back.

"Listen to her talk to me," he growled, his eyelids drooping as he followed the sight of your disappearing fingers. "She sounds so fuckin' good."

Eventually, his hand snatched your wrist, and he brought the saturated pair to his lips. They enveloped your fingers, sucking them clean. He hummed at the contact of your juices on his tongue, eyelashes fluttering. He released them with a soft smack of his lips.

"Tastes so fuckin' good," he said, licking the tips of his fingers, like he just consumed his favorite meal. "Think I need more."

His hands closed around the back of your knees, pulling you until only a portion of your ass remained on the sofa. Scooping your legs up, he settled them over his shoulders, immediately diving in. His tongue flattened, licking a long stripe up your center. You gasped, your fingers carding through his hair and holding firm.

Tongue flicking over your clit, he leaned down and tenderly kissed it. He pressed his face flush with your cunt, sucking the bud hard before descending upon your clenching hole. The tip of his tongue traced around your entrance until it plunged deep into your cunt.

He pushed his face further into you, practically submerging himself in you. As he devoured you, fucking you with his tongue, his nose steadily nudged your clit. Your grip on his dark strands tightened, your thighs squeezing tighter around his head. His eyes flicked up—a predator feasting on its prey.

"Yeah, fuckin' drown me, baby," he hummed against you, patting your thigh.

Then, that same hand vanished beneath you as his mouth returned to your clit. Two fingers pushed into your pussy without warning as he slurped on your swollen bud. You squirmed above him, your hips wiggling this way and that. Metal-plated fingers reached around your thigh, his palm flattening over your lower stomach.

"I know, I know. You're close, aren't ya? Just stay still, sweet girl," he ordered gently, tapping his fingers over your belly button.

His flesh fingers curled as his tongue spiraled, leaving you a whimpering mess. The tension in your gut coiled. Your free hand bent around the edge of the couch as your hips canted. Vision flaring white, the coil snapped. You came with a cry of his name, gasping as your cunt fluttered around his thick fingers. With trembling thighs and your eyes flashing open, you let the climax wash over you.

Prolonging your orgasm, he guided you through it. He softened his ministrations to a stop when you went limp above him. He planted a lingering kiss on your inner thigh, then removed your legs from his shoulders. They flopped against the floor, boneless.

"You don't realize how beautiful you are, do you?" he asked, awestruck. "Did you know your eyes get even brighter when you cum? I didn't know that was even possible."

Attempting to get you to meet his eyes again, he shook your leg. "You still with me, princess."

You kept your gaze to the ceiling, tracing the wood panels with your vision as you slowed your breathing. "I think I went to heaven," you panted, dazed.

Bucky chuckled, rising to his full height. Interrupting your view, he hovered over you, stabilizing himself against the back of the couch. His biceps bulged on either side of his head, muscles locking as he gazed down at your blissed-out expression.

"Yup, I bartered with the angels to bring you back," he teased.

A small grin tugged at your lips, eyes glinting. "And? What did it take to bring me back?"

"Everythin'," he whispered. "But it was so fuckin' worth it."

Your breath caught, butterflies erupting in your stomach that had nothing to do with the aftereffects of your climax. He leaned down lower, snaking his arm under the curve of your spine, and lifted you.

"You gonna lemme fuck you now, baby?" he questioned carefully, forcing your legs to wrap around his waist.

Resting your arms on his shoulders, your lips brushed his, voice coming out in a sultry purr. "Fuck me, Bucky. I need it."

Eager lips pressed against his, prompting him to let out an animalistic growl. He moved, blindly feeling around his living room. As your lips parted, your teeth sank into his bottom lip, lightly tugging on it. His knee bumped the corner of the couch, stumbling forward. Luckily, his instincts kicked in. Metal arm locking, he caught himself against the wall before it caused you any harm.

You giggled into his mouth, "Careful, pretty boy."

"Are you tryin' to kill me and get yourself killed in the process?" he scoffed, righting himself before continuing the short journey to his bedroom.

"What?" you said, feigning innocence. "You said you wanted me to bite you."

"You're lucky you're cute."

He tossed you onto the bed, the mattress squeaking subtly. The softness of the blankets briefly swallowed you before you propped yourself up on your elbows. Reaching behind his back, Bucky tugged at the collar of his shirt until it was off.

This time, when you looked at his muscles, you didn't feel any guilt. Openly, you traced the lines of his battle-worn body. Every scar that the years in the Air Force granted him, or the cuts that he received from long shifts at the shop, was thoroughly admired by you.

"You're perfect," you praised.

As if he'd never heard such a compliment, he tilted his head in fondness. Then, his thumbs hooked into his sweats, yanking them down. As he pulled the cuffs from his feet, you watched his cock bob gently against his stomach.

"Holy fuck," you breathed, eyes wide and mouth agape.

He was thick. Huge. Your little exploration in the hallway as he changed didn't do him justice. You followed the veins along his cock that led to his angry, red tip. A bead of precum dripped from the slit of his dick.

Crawling to you, he settled over you. You were still staring as he positioned himself between your legs. Gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger, he forced your gaze up.

"My eyes are up here, princess," he mocked lightly, then his tone softened. "I'll go slow, I promise. You're safe with me."

You nodded, but your mouth still felt desert-dry. "I have a confession to make."

"But 's not even Sunday," he jokingly replied.

"I wasn't looking at your arm earlier."

He hummed, amusement etching into his expression. "I also have a confession." His head dipped, mouth hovering beside your ear. "I knew."

Fingers curving around his cock, he pressed the head to your entrance, teasing it. You grasped his metal bicep, firmly planted by your head. You couldn't slow your breathing, your heartbeat galloping like a racehorse from nerves.

"Shh…" Bucky soothed. "Breathe with me. In 'n out. Yeah, that's perfect," he rambled as you matched his breathing.

The tip pushed through your folds, the thick head invading your pussy. The stretch was intense, stealing the air from your lungs. Even through his grunts of pleasure, he continued to guide you, talking you through the dull sting of his dick spreading you open.

"That's my good girl. Take it all," he groaned.

You whined brokenly as he bottomed out inside you; you'd never felt so full. Leaning back, he brushed a few damp strands out of your eyes. He pressed tender kisses to your slightly bruised nose—you were honestly so distracted by his presence that you hadn't thought about it since the accident. But he hadn't forgotten.

The attention he was giving your nose distracted you enough that by the time you had remembered the pain of him stretching you out, it had already faded. He pressed his forehead to yours, sighing in contentment.

With your pussy well-adjusted, he began rocking steadily into you. His metal hand found purchase on your hip as his other hand drifted up your arm that held the back of his neck. Securing your wrist, he drew it away, flattening your arm against the mattress. His hand glided up until he was intertwining your fingers with his. The intimacy of the gesture made it suddenly hard to swallow.

"I gotcha," he promised, squeezing your hand.

His hips picked up their pace, snapping up to meet yours. Setting a rhythmic pace, he gripped your hip with a more solid hold. Rapid breaths mingled in the space between you as the sound of skin slapping echoed around you.

The world around you fell away, and all you could see was him. He was invading your senses, leaving you completely connected to him. The worries of your personal life, everything that caused you pain, all dimmed in that moment. Because you were no longer letting those thoughts and feelings run your life.

Slamming into you, he groaned, his chin tipping back. "Baby, you feel so good. You're just perfect, aren't ya? Made just f'me."

You let out a loud, throaty moan as he hit that sweet spot deep inside you. The head of his cock bullied into your G-spot over and over until you were breathless. You arched into him, spine bowing.

Then, his hands slipped under you, lifting you. Your legs twisted as he adjusted you over top of him, straddling his thighs. Knees digging into the mattress, he thrusted up into you. Arms lifting to his shoulders, you held him. You moved with him, riding him at the pace he set. Your hips rolled, grinding against that spot that had you reeling.

A protective arm wrapped around the small of your back, fingers sprawled over your warm skin. His flesh palm rested over the back of your head as you buried your face in his shoulder. The next time he bucked up into you, your pussy clamped down hard around him. Like the force of a rising tide, you felt your climax ascend.

"'m right there," Bucky grunted. "I can feel her squeezin' me. That mean your close too, sweet girl?"

You nodded against him. "Come with me, please. I need it."

Moving in unison, the room filled with your combined sounds of pleasure. The wave came crashing down, your cunt pulsating around him. Your teeth punctured the skin of his shoulder as your second orgasm rippled through you. Hissing, his thrusts turned sloppy. Warmth spread through you, his release coating your walls as he spilled into you.

Slumping forward, your head rolling to the side. Breathing in tandem, his chest rose as yours sank. He nuzzled into your hair, inhaling your scent, and kissing the crown of your head.

You caught the teeth marks in his flesh, a flicker of concern overwhelming you. The emotion softened upon realizing you liked the sight of it. With a finger, you traced over each ridge.

"I know I said I'm not a biter," you slurred, still high on the experience. "But I have to say, it looks really good."

Bucky let out a gentle puff of air against your hair. "Oh yeah? I could get used to being marked up by you. As long as I can give you a matching one."

Lying you back on the bed, he moved over you and pressed his lips to your collarbone before sinking his teeth into the skin above it.

And though you knew there was not a soul around, you could have sworn your laugh carried for miles.

The sun appeared brighter this morning when you woke. You were drifting through Bucky's house with a pep in your step. The coffee was brewed, Alpine was fed, and you did it all while Bucky snored in the next room over.

But now with the sun sitting just above the treeline, everything felt dimmer than before. Frowning, you placed your phone on the kitchen counter. The white fluff ball, nudging at your hand, noticed your attitude change, as if she could smell it amongst the boldness of the coffee.

Your fingers carded through her fur, grounding yourself.

Warm arms enveloped you from behind, squeezing your midsection gingerly. "Mornin', princess."

"Morning," you parroted, but quieter.

Bucky stiffened behind you. "Hey, is everythin' alright?"

"I just got off the phone with my father."

"Oh," he muttered, turning you around so he could see your expression. "Judgin' by your face, 'm guessin' that didn't go well."

"No," you confirmed. "He said he was glad that I'm okay, but…" You trailed off, glancing at something over his shoulder. "He's not paying for the damages. Not unless I work for him. His wish for me to inherit his stupid company is finally coming true. I don't know why I even tried to resist it. He always wins anyway."

His brows knitted together in confusion, or maybe agitation. "Don't worry 'bout it," he said, framing your face with his massive hands. "I'll pay for it."

You scoffed, shaking him off. "No, I can't ask you to do that."

"You're not askin', 'm offerin'."

"No," you repeated more firmly. "I appreciate it, but I don't want that."

"Don't let him win," he muttered, eyes flicking between yours, searching.

"I'm trying not to," you insisted. "I guess I'll figure it out. I'll get a job, hopefully one I like, and I'll pay it off."

Bucky's lip lifted at the corner, giving you a look that could only mean trouble. "I know a place that's hirin'."

"Really?" You tilted your head, then it dawned on you what he meant. "No. Absolutely not. You were right, I don't know anything about cars. I can't work for you."

"I'll teach you," he said simply. "You don't gotta know everythin' right away. We can start slow. You can work at the front. Take calls. Schedule appointments. Take people's money…" His tone dipped into something teasing. "I know you won't have a problem with that one."

"Asshole," you chirped, slapping his chest. Then, your expression shifted into something warm. "I'll think about it."

"That's a yes," he murmured, as if he already knew.

"No, I said I'll think about it."

"Yeah, but your eyes said yes."

"You're ridiculous," you shot back, but you were grinning like an idiot.

He backed you into the counter, caging you in. "And you love it." Before you could even react, his lips were on yours, warm and inviting.

Five Months Later

The neon sign stood proudly outside Bucky's shop. It was a bright crimson that could be seen for miles, snagging just about anyone's attention. You suggested it. Because, of course, you did. You knew what customers liked, and you were right. The shop had an influx of people coming and going.

Your original suggestion was rejected. You wanted pink. He wanted blue. After bickering for half an hour, you both settled on red.

Sometimes he just had to stand there, leaning against his truck, taking it all in. The sign. The shop. His life…with you.

Eventually, he found his way to the front. His eyes scanned the poster hanging on the glass door, where the 'now hiring' sign had once lived. It read, 'Wrong Turn'—a foundation you were investing in. It was an organization specializing in drunk-driving awareness. Proud didn't even cover how he felt about it. About you, finding something that you were so passionate about. That you had poured your heart into.

Opening the door, the bell rang above him, announcing his arrival. Bucky was hit with a gust of warm vanilla layered with grapefruit, which he could practically taste on his tongue. He immediately heard the familiar sound of you singing. It was a little off-key, but unapologetically you.

Following the sound, he slipped into the garage, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. He watched you silently, a warm smile gracing his lips. You were tightening a bolt on an engine with a pink—yes, pink—wrench. In fact, your entire toolbox and tools were pink.

You finally glanced up from your task, offering him a small wave with oil-slicked fingers. "Hi, handsome," you greeted. Grabbing the rag hanging from the vehicle, you wiped the grease from your fingers.

Closing the distance, his hands found your hips, pressing a kiss to your nose. "Hey, princess." He glanced down and frowned. "What're you wearin'?"

"A shirt."

"I see that. Why is it like that?" he asked, scanning the shirt that had his logo on the front of it…but in blush pink.

"They just came in today. Isn't it cute?"

"No. Nope. I didn't agree to this."

"Buck," you drawled, a lilt to your voice. "Sam is wearing one. I have one ready for Joaquin when he comes in for work tomorrow. I even have one set aside for Alpine."

"After the pink bow incident, 'm not lettin' you put anythin' on her."

"She loved it, and she looked adorable in it. Just admit it," you muttered, poking him in the ribs.

She really did look cute in it, but he wasn't about to tell you that.

Sam stepped in then, wearing his new pink shirt, and the moment his eyes fell on the two of you, he started backing up. "Wilson, get your ass back in 'ere," Bucky called. Sam froze mid-step, turning with a guilty look on his face.

"Were you in on this?" Bucky inquired, pointing at your shirt.

"Will you dock my pay if I say yes?" Sam asked tentatively.

Bucky rubbed his forehead, groaning. "'m gettin' run out of my own shop."

"You love it," you cooed, and he only glared in return. You tried for a different approach, offering him a full, toothy smile as your eyelashes fluttered. "You love me?"

"You're lucky I love you," he corrected. "Alright, the shirts can stay."

Sam’s jaw dropped. “Wait, that’s all it took? All she had to do was bat her lashes, and you're just fine? I’ve been trying to get you to approve new uniforms for years.”

Bucky shot him a look. “Don’t push it.”

You just beamed, triumphant. "Thanks, baby," you cheered, pushing up on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek, smearing some of your glittery lip gloss on his skin.

But he didn't mind. Because for the last five months, he was happy. Content. And it was all because he'd fallen for the rich girl, who strutted into his shop with pink heels and a smile. The one who turned his world upside down with one glimpse of those bright eyes. The one who caused him to prefer chaos to his normal quiet.

And he thanked the universe every day for dropping you into his lap.

me posting this because holy shit...this took a lot out of me:

💌 general taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @wherewinterblooms @wildflowersandvibranium @phoenix-in-writing @overwintering-soldier @wint3rbarnes @paankhaleyaaar @mysteriousmysticc @sergeantsebastian @canyon-moon-carly @ornateglass @sheriff-bodecker

Logan stares at his phone, eyes glancing up to the picture next to your contact name. It was one of his favorite pictures of you, caught off-guard. The sight of your face makes him ache.

He's never been one to get homesick, but that's because he never really had a home to miss. Now you're in his life and every time he has to go on a mission or a trip somewhere without you- You're all he can think about.

The motel room he's staying in brings no comfort. The bed is uncomfortable, with a lumpy mattress and scratchy sheets. The paint was peeling on the walls. The tv won't work. There's a strange smell he can't quite locate anywhere in the room. There's a humming noise coming from somewhere too that's driving him insane.

He could've found somewhere better. Charles pays for it and he should of taken advantage of the old mans money and sprung for a nice hotel with room service and a tv that works - but Logan's not very good at giving himself nice things.

He sighs when you haven't replied yet. It's past midnight, you're probably asleep and haven't heard your phone go off. He was tempted to call you just so he could hear your voice- but the guilt over waking you up won over. He sets his phone aside and shifts uncomfortably on the bed.

He should sleep, but he's not tired. In fact he's completely wired. Feeling antsy and needing to do something. There's a hole-in-wall bar down the road he passed on the way here, probably open still. He could go down there and get a few drinks- and maybe a good fight for some entertainment.

But even that didn't seem enticing. What he really wants is you. He wants to see you, hear you, feel you.

That's when the idea popped in his head. He just needs a little entertainment to get him by for the night. Logan reached for his phone again, unlocking it and going to the gallery. He's not very good with technology but you have showed him a few things- things he found quite favorable and probably the only good thing he thinks technology has.

Most pictures are of you- anything different is usually you taking his phone and messing with it. He scrolled past several pictures of his butt you apparently have taken without his knowledge- he had to pause on one. His bare ass in one picture- It looks like you took it when he was lying face down in bed. He'd laughs to himself about it though. If you were here he'd pretend he was annoyed because you get a kick out of it- but really he loves the silly things you do.

He doesn't have to scroll much longer to find the video he wanted. He clicks it, watching it fill the screen and presses play. While it starts, he works on unbuckling his pants.

The camera is point at the floor. He could hear you giggling about something, and then him grumbling.

"So this button you just pause it, it doesn't stop the video- you just pause it and when you want to play again and in the video it'll skip. The block ends the video completely." You're explaining, the camera shaking a bit. There's a small skip where the frame is on a different part of the floor.

"Alright- So…" He hears his voice now, the phone lifts up and is half pointed at the mirror that's hung up against yours and his bedroom door. He could see himself standing there scowling at the phone, and a part of you giggling as you wrap your arms around his bicep, peering into the phone.

"It's not complicated, big guy." You teased, your hand going around his waist. You make him move further into the view of the mirror, then your hand comes up to position how he holds the phone so that it now shows the both of you.

"I know it isn't…" He mutters, seemingly checking the both of you out in the mirror. Then he brings an arm around you, turning towards you. You look at him in the mirror, before facing him to look up and meet his eyes. He grins. "But I'm not going to hold this the entire time."

You laugh, "You don't need to. We'll set it up."

You reach for the phone, and the frame skips again.

"Okay! I got it- I think…"

The phone was now on the floor, leaning against a pile of stuff. It's angled perfectly towards the mirror. He can see you on the ground with it, messing around with the phone. He sees himself standing in the background, watching you- or, more accurately watching your ass.

"You almost done there, sweetheart?"

"Yes."

You stood up and Logan steps towards you, hands on your hips pulling you towards him. "Let's do this then, been waiting long enough."

You laughed. "Well it was your idea, Mr. Impatient."

"Yeah with a real camera. Not these silly phones."

You start to giggle again, shaking your head while your hands fiddle with his shirt, "A real camera? What, one from the 1800s old man? That would've taken twice as long to set up."

He grumbles, deciding the argument was futile and before you could say anything else he kisses you to shut you up. He can hear your mirth through the kisses but finally you give in, wrapping your arms around his neck and standing on your tiptoes to get closer.

His hands start running over your body, cupping your ass first, before sliding up your back, under your shirt.

Logan lets out a small sigh. He's pulled out his cock, half hard and growing. He grips the base of it and squeezes as he admires your curves against his body in the video. The kisses have turned passionate, and he could hear your breathy moans.

"Maybe we should pause it again," You mutter as Logan leaned down to start kissing your neck. "Skip it to the good part?"

"Baby, all of this is the good part." Logan groans. "Lets get this off ya…." He motions to your clothes, beginning to lift your shirt up.

He watched as you both pull off each others clothes, flirting and giggling along the way. He strokes his cock occasionally, but doesn't fully commit - not quite ready to get himself off yet.

In the video, you're now completely nude, and so it Logan. He turns you to face the mirror, while he stands behind you. He leans in and whispers in your ear while looking at you in the mirror, making you laugh.

"Gorgeous…" He mutters to himself. He actually feels jealous of himself in the video. Being able to love on you the way he wishes he could right now. He watches the way your tits move, the happiness on your face as he presses kisses all over your neck and shoulders, his hands sliding over your body until they reach up to cup your tits.

His hand fondles them while he sucks on your neck. Your own hand reaches behind you, and judging by his reaction, and Logans own memory, you had begun stroking his cock.

He began stroking himself, at the same rhythm that your arm was moving. He could feel butterflies building up low in his belly, but he wasn't planning to cum anytime soon- he wanted to see the main part of the video before he allowed himself any sort of relief.

After a bit of fooling around, Logan finally had you on the floor with him. You were on his lap, front facing the camera where most of Logan was shielded from view by your body. His hand had made home between your thighs, toying with your clit - and whispering dirty things in your ear that the phone didn't pick up.

He didn't need to hear them though. He knows exactly what he said.

Such a pretty little thing for me ,darling. You excited to watch yourself get fucked in the mirror?

You moaned, moving your hips against his hand, nodding as your reached an arm back behind yourself to hold onto him, your hand burying into the fluff of his hair.

You're soaking wet, bet you cant wait to see this cock pounding into that pretty pussy of yours.

You gasped, your other hand reaching down between your legs, reaching his cock as you lift your hips. "Lo, please." You whined, tipping your head back against his shoulder. "Please, I want your cock."

He laughs, his hand removing itself from between your thigh, giving your ass a hard smack that makes you jump. "Alright baby," He speaks up louder that the phone can pick up. "It's all yours."

Logan leans back onto the floor, disappearing from the mirror. You raise your hips higher, holding his cock in place as you slowly lower yourself over him.

Your face changes into pure ecstasy as his tip pushes inside you.

Logan begins to stroke his cock faster, subconsciously as he watches you continue to lower yourself over him. "You like that, don't you sweetheart?" he mutters quietly to himself. "Bet you've been missing my cock since I've been gone..."

He was considering snapping a pic of himself to send to you, and when you wake in the morning you'll know he had been thinking about you all night. Maybe he'll send the 'after' photos when he's done, because he doesn't want to click off the video yet.

In the video, he can see his hands massaging your thighs carefully. Then his voice picks up, further away in the background.

"Lean back, baby. I want to make sure the camera sees everything in the mirror."

You nodded your head quickly. Falling back, your hands are placed on the floor on either side of Logan's torso. You spread your legs open further, bracing your feet onto the floor. Logan's hands grab the underside of your thighs, gripping them so tight he could see the divots in your skin and lifts your legs in the air.

He starts slow, his cock leaving your pussy only halfway, before going back in. The slick of your cunt was glistening in the mirror, and the stretch of your pussy around his thick member nearly made Logan bust right then and there.

He had to pause the video, staring at the screen and every little detail like he was studying a work of art.

"Fuck…If I only I could have you like this all the time." He mutters. What he really admired though, was the absolute joy on your face. You head slightly tilted back, eyes shut, and a smile on your parted lips. If it wasn't for risking others seeing it- he'd take a screenshot of this and put it as his wallpaper.

The tight feeling of climax in him settled down, but his cock remained painfully hard. He resumed the video, and took it in his hand, slowly stroking once again.

Logan began to pick up the pace of his thrusts. He watches his cock slamming into your cunt, the lovely slick noises and sound of skin together. His balls slapped against your cunt. He admired the way your tits bounce with every movement. You're moaning, gasping, and begging Logan to keep going, don't stop.

Your arms give out, and you fall against his chest but he doesn't stop. Course he didn't- you were close, he could tell by the way your legs shook.Now, in the mirror all he could watch was his cock pumping in and out of you at a brutal speed. Your hand reached down and began circling your clit desperately, he could hear your cries and pleas for Logan to make you cum.

He started stroking his thick member faster, hoping he can time himself perfectly to cum at the same time you do. It wasn't a challenge- because he arrogantly prides himself on knowing your body just as well as you, if not better. You were about to cum and he could see the telltale signs he spent your entire relationship learning- down to the sweet pitch of your voice.

He felt the buildup inside him finally reach his peek- watching the screen just as your body froze, and heard your moans of his name. He lets out a whine, and a groan of your name at the same time, lifting his hips off the bed and spilling his heavy load over his hand. He didn't stop pumping his fist- the same way he didn't stop fucking you through your climax.

He finally abruptly stops as he pushes himself to the edge of over-stimulation, groaning at the aftershocks of his orgasms, small ropes of cum weakly shoot out of his tip before he becomes limp. He watches himself finish inside you just as you come to the end of your own coitus.

Logan gently drops your legs, arms lifting back- he remembers he was grabbing his hair- trying to get ahold of himself because you felt so damn good he lost himself in you. You pushed yourself back up off his chest, sitting back on your knees. slowly pull him out, breathless. You're looking at the mess he's made inside in the mirror- watching the cum drip out and dribble over his slowly softening cock.

You looked up in the mirror at yourself, smiled, and winked.

Logan chuckles quietly- that was for him. For now, for whenever he watches this video. You blew him a kiss in the mirror, while he in the video sits up, wrapping his arms around your waist and kissing your cheek.

"How was that, baby?" He coos in your ear. You hum happily, bringing a hand up to brush through his hair. He closes his eyes at the touch, burying himself into your neck.

"Amazing, as always." You sigh, then turning your head towards him. "You think we put on a good show?"

"I know you did." He purrs. He tilts his head up. "I love you."

You beamed at him, "I love you too." You leaned in and kissed him, and that's when Logan turned the video off. He sighs, tilting his chin down and looking at the mess he's made of himself and decided he'll clean himself up later and doesn't bother to tuck himself back in his pants. He finally felt tired, and was ready to catch some sleep.

He drops his phone on his chest, folding both arms behind his head and closing his eyes. He still missed you terribly, but watching yours and his shared affections in the video helped ease his homesickness a bit, and reminded him that he'll be reunited with you soon.

Just as he started to fall asleep, a hard vibration on his chest startles him awake. He takes a minute to think about what it was- then realized it was his phone. Logan picks it up, eyes squinting at the brightness of the screen (hadn't figured out how to adjust it yet) but his expression quickly softened when he saw your picture and name- You were face-timing him.

You have every assumption as to why. It isn't a rarity or unaccustomed to you for royal members to request for you after hiring you for a party. You are a dancer, after all...with some other "skills" on the side that you use to your advantage.

While you know how to play the game among the royal court and have no problem refusing to spend the night with any royals after performing for them at one of their grand parties, you would be lying if you said you didn't want to be alone with the Firelords for the night.

You have been around them for some time now. As the royal belly dancer, groomed to dance for the elite and the wealthy, you were bound to make the acquaintance of the Fire Nation Family at some point...including the Firelord brothers. Both calm, poised, mysterious, and devilishly handsome.

They have been on your radar for a long time, filling your endless nights with hot fantasies of the two of them. Sometimes one at a time, sometimes together. Entangled limbs, your fingertips caressing their muscles, their tongues licking stripes across your skin.

You long to tear down that wall of mystery and restraint that the brothers have meticulously built around themselves. Especially that Zuko. He is quiet and stoic, only speaking when required, preferring to talk with his actions instead. Geto Suguru is more open, striking either fear or intrigue into anyone with his charming smile and cunningness. 

And now here you are, standing right outside of the brother's doors prepared to greet them. The twirling in your stomach is not of fear but of anticipation, wondering where the night will bring you. You bring up your fist and lightly knock, polite but firm. "Enter," a deep, silky voice commands. Geto's voice. 

The voice that has commanded attacks on enemies and brought you to orgasm so many times. Swallowing hard, you twist the doorknob and enter the master bedroom. It is a large, wide space with stone walls and windows overlooking the courtyard and Fire Nation, the summer breeze and afternoon sun pouring into the room. 

On one side sits a large king-sized bed topped with pillows of all sizes and arrays of gold and red. The same as the carpets and curtains softly swaying in the summer evening. Geto Suguru, the oldest brother, sits in the middle of the room on the carpeted floor surrounded by a slew of expensive pillows and blankets. 

He sits at a knee-level table surrounded with delicacies of all kinds, granite teacups with a brewing teapot, and a bottle of fireflower juice spiked with cinnamon, one of the most expensive bottles of alcohol in all the land. Geto is draped in a fine red robe adorned in intricate gold stitching at the flaps and black pants, his feet bare and black locks cascading down his muscular back. 

He turns to look when you enter, his violet eyes piercing a hole into you. The butterflies in your tummy swarm, making your heart pound furiously in your chest.

“You required my services, Your Highness?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level and steady. Alas, it shakes a bit, coming out breathless at the sight of the handsome man. He gives you a small smile that is like a smack in the face. “Yes, little dancer. Come; have a seat. You may not be so formal with me. Call me Suguru." 

You blink, unsure of how to reply. It is rare that a royal wants someone who is not within the court to be formal. His smile deepens, humored. “You look at me as if I’m tricking you. I can assure you that my father is nowhere within these four walls.” He then turns to the left side of the room where the light doesn't reach. “Isn’t that right, brother?” 

You turn your head and that is when you see Zuko sitting there on a lounging sofa, wearing a black robe to blend in with the darkness. You can just see that his hair is also out, cascading in black waves down his back, and he is sipping some tea. You jump, placing a hand on your beating heart. “Oh! Prince Zuko, forgive me. I did not know you were here.” 

Zuko doesn't reply; he only stares, somehow staring right through you. Both of his eyes render you speechless—the wounded one included. Many do not regard Zuko the same way they do Geto due to his burn scar, but you have always thought the disfigurement was quite sexy. 

Geto chuckles, pouring himself some fireflower juice. “Don’t mind him. Zuko can be an enigma when he wants to be…which is all the time.” He smirks when his brother gives him a sharp glare from across the room. “Quiet, Geto. Don’t make me request your removal from this room.” 

Geto smirks at you, unbothered by his brother's heated threat. “That’s code for “don’t make me murder you”,” he chuckles. “Nice, isn’t he?” He gives you a wink, jutting his chin at you. "To what may we call you? Though we know your name, we want you to feel comfortable." 

Comfortable. You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Many men always say this when you're within the confines of their bedroom, only wanting you relaxed so they may take advantage. "Y/N," you reply, giving the brothers a respectful bow as you shut the door behind you. It shuts with a click, making your stomach flip. 

Zuko nods over at the table where his brother sits. “You may sit. Plenty of room.” Geto hums in agreement, a flame flickering from his fingertip as he lights himself a pipe filled with tobacco leaves. The smoke wafts through the air as you slowly walk across the room, feeling their eyes on you. 

Though you are covered by a shawl draped over your shoulders, it is mesh, which means your midrif top showing off your stomach and long skirt that doesn't do much to hide your curves. Both red and decorated in gold stitching, dripping in gold beads that clink whenever you twist, turn, or move your hips and stomach when you dance. 

You don't feel uncomfortable the way you used to whenever men ogled at your moves. If anything, you feel powerful. But now, under the brothers' hot gazes as you sit at the table, you feel exposed. Your layers peeled back like a fruit. 

Geto motions down at the array of finger food before you: cheeses, dates, crusted breads, fruits covered in chocolate. “Would you care for a bite? Perhaps a drink? I have tea, water, wine…perhaps something stronger?” He eyes the bottle of fireflower juice sitting next to him. 

You choose wine to loosen yourself up, grateful for the crisp taste as it slides down your throat once Geto pours you a goblet. “Thank you for your invitation, My Lords.

Geto shrugs like it's nothing, smoke billowing attractively from between his pink lips. The bottom lip is piercing with a small ring, unfortunately drawing your attention to his mouth. “Of course. You needed it after that performance you put on, I’m sure.” You act shy and modest, staring down at your wine. “Oh, it’s nothing. For me, that was a simple dance. I have done plenty more complex and strenuous.” 

You were hired tonight to perform for the Fire Nation's Royal Family and their close party, dancing among the sounds of the drums and guitars as fire eaters surrounded you, swallowing swords emblazoned with flames. The flames were hot, but you were hotter. You danced like the heat didn't bother you, sweat sliding over your damp skin and curves as you winded and swirled your hips. 

As you danced, surrounded by all of the royals, your eyes caught the brothers' gazes through the flicker of the flames, orange and red flickering across their handsome faces. Their unyielding gazes spurred you on, making your hips move faster and your body slither like a snake. You are famous among the royals for your dance moves and you were guaranteed to make them remember you. 

Starting with the Firelord brothers. “Oh, well, we wouldn’t want that," Geto chuckles. "It’s important to care for your body. Especially if you are dancing for royalty.” He winks across the room at Zuko. “And since my brother adores your dancing so.” 

“Shut up, Geto,” he growls. “I do not!” You turn towards the younger brother, a pit in your stomach at his words. “You don’t?” you ask, cocking your head at him. Zuko realizes his mistake and quick tries to backtrack, his cheeks hot with a flush. “N-No, I meant…I didn’t mean—“ 

Geto tosses his head back and laughs, the sound oh-so attractive and pulling a smile out of you. “A catch, isn’t he? He can lead the Fire Nation Army into attack on the frontlines, but he can’t even form a sentence in front of a pretty woman.” 

Zuko snarls, teeth bared, gleaming in the twilight. “You’re testing me, brother. I’m about this close to throwing a fire ball at your head.” Geto mockingly gasps, putting a dramatic hand to his broad chest. “And scare the lady? How else will you find yourself a mate?” 

You quickly try to stamp out the fire quickly growing between the brothers. “I am used to violence, I assure you both. And this is quite tame for me.” You turn to Zuko with an inviting smile, knowing that he is the shyer, quieter one. “Will you join us, Your Highness?” 

Zuko looks surprised at the offer, his brows raising slightly. He shoots a look at Geto who nods, smirking quietly at his younger brother. “Just as long as my brother knows to keep his words wise and his brain intact," he grumbles. Geto chuckles as Zuko rises, barefoot and quiet as he strides over to join you at the table.

He sits with Geto on his knees across from you, pouring himself some more tea. Geto passes Zuko the pipe to which the young prince gags at, putting it aside on the table. “Come; let us toast." Geto raises his glass of fireflower juice high, his eyes shining. "To a night of wonders and surprises.” 

“Cheers," you giggle, clinking your goblet with the brothers before taking a sip of your crisp wine. The sliver of afternoon sun has vanished now and the moon has taken the sun's place, leaving the room shining in a white glow. “Did you enjoy tonight’s festivities, Y/N?” Geto asks, his voice soft as silk. It makes you shudder in pleasure. “As much as I could. It’s hard to do much when you’re being ordered to be on your feet for most of the night.” 

The older brother chuckles, taking another puff of his pipe as Zuko silently sips his tea. “Well, here you will not have that. I’m sure your feet must be sore.” You think you see both brothers' eyes flicker down to your soft feet and French-tipped toes, manicured and pretty, but you pass it off as a trick of the moonlight. 

“No, you misunderstand. I do not hark on sore feet. It comes with my work and I would not give up being a dancer for anything.” You mean the words to the bottom of your heart, but Geto chuckles, thinking it is a joke. “For the money, I’m sure.” You smile, humoring him. “The pay is just the tip of the iceberg for me. I only wish to entertain others with my body. To dance is my—“ 

“Passion,” Zuko finishes, surprising you and Geto with his voice. “That’s rare.” Geto agrees, his gaze softening. “Mm. Quite rare. Very admirable. And quite sweet of you.” 

You shiver at the brothers' praise, feeling a flood of endorphins that you've never felt from any compliment before. For a few minutes, you sip your wine in silence, letting the alcohol take over. “How did I make you feel?” you boldly ask. “When I danced?” The brothers look surprised at the random question at first, but Geto answers nonetheless. “Enchanted. Like you were putting me under a spell that I didn’t want to escape." 

His violet eyes capture you between the wisps of smoke billowing from his lush lips. You force yourself to focus on his face instead. "You flatter me, sir," you giggle. Then you turn to Zuko who is silent, unmoving. "What about you, Your Highness? Did I please you as much as your brother with my moves?"

You didn't mean for it to sound so suggestive, and Zuko catches on, his cheeks growing red. "Does it matter that much to you?" he asks, not unkindly but just confused. 

You nod, keeping your kind, welcoming smile. "Of course! If I'm hired to dance for the Fire Nation's princes and their court, it's my duty to entertain and please." Again: very suggestive. Perhaps you're throwing down the hammer a little too hard, but the brothers' quiet seduction and mingling scents of floral (Zuko) and cloves (Geto) is driving you to the brink of insanity.

"Oh, he was entertained," Geto smirkingly replies, sliding a suggestive look at Zuko. "And very pleased. Weren't you, brother?" Zuko elbows his brother in the side, earning a choked chuckle in response. But realizing you're waiting for an answer, he gulps and regains composure. "You were...very nice," he mildly replies into his tea cup. "I have seen belly dancing before, but not the way you do it. Where did you learn?"

You smile and explain to him about your home and culture. You tell them that you learned from your grandmother who taught your mother and older sister. You tell them that belly dancing is considered an important dance within your culture, using your body to make art. The two listen intently, making you feel shy despite dancing for a living. 

"You flatter me too, Your Highness," you chuckle, staring through your lashes at Zuko. "Your kindness is a gift and to dance for you is an honor." Zuko blushes hot red at your sweetness, averting his gaze. "The pleasure is all ours," Geto replies with a twinkle in his eye. "Though we are leaving one thing out as to why you're here." 

You sip more wine, letting the buzzing, warm feeling grow. "Oh? What is that?" Geto gives Zuko a knowing look, but the younger brother ignores him, instead pouring more tea. Your heart pounds and the heat you felt growing intensifies, making the room feel tense. 

"Forgive us for coming off as nothing more than dogs, but I'm afraid we loved your dancing so much that we preferred to have it in private." Geto pauses, puffing on his pipe, sizing you up with his eyes. 

You ignore the way your body sizzles at his confession. You were hoping you were here for that reason...among others. "You want me to dance for you?" you ask. "Right here?"

Geto sits back against the pillows, exposing a sliver of his abs to you. "If you wish. Though we commanded your presence, we want you to be comfortable here with us. That body is too perfect to be forced to do anything it doesn't wish to."

His words are made of saccharine and silk, making you buzz like you just drank a whole bottle of wine. Though Zuko doesn't say anything, his look, so intimate and personal, tells you everything. They truly mean what they say. If they wanted more from you, they would've taken it by now, you realize. 

So you smile, letting your walls fall completely down. "Of course. I am at your service, Your Highnesses," you purr. "You have made me very comfortable without needing to, so who am I to refuse your command? However, I do not have any music." 

"Geto can play guitar," Zuko replies. He snaps at his older brother, impatient. "Play something. Now." Geto only smiles, humored by his brother's flip switch in attitude. "Oooo, someone's desperate to see some more moves. Did you think the Firelord would be so demanding?" 

"Yes, I did," you giggle as Geto rises to his feet, going to fetch his guitar. "But I am sure you both are to a degree. I would think the Firelords would be if you get your way all the time." 

Geto returns with a small guitar and sits cross-legged at the table, placing it in his lap. "Oh, little dancer, we get our way all the time. And you will get yours if you continue to move the way you do." His seductive words cause a trail of heat to snake down to between your thighs, but you ignore it. Not yet.

"How will you have me, My Lords?" you purr, unable to keep the sex out of your voice. Geto elbows Zuko, letting him talk. The young prince's eyes bore into yours, intense and fiery. "Stand right there," he softly commands, nodding at the window. "In the moonlight." 

You rise to your feet and slink over to the window, standing in the sliver of moonlight serving as your spotlight. Then the music begins, Geto's fingers stroking and strumming the guitar strings the way you picture him doing to your body. The music is soft with a bit of Indian scales added to it. "Dance for us, love," he encourages. "However you wish." 

And so you dance. Under the silvery moon and the hot gazes of the princes, you wind your hips, flip your hair, and move your stomach so impressively like it's made of water. You twist, grind, and sway, letting the music control you. When the guitar strums get bolder and faster, you move with them, your movements more intense but still controlled.

The watchful eyes of your princes encourage you, pushing your aching muscles and winding hips to move faster until completion. You reach the same peak you would with an orgasm, feeling a tightness in your core that bursts until you're coating in explosive pleasure that makes you gasp. You hit a pose, raising your arms high as you face the princes, coating from head to toe in sweat. 

Geto stops playing and applauds you while Zuko sits still as a statue, gobsmacked. "Beautiful," he murmurs. You smile at the praise, bowing. "Did that please you, My Lords?" you ask, out of breath and pumped full of arousal. You can feel your slick travel down between your thighs and you clamp them shut in an effort to hide the scent of your slick. 

The aura in the room has shifted, leaving a tense feeling in the air that the brothers feel too. You can tell from how rigid they both sit as if trying to seem normal but miserably failing. Geto is the only one who comes clean, moving the guitar from his lap to reveal his bulge under his robe. "Yes, lovely...a little too much. I am sure you can see it." 

His eyes slide over to Zuko and sure enough, the younger prince is sporting a hard cock under his slacks as well. "Oh," you sigh, your eyes glued to their bulges. "Your Highnesses..." You stare, unashamed and so unproper. And not caring one bite. 

"F-Forgive me," Zuko stammers, covering his hard-on with a pillow as he madly blushes. "You can leave if you don't like this. I'm not usually like this." He looks ashamed and shy, averting his eyes from yours. 

But you shake your head, mouth practically watering. "It's alright. You're just making me blush." And quite wet. You can't remember the last time your pussy has felt this tingly and open, waiting for some attention. Geto raises a brow at you, catching onto your game. "Oh? And why is that?" he asks, his voice much deeper than usual. 

Zuko turns to you, his attention once again pulled back to you. You stare at both, unable to hide your want anymore. "Perhaps you're not the only one who's been enchanted," you whisper. "Maybe I'm feeling this fire too." 

Silently, the two brothers share a look and finally, they rise to their feet. Zuko drops the pillow, revealing his bulge again, and is the first to make his way over to you. You feel wobbly and unsteady as he strides towards you, all muscle and discipline under his silk robe, standing a whole head taller than you. 

But when he finally nears you, you are neither intimidated or frightened. If anything, you are oh-so aroused and attracted to his height and strength. He places his fists at his sides, his muscles tense, jaw working. "I want to touch you," he hoarsely confesses. "I want to...kiss you. Will you let me?" 

He dares to finally touch you, placing his hand in yours. You swallow hard as his long fingers lace through yours, just as Geto comes up behind you. It is sudden and silent, making for a great sneak attack. All you feel is his dick pressing into your backside, hard and hot, making your brain muddy. You turn to Zuko with an answer on your tongue, your pussy throbbing impatiently. "I—Oh!" you gasp before your face is being forced to turn to the side and Geto's lips are on yours, his fingers on your cheek. 

Prince Geto kisses like a dream. A wet dream, that is. His lips are soft and spiked from the fireflower juice, but they are also wet and supple, his tongue sliding across yours. You kiss him back, your lips moving together in a heated dance, soft moans traveling between you. Zuko watches, enraged. "Hey, asshole! You said we were sharing her, remember?" 

Geto chuckles against your lips, pulling away with a hooded look your way. "Sorry, brother, but you were too slow. I couldn't wait to have these lips any longer." His thumb gently massages your bottom lip, nearly sending you through the ceiling."That kiss was meant for your brother, Your Highness," you giggle. "Although that was quite a kiss." 

Geto smiles pridefully, his hands finding your hips. "What can I say? I aim to please, little one." He leans in to steal another, but Zuko beats him to it, turning your chin to face him. "I kiss way better," he mutters before he sweeps your lips up in a kiss. He is no longer the shy, stoic man you met earlier; now, the man in his place is bold and unabashed as he kisses you down, making you melt beneath his lips. 

Geto watches his brother kiss you as he sandwiches you between himself and Zuko, hard muscle pressed against soft curves. "Mmm, you feel so fucking good," he groans, his hands caressing your curves. "For so long, we've watched you. Craved you. Just wanted to keep you to myself." 

Zuko eyes him from over your head as he pulls away from kissing you, your taste on his lips. "Don't get ahead of yourself, brother. You're in MY room." You smile at their little rivalry, placing a hand on both of their broad chests. "You may keep me," you giggle. "We have tonight, don't we?" Geto looks surprised at your agreement, thoughtfully stroking your sides. "Is that because you want us to? Or because you want to please us? Be honest, little dancer."

His big hand cups your chin as he kisses you once more, the scent of tobacco wafting off of him in intoxicating waves. Zuko peppers your neck in kisses, overstimulating you in the best way possible to the point where you're gasping and panting for air when his older brother pulls away. "I want it too," you confess. 

How can you not? Every kiss, touch, and word from the brothers are like the strongest hits of a drug. You crave more of them, selfishly. You want to be the one who says that you danced and had a night of endless sex with the Firelord brothers, pleasing them with your body in every way possible. 

Zuko smiles against your neck and Geto gives you a devastatingly pretty grin, overjoyed at your confession. He takes your hands and presses his lips to your knuckles, making your stomach flip. "Then lay down and let us explore you. Pleasing you will please us." 

And you believe him. Plus, the idea of the Firelord brothers being two givers and pleasers is something you definitely want to explore more of. Two handsome princes who would like to please YOU, a homely dancer girl, because it gets them off? You'd be an idiot to refuse this!

Zuko anchors your attention back to him with his soft lips and nimble fingers caressing your body, running up and down your stomach. "Will you let us touch you?" he murmurs, a plea in his tone. You grasp one of his hands, clamping it tightly against your body, not wanting him to let go. "Yes," you whisper. "Please touch me." 

You twist around to kiss the younger prince, his surprised moans swallowed by your wine-spiked tongue. Geto chuckles, taking a handful of your ass in his big, calloused hands. "Such sweet begging. And such a sweet body too." Together, the brothers share your body, their hands indulging in your curves the way you have only dreamed of. You usually swallow back cringes whenever a man touches you, but them? It's nothing but shivers and sensations that make you want to melt. "Oh," you sigh, unable to utter anything but mere words. 

As Zuko busies himself kissing your neck and breasts (without taking off your top, of course, because he's a gentleman), Geto manages to slip some of your skirt down to expose your hip dips and the curve of your spine. "A-Ah," you moan, your hips bucking into Zuko as Geto kisses down your stomach, his fingers playing with your hips and gliding down your sides to your thighs. 

He stares up at you and the way your back curves as your head tilts back, your hair cascading down like a sweet-smelling river. "You like that, pretty?" he teases. "You want me to go lower?" His hand slides under your skirt and you gasp when you feel his thick fingers caress you between your thighs, right over your damp panties. Arousal explodes like a firework inside of you and you can no longer bear the foreplay anymore. 

"Yes, please," you whisper. Your voice is soft and breathless; needy. Just what the royal brothers want. Together, they kneel and pull up your skirt, exposing your thong and bare thighs underneath. They groan at the sight of your asscheeks looking so plump wedged between the tight thong. "Oh, fuck," Zuko softly moans, just above a shudder. 

"Goddamn!" Geto gasps, staring mesmerized at the slick dripping down your thighs. "Look at how wet she is, brother. All for me." His tongue juts out to lick your inner thigh, giving you a taste of the cool metal of his tongue piercing. Zuko's eyes cut over to his brother, sharp and irritated. "You mean all for us. Don't play with me right now, Suguru."

Geto smirks, gently suckling on your thigh just to hear you moan. "My bad, brother. It's just so much fun teasing you. We will share this sweet pussy of hers and make her cum her brains out." He stares up at you, eyes twinkling. "That sound good to you, little one?"

So inviting. So considerate. So in tune with your body and your pleasure. Nothing has ever sounded better. So you lay down among the soft, luxurious pillows and allow the brothers to split your thighs open beneath your skirt, groaning at the sight of your lace thong so soaked through the fabric to the point where you are dripping wet. 

Geto dares to pull the tiny article of fabric down your legs, exposing your pussy, puffy with arousal and glistening with your nectar. Some of it coats your inner thighs and the slit of your asshole, making you bite your lip as the summer breeze hits your sensitive pussy lips. "Ooo, look at her, brother," Geto murmurs, mesmerized by your slick. "So much here for us to share. We must indulge and—"

"I go first," Zuko cuts in before diving face first into your pussy. You gasp, your hand instantly grasping his long black locks as his soft lips mash with yours between your soft thighs, toned from years of dancing. "Oh!" you gasp, eyes bugging at the pleasure. "M-My Lord, that's s-so good! Oh, fuck yes!"

Zuko is quite a wonder at eating pussy. He does it as if he loves it, moaning as his tongue sends lightning strikes across your clit. Geto watches on, knelt beside his brother with a disapproving frown. "So much for sharing," he mutters. "Don't I get a little taste?" 

Zuko looks irked by the mere thought of sharing you, but still, he scoots over an inch to allow some space for Geto. "Fine, but just stay out of my way." Then he goes right back to slipping his tongue between your sticky, wet pussy lips, drawing moans from deep in your chest out of you. 

Geto smirks, peppering your right inner thigh in wet kisses, his fingers pressing into the muscle as he spreads it away from your pussy. "You're just worried that I'll make her cum before you do. Don't you know pierced tongues do it better?"

Moments later, you are writhing, bucking, and twisting like you're experiencing an exorcism on the princes' pillows and in their hands clamped tight on your thighs and under your ass as their tongues slash and skate hungrily along your pussy. Their tongues slash along your slit, alternating between your dripping hole and your clit buzzing with pleasure and all kinds of sensations. 

When Zuko slides his tongue inside of you, Geto sucks your clit, moaning as he does so. They totally devour you whole, the lewd sounds of their fat, wet tongues swirling between your thighs. Their faces are pressed flush against each other, cheek to cheek, as they give you two tongues to lose your mind over...and you do. "Oh, fuck!" you cry out, gripping the pillows beneath you. "God, My Lords, yes! More please! Don't stop!" 

Geto pulls away from your clit to smile, his violet eyes drinking in the way you massage your tits and tweak your nipples over your top. "You hear that, brother? She loves my mouth on that pretty clit." 

Zuko growls as he pulls his tongue out of your pussy, the muscle sticking with your juices. "You sure that isn't because my tongue is deep inside of her?" So the brothers turn to you, expecting the truth."Tell me, little one: do you like my tongue or my brother's?" Geto asks in his silky voice as he rips your top down, exposing both of your precious, full tits to them. 

"Both," you moan, surprised you can even speak. "Both of you are making me feel so good!" The brothers smile, satisfied with your answer. "Mmm, nice answer, baby," Geto hums. "Perhaps you'd like this tongue a bit lower?" 

And then his fat, pierced, royal tongue is sliding down between your asscheeks, licking and sucking greedily at the tiny hole. Zuko begins to suck and lick on your clit now, humming as he takes the tiny rosebud into his mouth and does wonders to it, his mouth made of magic. 

"Oh, my God!" you groan, your fingers lacing through their long, silky locks. Your back arches off of the floor, your body totally at their mercy. The vibrations of Geto's chuckle in your ass make you shudder, every sensation like a tidal wave of pleasure. "Mmm, naughty girl. Getting wetter from my tongue in your pretty little hole," he murmurs. 

So he can feel it. You noticed a brief few minutes ago after Geto started eating your ass that your pussy has gotten significantly wetter, and not just because of Zuko's eager tongue. You are gushing like a waterfall, sending your honey dripping into the mouths of the younger prince. "Fuck, I think she's close!" Zuko groans, feeling your pussy tightening around his tongue now. 

If he didn't feel that, you're sure he would've suspected by how loud you've gotten. Your moans and whimpers can't be contained anymore, bouncing off of his bedroom walls. "You're gonna cum for me now, sweetness?" Geto huskily asks, using his two fingers to gently rub at your asshole, making you damn near cream on yourself. 

Zuko snarls into your pussy, anger radiating through his muscles flexing underneath his robe. "No, she's gonna cum for me," he growls. "Stop distracting her." 

"I'm gonna cum for you both!" you desperately moan, grasping at their silky locks of hair, pushing them deeper into your holes, as far as they can possibly go. "Please, please make me cum, my Lords! Don't stop!" Zuko mumbles nonsense into your pussy while Geto laughs, speaking through wicked flicks of his tongue against your ass. "Never, little one. Just cum for us. Let go. We've got you now." 

And like a puppet on a string, pulled by the princes' wicked and convincing tongue strokes, you let out a loud whine as you cum all over their faces. You soak their smoothly-shaven cheeks and chins as you cream, flooding their mouths with your nectar straight from the source of your sweet-like-sugar pussy. They share groans of satisfaction and need as they slurp up your essence, making you cry out and whine as your pussy throbs and tingles with every agonizing stroke of their tongues.

When you finally come down from your high, a smile stretches across your face, matching the one sliding along the princes' lips. "Mmm-hmm," Zuko hums as he pecks your tummy, making you twitch. His fingers glide along your sweat-soaked skin, slightly warmed by his fire abilities. "Mmm, good girl," Geto praises you, giving your ass a squeeze. "How was that?"

You are more than happy to let him know: "Like heaven. Thank you, My Lords." You sit up from your fort of pillows, want racing through your veins as you gaze at the handsome men before you. "Now I must please you both as well." 

The princes must feel the fire radiating from your molten gaze because they don't hesitate giving you what you want. They each stand, racing each other to see who can do it the fastest. "Let's get her on the bed," Zuko requests. "I don't want her on the floor doing this." 

You grin when he offers you a hand to help you stand. "How sweet of you, My Lord," you hum, taking his hand in yours, but even as you stand, your legs feel like jelly. Luckily, you have a certain young prince to help you. Surprising both himself, Geto, and you, he scoops you up into his arms and carries you over to his bed. "Oh!" you giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

Geto watches sourly, following behind. "Show-off," he scoffs. Zuko gives him a wink, pleased with himself. "Don't look so upset, brother. I'm just playing your own game is all...and winning." 

Your giggles continue as Zuko swiftly walks over to the bed and gently places you down on the satin sheets, soft to the touch. The two princes stand at the foot of the bed, looking over your curves like you're a dessert plate. "So what are you waiting for, brother?" Geto asks, slyly smirking at Zuko. "Get udnressed and drop your pants...unless you're too afraid to get shown up by me." 

As you laze about on the sheets, biting your lip in anticipation, you watch the Firelords disrobe for you. Your eyes are drawn to their fingers as they untie their robes while their eyes are locked soley on your beautiful face and body. Your arousal practically explodes and spills over when they expose their toned bodies to you, every part of them carved with muscle, their lower stomaches adorned in patches of fine black hair. 

When their pants are finally off, you come face to face with what you've dreaming about for ages. Their dicks are just as beautiful as you pictured them being—different in size and shape, one thicker than the other, the other curving upward, but both throbbing, rock hard, and ready for you. 

Geto raises a teasing brow down at you and your dreamy expression. "Well? You wanted to suck some royal dicks, right? Here you are now, little dancer." He wraps a hand around himself, gently pumping from base to tip. "Take them, little one, but you must do your very best for us, okay?" 

Zuko flushes as you sit up in front of them, flashing him your naked tits, much to his dick's enjoyment. "Of course, Your Highness," you purr. "I would give you nothing less." You begin slow, using some body oil on the bedside table next to you to pour onto their hard dicks and into your palms, making both slick and shiny. 

Then it's strictly about pleasing the two princes. Stroking, pumping, and sucking. Your pussy gushes at each deep moan, gasp, and swear that escapes the princes' lips as you alternate between sucking and stroking them. Geto throws his long hair back and moans in ecstasy as you pump him with your mouth, your lush, wet lips sliding up and down his shaft. 

"Ah, fuck," he sighs, his handsome face contorted in pleasure. "God, that's fucking good." His big hand tangles in your hair, holding you firm, while Zuko watches in awe as your dainty hand strokes his dick in tandem. "Her hand feels good t-too," he stammers. You pull away from Geto's cock, strands of spit connecting his cockhead to your bottom lip. 

"It feels good, my Prince?" you purr, staring at Zuko through your lashes. "Would you like my mouth as well?" Zuko can't even speak; he can only jerkingly nod as his cock twitches in your palm. You smile and wrap your mouth around him next, sliding him deep into your throat and against your tongue. Zuko's eyes widen at the new sensations, his mouth agape as your tight, wet throat closes around him and slides up and down his shaft. 

"Oh, fuck!" he moans, clenching his fists at his sides as you bob up and down his dick, moaning in enjoyment. Geto watches on through hooded eyes, fucking your hand slick with oil. 

You continue to work Zuko's dick in your throat, hollowing your cheeks and staring into his eyes. When you need to breathe, you slide him out of your throat only to suck and lick on his tip, earning a desperate hiss through his teeth. "Y-You...oh, fuck, how do you do that with your tongue?" 

"This?" you ask before you push the brothers' cocks together and lick both of their tips at the same time, earning wanton groans in response. You continue to alternate between them, giving them as much tender, love, and care as possible, causing your own spit to pool down your chin and soak your tits. 

But Geto soon takes initiative, your mouth too much for him, and grips your hair as he pushes himself deep down your throat. You gag in surprise, but you don't dare push him away, letting him use your throat for his pleasure. "Deeper," he grunts. "Come on now, love, don't give up. Take that fucking dick." 

His moans are aphrodiasics to you as he fucks your mouth, his balls gently slapping against your chin. Black strands of hair hang in his handsome face, his composure lost as he thrusts deeper and deeper, filling your throat up with his cock. Zuko practically melts at the lewd sight, his cock growing bigger and thicker as he watches your mouth stretch around his brother's dick. 

Geto notices and smiles, pulling out with a groan to tap his dick against your tongue. "You wanna try, brother?" he pants. "Just fuck her throat nice and deep. Make her take it." After some coaching, Zuko swallows hard and slides himself inside of your mouth. 

Obediently, you take his slow, deep thrusts as he gets used to your throat closing around him, causing more spit to drip down your chin, making you look like a professional cock slut. The moans that Zuko lets out are choked and wanton, traveling straight to your soaked pussy. You can't help but play with yourself as Zuko fucks your throat, using it as he would a fleshlight. 

Geto notices your fingers working between your thighs and smiles, raising his brows. "Oooo, someone's being quite naughty," he chuckles. "I suspect you need to be treated kindly down here again, sweetness?" Slowly, he switches places and climbs onto the bed behind you, placing his big hands on your hips. You feel his cock nudge your pussy lips apart, allowing your wetness to drench his tip. 

"You want this dick now, darling? Can you take me and my brother at the same time?" Zuko groans as he slips out of your throat, allowing you to speak, which you eventually do once your moaning over Geto's cock rubbing against your pussy stops. "Yes!" you gasp. "Please fuck me, Suguru! I need y—" 

You can't finish because he's already sliding in, filling you to the brim with dick. Your mouth falls agape as you're stretched open on his thick dick, expanding on every sensation you've ever felt. "S-Sorry, love, but your begging was just too damn cute," the older prince stammers, biting his lush bottom lip as you squeeze him tight. "Y-you—oh, fuck—feel so fucking good." 

Zuko watches you bounce against his brother's dick buried deep inside of you, your tits swaying enticingly back and forth. "Don't tire her out. I still need to fuck her too." Geto chuckles, moving his fingers down to rub your clit in time with his breathtaking thrusts. "Sure...if she doesn't cum too hard. I'm known for doing that to women."

An irritated growl escapes Zuko as he slides his cock in your mouth again, keeping his thrusts a bit slower and lighter to not overwhelm you. How sweet of him. "Just fuck her and shut up," he growls. "I'll show you that I can do just as good of a job." Geto raises an interested brow, his smirk wicked and sly. "Oh, can you now? I'll hold you to that, little brother." 

And then together, the two fuck you off of their cocks, pushing and pulling you back and forth. It is like some erotic seesaw, the rhythm building the more they fuck your dripping holes. Zuko's resolve drops with every thrust of his dick down your tight throat and ripple of your ass bouncing back against Geto's cock. "That's it," he grunts. "You suck me so well, baby. So fucking good!" 

The way you squeal and moan around Zuko's cock makes Geto fuck you a little faster, placing a foot on the bed. It drives him deeper inside of you, to the point where you damn near feel him in your tummy. "Yeah? You like sucking my brother's fat dick while I fuck you with mine?" he pants. "That pussy certainly seems to."

Your pussy concurs, dripping over his fingers as he rubs your clit in time with his thrusts. You feel his eyes roll over your curves, drinking in the way sweat rolls off of your blessed body. "Fuck yes," he hisses. "How is this body so amazing, hm?" He begins to harshly palm your ass, indulging in the way your soft asscheeks ripple and bounce in time with his thrusts. Your body tingles at his touch, needing more. "Spank me!" you whimper. 

"Seriously?" Zuko asks, surprised by such a request. But Geto is grinning like a kid on Christmas. "Oh, I'm gonna have some fun with you, little one." He then raises his palm and swats your ass repeatedly, the harsh sounds of his hand coming down on your ass exploding against the bedroom walls.

SPANK! SPANK! SPANK!

The assault on your ass combined with Geto's mind-melting thrusts is too much and soon, you feel your second orgasm cresting like a full moon. "M'gonna cum!" you moan around Zuko's cock. "Please harder, My Lord! Fuck me faster!" Geto's groan is fit for a porno, filled with need and desperation. "Of course, cutie. Anything you want." 

So he thrusts harder, faster, his balls slapping against your clit. Sparks of pleasure explode through your body as you bounce back against his dick, practically fucking yourself as he pounds into you, taking and giving at the same time. "Such cute begging. Such a sweetheart," he grunts. He leans forward, capturing your tits in both of his big palms. "Gonna make me fucking cum. Make me breed you." 

The idea of being bred by one of the princes–or both–turns you on more than you care to admit. You can only moan around Zuko's throbbing dick as Geto fucks your pussy like he owns it, chasing his orgasm. "M'gonna cum!" he groans. "You ready, little one? Ready to take this load?" 

"Mmm-hmm!" you moan around Zuko's dick twitching in your throat. You don't get a chance to prepare before a hot rush of cum is flooding your insides, followed by a loud groan from Geto as he empties himself inside of you. You quickly cum as well, shuddering and shaking as your orgasm takes you on a journey through the stars and beyond. 

Zuko watches as your eyes roll back with his cock still stuffed in your mouth, your orgasm taking complete control in addition to the hot gush of spunk that Geto gives you. It seems to last forever until Geto's grip on your tits eases and his thrusts grow sloppy until they finally slow. 

He sighs as he slooooowly slides out of you, groaning at the gush of cum that manages to escape your pussy. You slide your mouth off of Zuko's cock and collapse between them, totally spent and breathless. Geto smirks at Zuko, cocky and proud of his work. "Told you she'd tap out," he chuckles. Gently, he strokes your ass, leaning down to check on you. "Tuckered out, little dancer? Or can you take more?" 

More. Yes. Your body reacts immediately, igniting with need like a wildfire. You slowly sit up on your knees, staring into the worried gaze of Prince Zuko. "Do you wish to continue? We can stop if you—oh, fuck!" 

He doesn't get a chance to finish because of your vicious sucking again, swallowing him whole and giving him a few pumps of your throat that make his toes curl. You pull away, lips coated in spit and pre-cum, bating your lashes at him. "Please fuck me, my Lord," you whimper. "I need to make you feel good too." 

Zuko stares, blushing and intensely aroused, while Geto smirks at the sight. "You heard the girl. So you gonna show me up or what?" As if a switch flips, Zuko's shy demeanor vanishes, replaced with someone so determined to please you. "I want her on her back," he requests above a growl. "I want her to look at me when I make her cum." 

His lewd words sound like a promise to your ears, fierce and impassioned, making your stomach flip with anticipation for what will come next...and hopefully cum next too. 

Moments later, you're taken to euphoria again when Zuko is fucking you in missionary, hips slamming against yours as you lay back against Geto's broad chest. He holds your legs open for his brother, watching as Zuko fucks your pussy into his bed. The lewd noises of his dick sloshing and squelching in your wet pussy drifts through the air, mixing with your loud moans and his groans of pleasure. 

There is a symphony of sex swimming in the air, uninterrupted or silenced, only growing more intense the deeper and faster Zuko fucks you. "Oh, my God, yes!" you wail against the bedsprings creaking. "That's so good, Zuko, fuck!" 

The younger prince smiles, black strands of his hair cascading over his broad shoulders and face glistening in beads of sweat glistening in the moonlight. "Yeah? Better than my brother, right?" Geto glares from behind you, teasing your hard nipples as his brother continues to pound you into the mattress. "Watch it. I could snatch that pussy away from you easily." 

Zuko breathlessly chuckles, his cock somehow twitching in your pussy at the prospect of such a challenge. "Doesn't seem like she'd like that," he grunts. "She—oooo, fuck, she's squeezing around me so tight!" He pauses to spit on your pussy, a drop of saliva dripping from his mouth to drench your puffy, sticky pussy lips. 

You can only gasp as he slides in again, deeper, making you take every thick inch of him. Your eyes roll back and your mouth falls slack on desperate, loud moans and gasps as he draws himself inside of you, trapping you between himself and his brother. "I want to devour you, little dancer," he groans. "Wanna keep you here and make you mine over and over again." 

He leans down to press himself against you, using his arms to hold himself up, encasing you in a prison of muscle that you don't want to escape. He presses his forehead against yours, staring deep into the very loins of your soul as he fucks you deep. "Would you like that?" he whispers. 

You only whine in response, unable to formulate proper words. Geto laces a hand around your throat, squeezing. "Answer my brother, pretty girl. You wanna stay here and let my brother fuck you until you cum over and over again?" Zuko goes harder. Faster. Pistoning that dick inside of you and forcing you to answer. "Yes!" you wail. "Both of you! I want both of you, please!" 

Geto's chest rumbles as he softly laughs, wrapping those big arms around you to hold you close as Zuko pins your thighs apart to fuck you in semi-mating press. "Then cum for me," Zuko grunts. "Give me all of that honey, baby, please. I need it. Please, please, please."

His begging is a straight drug lacing through your veins, getting closer and closer to yet another intense orgasm. Geto kisses down your neck as he squeezes you tight, anchoring you down before you float off as your orgasm crests. "Give it to him now, darling," he whispers. "Cum for him. Cum for us again."

It doesn't take long—not with the way Zuko is desperately moaning above you as he chases his orgasm head on, his cock sliding against your slick, wet pussy walls until he can't take much more. "Fuck, I'm cumming!" he gasps. "I-I can't...stop! Gonna fill you up!" 

Plap, plap, plap goes his hips against your thighs as his thrusts grow faster and faster until finally— 

"Fuck!" you both gasp in unison as Zuko floods your insides with his cum and you drench him in your cream, finally released from your bottle of self control. Your body would definitely be levitating if it isn't for Geto's beefy arms snaking around you, holding you close and holding you down, forcing you to take his brother's load deep inside of you. 

Your eyes roll back and your body twitches as you cum, cum, and cum, drenching Zuko's cock and balls in your honey. He groans as he fills you, his dick twitching inside of you as the last of his spurts of spunk escape him and enter you, breeding you the same as his brother did moments before.

Finally spent, Zuko slowly pulls out of you, collapsing onto his back, his muscular body slick with sweat illuminated by the moonlight. For a while, there is only comfortable silence spiked with the afterglow of sex. "That was amazing," you finally sigh, delirious. 

"Mmm-hmm," Geto hums in agreement. "Except..." He grips your chin and squeezes it tight, forcing you to look back at him. His violet eyes are firm yet fiery, making your stomach flip with excitement. "What do you say?" he asks, his tone dripping with authority. 

You aren't sure what he means at first, your brain still mushy from your three orgasms. But then you realize it when Zuko snuggles up to your side and kisses your cheek. "Thank you, my princes," you whisper. Geto smiles and pecks your lips, satisfied. "You're very welcome, little one. Now let's get you cleaned up." 

You thought tonight couldn't get any better, but that's before Geto carries you off to Zuko's large bathchambers and runs some hot water in a stone pool for you. Zuko adds some kind of liquid that has an herbal scent to the water, turning it a slight teal color and creating bubbles. The brothers get into the steaming water first before offering you their hands. "Careful now," Geto murmurs. "Gently. The water isn't going anywhere." 

You take their hands and slowly step into the pool, hissing at the heat at first. But soon, the water soothes your tired muscles and you melt into the bubbles. Zuko pulls you towards him, letting you lean back against his broad chest while you face Geto, your feet on his beating heart. "Good?" Zuko asks. 

"Yes," you sigh, content. "I am the envy of all women right now." Geto smiles, gently kissing both of your feet as you relax further into the water. "And we are the envy of all men. You made us feel so good tonight, love." 

The praise fuels you the way the herbal-scented water does, making you feel brand new. In this little world with the three of you, surrounded by nothing but the bubbles and water, you feel like nothing and no one matters. Just tonight. Just this moment of bliss. 

So you lean against Zuko's chest and hum with contentment, smiling when he tangles his fingers in your wet hair, allowing yourself to fall completely and totally in the little sanctuary your princes have built...even if it's just for tonight.

"The only question is whose dick made you cum more?" Geto asks. "Mine or my brother's?"

SPLASH!

Geto suddenly gets a mouthful of soapy water flung at him by his brother while you giggle profusely. "Get the fuck out, Geto," Zuko growls. "Or I'll drown you."

THE END.