We’re All Goofy Goobers Yeah

The night was going perfectly until you walked in.

Bucky had a sweating bottle of beer hooked between two fingers, the label curling pink under his damp thumb.

Sam was pressed against his side, yelling something loudly idiotic directly into his ear; something about a bet, or a dare, or a girl whose name Bucky would forget by morning. He caught none of it.

The kitchen was chanting his name. The sound bounced off the sticky counters and the sweat-slick walls, a drunk, gleeful roar for a drinking game he didn’t remember starting, let alone winning.

He bared his teeth in a grin, let the noise wash over him like a wave of approval he was too buzzed to question.

Some girl he couldn’t name had dragged her glitter-dusted fingers across his cheekbone an hour ago, leaving a streak of lime-green that caught the strobe light like a neon sign against his skin.

Steve had been pretending not to laugh about it for the last twenty minutes, mouth tight, eyes bright with amusement every time he caught Bucky working the room with a fresh smear of sparkle on his face.

The whole house smelled like it was sweating out its own wild heart; weed smoke curling thick through the pulsing lights, cheap perfume wrestling with spilled beer and tequila, the sour-sweet musk of bodies pressed too close for too long.

It smelled like a night everyone would be pretending not to regret by the time the sun burned through the blinds.

A girl from Tony’s econ class—Eden… or Edith, he couldn’t remember—had her fingers locked around his wrist, tugging him toward the hallway where the bass bled into something slower, heavier.

The lights back there flickered green, pulsing like a heartbeat under the floorboards. She was pulling him toward the dark, and her lips were parted, and she was saying something he didn’t need to hear to understand.

Bucky let himself be pulled.

One step. Part of a grin. His thumb dragging across her knuckles in a promise he had made to a hundred girls before her. He was already opening his mouth, ready to offer something charming and perfectly hollow.

Then the front door opened.

He didn’t hear it. Not over the bass that was rattling the drywall. Not over Sam’s drunken cackle. Not over the sharp crash of glass shattering somewhere behind him, Thor probably, baptising another piece of the house with whatever expensive bottle he’d smuggled in from Norway. The kitchen cheered.

But Bucky’s head turned anyway.

Like gravity had taken the decision out of his hands.

You stepped in behind Natasha, Gamora a quiet shadow at your shoulder, and you were already laughing, hand pressed to Natasha’s forearm, mouth shaped around a sound the party swallowed whole.

You hadn’t seen him yet.

That, he thought, was always the worst part. Those few seconds where he got to want you without having to hide it. Where he could let the grin slide off his face and just look at you.

Let himself want, openly, stupidly, while the party roared on around him and his hand was still wrapped around some other girl’s wrist.

He must have gone still. Must have stopped grinning, because Sam followed the line of his stare like a bloodhound catching scent.

Sam groaned, and slapped a heavy hand against Bucky’s shoulder.

“Oh, here we fucking go.”

He felt like an impatient puppy, and he hated it, hated the way his pulse had picked up, the way his palm had gone clammy around the bottle, the way he couldn’t stop tracking the curve of your ass as you drifted through the crowd.

Eden/Edith was still talking. Her fingers were sliding up his forearm, nails scraping lightly, trying to reclaim the heat she’d had a lock on before the front door opened.

She didn’t know it yet, but she had absolutely no chance.

Bucky let her touch linger for a beat longer than polite, just long enough to make her think she was still in the running, then he let his gaze drift past her face like she’d already become background noise.

She was still talking, something about a quieter room, a better view from the upstairs balcony, but her words were just shapes in the air, meaningless vibrations against the bass.

He waited. Watched you, Natasha and Gamora carve out a corner of the living room, claiming a sagging couch and a half-empty bottle of something pink. You settled into the cushions like you owned them, one leg tucked under you, head tilted toward Gamora as she said something that made you smile.

And then Scott Lang appeared, as if summoned by the scent of a female audience, already gesturing wildly with both hands, launching into a story that was probably 80% fabrication.

The girl from econ was still talking. Bucky shrugged her hand off his arm and walked away mid-sentence.

He crossed the room with the lazy, unhurried confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going and knew he’d be welcome when he got there. Scott was still going, his voice rising in pitch as he reached the climax of whatever tall tale he was spinning now.

“—and I swear to God, Hope looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘If you can’t fit it through the door, it’s not coming home with us.’ And I said, ‘Watch me.’”

“That did not happen, Lang,” Natasha cut in, shaking her head, but the smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her.

“On Hope’s life it did,” Scott insisted, pressing a hand to his chest. “Would I lie to you girls?”

The three of you exchanged a look. It was skeptical, humoured, a shared hum that was more mocking than affirming. Scott opened his mouth to continue, but Bucky was already moving into the gap.

“Ladies,” he said, drawling the word like it was a gift he was bestowing. He smiled, a little lopsided, the lime-green glitter catching the light as he shouldered his way into the space between you and Gamora on the couch.

“For fuck’s sake, Barnes,” Gamora muttered, but she shifted, grudgingly making room. Bucky’s focus was already locked on you, his body angled toward yours like a compass needle finding north.

He settled in, his thigh pressing against yours, the heat of him bleeding through the thin fabric of your jeans. He slung an arm across the back of the couch, his fingers dangling just behind your shoulder, claiming the space around you like it was his by right.

“Party started at nine,” he said, his voice already slurred with alcohol and the kind of confidence that came from knowing he was the best thing in the room. He was grinning, his pupils blown wide in the dim light. “It’s almost twelve. What’s your excuse?”

You laughed, and the sound of it hit him somewhere low in his chest. “You’ve never heard of fashionably late, Buck?”

He rolled his eyes, the gesture exaggerated and fond. “Whatever, doll.”

The word hung between you, before your hand moved almost on instinct. Your thumb came up to his cheek, pressing gently against the glitter clinging to his skin. The green flecks caught the dim light, and your touch was featherlight, curious, your brow arching as you rubbed at the shimmer.

“And where is this from?” you asked, your voice carrying that edge of playful interrogation he knew too well.

Bucky’s brain short-circuited. The warmth of your palm against his cheek, the way your fingers lingered just a second too long ,it was enough to make him forget his own name, let alone the girl whose hands had been all over him an hour ago. He blinked, swallowed, and the lie came easy.

“Barton.” He said it flatly, like it was obvious. “Got bored. Started throwing glitter at people. You know how he gets.”

He held your gaze, hoping the alcohol flush hid the flicker of guilt. He didn’t want to say some girl blonde chick whose face he’d already forgotten. Didn’t want to see that hint of something—jealousy? disappointment?—cross your features. Even if he wasn’t sure it would.

Before you could press further, his hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist. His fingers were warm, slightly sticky from condensation and beer, and he tugged gently, an insistent pull that was more plea than demand.

“Come with me.”

You didn’t move. Your grin was still in place, but your body stayed rooted, and you tilted your head, giving him your best scolding look, the one that made his stomach twist because it meant you were about to say no.

“I just got here, Buck. Don’t be rude.”

He huffed, the sound escaping him like an impatient child denied a treat. His jaw tightened, and he turned his head, addressing the two women lounging beside you with exaggerated politeness that was almost ridiculous given his disheveled state.

“May I steal your friend for a few moments? Please?” He even tacked on a smile, though it came out a little strained.

Gamora didn’t bother hiding her irritation. She shot him a look that could curdle milk, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like dumbass.

It was Natasha who answered, her eyes flickering between the two of you with an amusement that made Bucky feel like a specimen under a microscope.

“Just bring her back in one piece,” Natasha said, raising her glass in a lazy toast. “Preferably still clothed.”

Bucky’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He didn’t have time to form a response, because you were already opening your mouth to protest, and he wasn’t about to give you the chance.

He tugged. Harder this time. You stumbled forward, a surprised laugh escaping your lips as he pulled you off the couch and into the crowd. His hand stayed wrapped around your wrist, a warm anchor as he weaved through bodies and noise, dragging you behind him like a prize he’d won.

“Where are you taking me, Bucky?” you called over the music, your voice half-laughing, half-breathless.

“You’ll see,” he shouted back, not bothering to turn around. His eyes scanned ahead, spotting the staircase, the path clear for now. He felt your wrist shift against his grip, and without thinking, he slid his hand down, interlacing your fingers with his.

Behind him, across the room, Edith/Eden was still watching. Her glare burned against the back of his neck, but he didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel anything except the warmth of your palm pressed against his, the sound of your laughter cutting through the bass, and the need to get you alone.

By the time the door slammed shut behind them, the bass from downstairs was just a dull throb through the walls, a welcome relief from the chaos of the party.

Bucky’s room was a disaster; clothes spilling out of an open drawer, the sour tang of old beer cans mingling with the familiar musk of his cologne, a single lamp casting a weak amber glow over the wreckage.

He didn’t spare it a second glance, making a beeline for his dresser like a man on a mission.

You lingered by the door, arms crossed, taking in the scene with a slow, deliberate sweep of your eyes. “Jesus Christ, Bucky,” you said, your voice flat and deeply amused. “You’re a pig.”

Bucky snorted, a low, warm sound that vibrated through his chest. He didn’t bother turning around. His fingers dug through the wreckage of his top drawer, pushing aside a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a stray condom wrapper that had seen better days.

“Crash here tonight,” he tossed over his shoulder, the words slurring just a little around the edges, “and you can be my maid of honour. Organise my sock drawer. Judge my questionable life choices.”

His fingers finally closed around the small metal tin hidden at the very back. He pulled it out like a trophy, turning just in time to catch the affronted scoff that escaped your lips.

“You wish, Barnes.”

Your voice was sharp, dismissive, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

Bucky held your gaze for a beat too long, something hot and unguarded flickering in his chest. His mouth moved before his brain caught up. “Yeah,” he murmured, turning to his desk to hide the sudden heat creeping up his neck. “Sweetheart, I wish every damn night.”

He busied himself with the familiar ritual of rolling; paper, weed, a careful distribution; refusing to look back, refusing to see if your expression shifted.

A beat of silence. Then your voice came again, softer now, laced with amusement. “You know, you’re cute when your brain-to-mouth filter is busted.”

He snorted, ducking his head to hide the grin spreading across his face. “Shut up.”

He was methodical despite the drink swimming in his veins, surprisingly steady. He sprinkled the weed, spread it even, and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger with a practiced ease that came from plenty of late nights just like this one.

His tongue darted out to wet the edge of the paper, sealing it shut with a final, satisfied press.

When he turned around, holding the blunt up between his fingers like a prize, his grin was crooked. “Look what I got.”

You had perched yourself on the edge of his bed, hands planted behind you, legs crossed. The springs creaked under your weight. That same infuriating, amused smile was painted across your face, like he was a puppet and you were the one pulling the strings.

Like his entire purpose in the universe was to make you laugh, to make you roll your eyes, to make you look at him with that perfect mix of exasperation and warmth.

And God help him, he’d take it. He’d take every scrap of attention you threw his way.

“On a scale of one to ‘I’m about to make a terrible decision’,” you asked, tilting your head, “where exactly are you right now, Bucky?”

He crossed the room in a few long strides, closing the distance until he was standing right in front of you. The blunt hung loose between his fingers.

“Enough that I know exactly how bad of an idea this is, sweetheart.” His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist, fingers warm and calloused. He pulled you to your feet before you could brace yourself.

You stumbled into him, palms flat against his chest, the blunt pressed gently between your bodies for a fleeting second. “And I’m doing it anyway.”

He didn’t let go. Instead, he slid his hand down, threading his fingers through yours, and tugged you toward the window, the one that led to the fire escape.

“C’mon. Let’s get high.”

Fifteen minutes dissolved into a warm, syrupy haze where time stopped mattering and the only gravity left in the universe was the curve of your body against his.

Bucky was laughing; a low, breathless, almost giddy sound; right against your open mouth. The space between you had surrendered completely, chest to chest, your thighs brushing his, the bitter-sweet taste of the blunt lacing every shared exhale.

He’d stopped passing the joint a while ago. Now it was just a prop, a thin ember burning slowly between his fingers while he held it up to your lips like he was feeding you something sacred. You took a drag without him asking, lips parting automatically, eyes never leaving his.

“That was my last,” you murmured as you pulled back, the smoke curling from your lips in a lazy ribbon.

You didn’t bother aiming it away from him. He wished you’d blow it directly into his mouth so he could taste you.

“No such thing as ‘last’ with me, sweetheart.” His words were slow, syrup-thick, drunk on you more than the alchol in his system. “You started this. Gotta finish what you started.”

He brought the blunt back to your lips before you could argue, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. You took another hit, holding his gaze like a challenge.

“You’re such a bad influence on me, Barnes.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, shaking his head, the dopey grin on his face mirroring yours. “I’m the bad influence?”

He leaned closer, his nose brushing the shell of your ear, voice dropping to a rough, amused murmur. “Baby, I’m just following your lead. You walked into that party looking like a full-course meal. You climbed out my window. You’re the one keeping me out here, freezing my ass off, just to watch you smoke my weed and smile at me like I’m your favourite toy.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide, lips parted.

“If anyone’s the devil here, sweetheart… it’s definitely you.”

Your dopey smile stretched wider, pushing up your cheeks, eyes crinkling at the corners. He almost groaned at the sight. The way you looked at him; like he was a puzzle you were enjoying taking apart, piece by piece.

“Shut up,” you said, your voice soft, fond, dismissive.

The words were barely a whisper before his came, immediate and rough.

“Make me.”

The air between you snapped taut. Your smile faded into something heavier, something that made his pulse skip and slam double-time. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He just stared you down, waiting, daring you, his arm tightening around your waist like he was ready to hold you there forever if that’s what it took.

Your eyes dropped to his lips.

Yes. Yes. Close the distance. Kiss me. Let me feel those lips against mine.

He watched you watch him. Watched the hesitation flicker behind your hooded eyes. Watched the want and the caution war inside you. He wanted to beg. Wanted to grab your jaw and bridge the gap himself.

But he held still, letting you make the call, letting you feel the weight of the choice hanging between you.

Instead, you broke the spell with a grin, that same infuriating, playful grin, and shoved him square in the chest.

“As fun as this is, watching you turn into a lovesick mess, Nat’s gonna send a search party if I’m gone much longer.”

You didn’t wait for an answer. You twisted out of his grip, the hem of your shirt riding up just enough to flash the smooth skin of your lower back as you climbed back through the window.

Bucky bit back a groan so sharp it almost hurt. He dragged a hand down his face, letting out a frustrated breath that fogged in the cool air. His entire body was humming, wired, aching.

He didn’t give himself time to think. He followed you on your heels, dropping through the window and landing in the mess of his room just as your feet hit the floor. His hand shot out, catching your wrist, spinning you gently but firmly back to face him.

“You’re gonna pay for that, you know.”

Your eyebrows lifted, amused. “Pay for what?”

“Leaving a man hanging.” His voice was lower now, rougher, stripped of the playful buzz. “Making me follow you around like some puppy. Dangling yourself in front of me and then slipping away.”

You tilted your head, that infuriating smile still playing at your lips. “Poor Bucky. Must be so hard, wanting something you can’t just charm your way into.”

His jaw tightened. There was no malice in your voice; just teasing, still wrapped in that same playful edge that had been driving him up the wall all night.

But something in him snagged on it anyway.

Maybe it was the weed, loosening the screws in his head. Maybe it was the beer, sticky and warm in his bloodstream.

Maybe it was the simple, agonising fact that you were standing in his room with your mouth still soft and swollen from smiling at him, your wrist warm and alive under his thumb, acting like he was insane for wanting the very thing you kept placing just out of reach.

Bucky’s thumb pressed into the delicate skin over your pulse. He felt it skip. Felt the flutter of it beneath his touch, like a bird trapped in a cage of bone and breath.

“Maybe I’m not trying to charm my way into it.”

Your smile didn’t fall all at once. That would’ve been merciful.

It faded slowly, like a candle snuffed from across the room, a gradual dimming that left shadows in its wake. Your brows pulled together, the teasing tilt of your head softening into something careful. As if you were reading the fine print of a contract you hadn’t agreed to.

Bucky should’ve stopped there.

He knew he should’ve. He could feel the edge of it under his feet, that familiar precipice where the air changed and you started looking for the nearest exit without ever moving toward the door. Your eyes flickered, just once. Toward escape.

But he was drunk. He was high. And he was so goddamn tired of wanting you like a dog waiting under a dinner table for scraps, hungry and patient, and always left with nothing.

So he kept going.

“Maybe I’m just trying to figure out what the hell you want from me.”

Your eyes searched his face, hunting for the joke, the punchline, the easy way out.

For one second, you looked almost wounded. Like he had reached past the game and touched something raw without asking first. Your lips parted, and something flickered behind your eyes.

Then you blinked, and it was gone. Wiped clean like a slate.

“Bucky.”

He hated the way you said his name then. Soft. Gentle. Like a warning whispered to a child on the verge of a tantrum. Like you were trying to calm something down before it made a mess.

“What?” he asked, though his voice had already lost its bite, gone flat and hollow.

“You’re drunk.”

He laughed once, short and humourless, the sound scraping out of his throat. “Yeah, you said that already.”

“And high.”

“And still not stupid.” His voice cracked on the last word, betraying him.

Your lips pressed together into a thin, unreadable line.

There it was. The wall. Not slammed up, not obvious enough for anyone else to notice, but Bucky felt it like a physical shift in the air. Your wrist went still in his hand, no longer warm, no longer responsive. Your shoulders drew back half an inch, a subtle retreat.

Your gaze flicked past him, toward the door, toward the party, toward anything that was not this room and the thing he had just dragged into the light.

His stomach dropped before you even spoke.

“I should go back downstairs.”

Of course.

Bucky let go of your wrist like it had burned him. His hand fell to his side, fingers curling into a loose fist, the ghost of your pulse still tingling against his palm.

“Right.”

Your expression shifted. Something tight and wounded flickered across your features before you smoothed it over.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That.” You gestured vaguely at his face, at the flatness in his eyes, the bitter set of his jaw. “Act like I did something.”

He stared at you.

You stared back.

Downstairs, someone screamed with laughter, swallowed by the bass that kicked harder for a few seconds, rattling an empty beer can on his desk. The sound skittered across the wood like a nervous heartbeat.

Bucky dragged his tongue across his teeth, tasting smoke and bitterness. He nodded once, like he had just figured something out. Like the pieces had finally clicked into place, and the picture wasn’t pretty.

“You didn’t,” he said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended. “That’s kind of the whole point, isn’t it?”

Something flashed across your face.

Hurt, maybe. Guilt. A flicker of recognition at the truth buried under his words.

Or maybe he was making things up again because he wanted so badly for there to be something underneath all that pretty nothing you kept giving him. Wanted it like a bruise he couldn’t stop pressing.

Your voice was quieter when you said, “I was just joking with you.”

“Yeah,” he said, forcing a smile that felt wrong on his mouth. “You’re good at that.”

The air stalled between you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You stood there in the weak amber light of his disaster of a room, the glow spilling from the desk lamp casting long shadows across the cluttered floor.

Close enough that he could still smell smoke on your breath, mixed with something sweet, your lip gloss, maybe, or the conditioner you used. Far enough that he knew if he reached for you again, you would probably let him.

That was the worst part.

You would let him.

You would let him touch your waist, pull you into him by the hand. You would sigh against his mouth like you had been waiting for it. You would make him feel like he had finally cracked through every wall you built.

And then tomorrow, in front of everyone, you would smile at him like none of it had happened. Like he was just another face in the crowd.

Bucky swallowed. His throat clicked dryly.

“Go on, then,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Nat’s waiting, right?”

Your eyes lifted to his.

He could tell you didn’t like that. Could tell by the tiny pinch between your brows, the way your mouth parted around a response you didn’t seem to have ready. He had pushed too hard, and now you were scrambling for solid ground.

But you still went.

You brushed past him, shoulder grazing his chest, and he hated himself for noticing the contact, the warmth of you through the thin fabric of your top. Hated himself more for wanting to turn his head and follow the line of your back as you moved away.

At the door, your hand closed around the knob. The metal turned with a soft click.

Then you paused.

“Buck?”

He looked at you because he always looked when you said his name like that.

You seemed to regret calling for him the second he did. Your face softened, and for one stupid, awful second, he thought you might come back. He thought you might say sorry. He thought you might say anything real enough for him to hold onto.

Instead, you gave him a small smile.

“Don’t sulk too much.”

Then you slipped out, leaving the door half-open behind you. The hallway light bled across the floor, carrying muffled voices and the thrum of music.

Bucky stood there for a few seconds, heart punching slow and heavy against his ribs, listening to the party swallow you back whole.

Then he laughed under his breath,low and mean and mostly at himself. The sound scraped out of his chest and died in the empty air.

“Yeah,” he muttered to the cluttered room. “Sure.”

Bucky hated spring festivals.

That was a lie.

Usually, he loved this shit. Loved the noise, the way the quad swarmed with bodies in a heat that felt almost reckless for April, the sun bleaching the grass and pavement into something too bright, too clean.

Loved the cheap beer poured into plastic cups and hidden inside soda cans, the shameless excuse to get drunk in broad daylight and call it school spirit.

Usually, he would have walked in like he owned the whole fucking place.

Today, he trailed Sam and Steve through the crowd with his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets and a mood that sat heavy in his chest; sour, curdled, thick enough to spoil the entire afternoon.

Sam was talking. Steve was answering. The two of them had been at it for at least five minutes about something Bucky couldn’t muster the energy to care about.

Something about whether Clint could legally enter the pie-eating contest twice if he changed his shirt between rounds.

“He wore a wig, man,” Sam was saying, his voice threaded with genuine affront. “Like that was supposed to make people forget he’s still Clint fucking Barton.”

Steve exhaled a short, tired laugh. “The volunteer was a freshman. She panicked.”

“She panicked because he called himself Clara Barta.”

Bucky stared past them at a girl in a neon-green cowboy hat trying to scale someone’s shoulders and nearly eating shit in the grass.

He wasn’t hearing any of it properly.

His eyes kept drifting before he could stop them. Over the food trucks. Across the knot of bodies near the makeshift stage. Past the sorority booth selling overpriced lime slushies.

Toward every flash of gold jewelry, every laugh that pitched too close to yours, every figure moving beside a redhead or a girl with a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

He was not looking for you.

He wasn’t.

He had told himself that before they even left the house. Had stood in front of the bathroom mirror, dragging his toothbrush across his teeth with too much force, and decided it with a mouthful of mint and stubbornness.

He did not care if you were there. He did not care if you saw him.

He cared, specifically and deeply, about not caring if you didn’t.

If you came up to him, he would be normal. Worse than normal. He would be casual. Cold, even. Polite in a way designed to make you feel stupid for once.

He would not give you that pathetic, eager opening you always seemed to find in him, the one you could press your fingers into until he forgot every reason he had to be angry.

No.

This time, if you wanted his attention, you could fucking work for it.

“You good?” Steve asked.

Bucky blinked.

The question cut through the static in his head like a blade he hadn’t realised was already buried there. Sam and Steve had both stopped walking.

They were looking at him now. Sam with one brow arched high enough to belong on its own zip code, Steve wearing that careful, irritating brand of concern that made Bucky want to throw something soft and harmless directly at his face.

The sun was hot on the back of his neck. The breeze carried the scent of grilled meat and spilled soda, and somewhere a group of girls screamed with laughter over the loudspeaker.

“What?”

Sam’s mouth twisted into a grin that was half amusement, half disbelief. “He lives.”

“I’m good,” Bucky said, the words flat and dismissive.

“You sure?” Steve pressed, his voice quieter now.

“Christ, Rogers, I said I’m good.”

Sam lifted both hands in surrender, palms out. “Nobody said you weren’t. You just looked like you were trying to blow up a lemonade stand with your mind.”

Bucky looked over.

Sure enough, he had been glaring in the vague direction of a table draped in yellow streamers, a handwritten sign propped crooked against a stack of plastic cups reading FRESH LEMONADE $3.

The freshman behind the table, a blonde in a floral sundress, met his stare for half a second before quickly dropping her gaze to the pitcher, her shoulders hitching like she’d been caught stealing.

Great. Perfect.

Now he was terrorising citrus vendors because some girl with pretty eyes and a talent for emotional warfare had ruined his entire fucking week.

“I’m getting a drink,” he muttered.

“From the lemonade stand?” Sam asked.

“Fuck off.”

Steve sighed, a long, tired exhale that Bucky knew too well, but by then he was already walking.

The festival sprawled across the quad in every direction, bright and loud and obnoxiously alive.

Someone had draped green streamers from the trees, their edges curling in the afternoon breeze. The grass was littered with crushed cups and abandoned flyers and bodies lounging in the sun.

A group of guys from the rowing team were shouting around the dunk tank, already shirtless, already sunburnt to a shade of pink that had to hurt. Music pulsed from the stage where some sophomore with a guitar was butchering a song Bucky vaguely recognised.

Normally, it would have been easy.

Smile. Drink. Flirt. Win something stupid from one of the booths while the crowd cheered like it mattered.

Let a girl press herself against his side, her fingers trailing his arm, while Sam heckled him from the sidelines and Steve pretended he wasn’t entertained by the whole spectacle.

That was what pissed him off most.

Everything used to be so fucking easy before you.

Bucky grabbed a red plastic cup from one of the coolers near the fraternity table, the ice water sloshing over his fingers, and took a long drink without bothering to ask what was in it.

Too sweet. Sharp underneath, a chemical bite that tried to singe the back of his throat. Probably spiked by Thor, judging by the way it burned all the way down.

Good.

He drank again, letting the cold settle in his chest like armor.

“Bucky!”

He turned, half out of reflex.

A girl from his psych lecture waved at him from beside the ring toss booth, her hair catching the sun, her smile too eager.

She was wearing a tiny green top that probably would have interested him three months ago, or three weeks ago, or any other version of himself that had not become clinically insane over a girl who called him needy like she knew exactly where to press and exactly how much pressure it would take to make him explode.

Her name was Mia.

Maybe. Maya? No. Mia.

Bucky smiled anyway.

There. Easy. He could do easy. He’d been doing easy his whole damn life.

“Hey,” he said, walking over with the lazy confidence that still fit him when he remembered how to wear it, “You runnin’ this scam?”

She laughed immediately, like he had given her something better than the joke deserved. Her eyes roamed his chest, his arms, the casual way he held his cup. “It’s not a scam. You’re just bad at aiming.”

“That’s hurtful. I’m great at aiming.”

“Prove it, then.”

Bucky leaned one hip against the edge of the booth, letting his grin widen. Behind him, he could practically feel Sam and Steve watching from somewhere near the food trucks, probably exchanging some kind of wordless commentary with their eyebrows.

Mia handed him three plastic rings, her fingers brushing his palm. She let them linger a second longer than necessary, her smile softening into something intentional.

Bucky noticed.

He also noticed that he felt nothing.

Not nothing exactly. He felt the dull satisfaction of being wanted. The little ego-stroke of someone looking at him and deciding he was worth the chase.

He felt the shape of his old self settle over him for a second, familiar as a jacket he had left hanging in his closet, still fitting, still comfortable.

But underneath it, his attention kept pulling elsewhere.

He threw the first ring.

The plastic sailed wide, skimming the neck of a glass bottle before spinning uselessly into the trampled grass.

Mia laughed, bright and sharp. “Great at aiming, huh?”

“Wind interference,” he said, already reaching for the next one.

“There is no wind.” She laughed again, softer this time, her fingers finding the bare skin of his forearm.

“Spiritual wind, then.”

Bucky made himself look at her. Really look. He cataloged the curve of her mouth, the warm spread of her smile, the little glitter sticker pressed beneath one eye.

She was pretty. Genuinely pretty. Warm and open and offering him something he didn’t have to work for.

He should have wanted that.

He wanted to want that. He wanted to feel the familiar heat of being chosen, the lazy satisfaction of a girl deciding he was worth her time.

But the wanting felt hollow. A reflex without the fire behind it. His body was here. His mind was already somewhere else, straining toward a frequency he couldn’t stop chasing.

Then, somewhere behind him, a laugh cut through the noise.

Nat’s laugh, recognisable even in the middle of a crowd.

It wasn’t yours. He knew the difference better than he wanted to. Yours was quieter, wryer, often aimed at him rather than with him. But Natasha was the anchor of your little constellation, and where she was…

Bucky’s whole body went tight.

The casual slouch of his shoulders hardened into something rigid. The easy smile on his mouth faltered at the edges, cracking just barely before he caught it.

He hated himself before he even turned his head. Hated how transparent he was.

Slowly he glanced over his shoulder.

And there you were.

By the slushie booth, standing in the loose triangle you always formed with Natasha and Gamora. Sunlight was threading through your hair, setting the edges of you on fire. A lime-green cup was balanced in your hand, the crushed ice inside melting into a watery gradient against the plastic.

You were listening to something Natasha was saying, your head tilted at that familiar angle, your mouth curved into the shape of a smile that didn’t quite touch your eyes.

You looked beautiful. You looked miles away. You looked exactly the way you always looked when you were present but not entirely there.

Bucky went still. Like a fucking idiot.

After that, Mia became background noise.

Pretty background noise, sure. The kind that came with a sugar-sweet laugh and a glitter sticker catching the late-afternoon sun beneath one eye. Smiling background noise with soft fingers that kept finding excuses to graze his wrist every time she handed him another plastic ring, letting her touch linger a beat longer than necessary.

But background noise all the same.

Bucky tried. He really fucking tried.

He let his weight shift onto one hip, leaning against the edge of the ring-toss booth with practiced ease. He laughed when she laughed, let his eyes drop to her mouth once because that was the sort of thing he used to do without thinking, a reflex he’d honed over years of easy conquests.

He even let her fix the collar of his jacket when she reached for it. Her knuckles grazed the side of his throat, a brief pressure against the warm skin just above his collarbone.

It should have sparked something smug and familiar in him, a pleasant shiver of being wanted.

Nothing.

Worse than nothing.

Because the whole time she was talking all he could think was that her laugh was too bright. Too clean. Too eager to please. It didn’t catch him under the ribs the way yours did, didn’t hook into something raw and leave him breathless.

Her teasing landed too soft. Too safe. Not sharp enough to make him want to chase it, to earn it, to prove himself.

She touched him like she knew he wanted to be touched, generous and open and unquestioning.

And he hated that too, because you never gave him anything that simply.

You made him work for scraps and then looked surprised when he started starving.

Mia said something. He missed it entirely.

“Right,” Bucky said, because it sounded safe enough.

Her brows lifted, “You have no idea what I just said.”

He smiled, charming and empty, a reflex that had never failed him. “I was distracted by your beauty.”

She laughed, pleased despite herself, and shoved lightly at his arm. Easy. So fucking easy.

His gaze still slid over her shoulder.

You were still by the slushie booth, one elbow propped on the counter, the heel of your palm digging into the wood. Your head was tilted toward Natasha, who was gesturing emphatically about something.

Gamora stood half a step behind you with her arms crossed, like campus security hired by hell itself. You had a lime-green straw between your fingers, the plastic bent near the top from where you kept worrying it with your thumb.

You were not looking at him.

Good. Fine.

Bucky turned back to Mia and threw another ring. It sailed in a shallow arc, bounced uselessly off the neck of a bottle, and dropped onto the trampled grass at the base of the booth.

Mia made a sympathetic noise, her lips pursing. “Spiritual wind again?”

“Violent spiritual wind.” He grabbed another ring, testing its weight in his palm.

“You’re terrible at this.” Her hand landed on his bicep when she laughed, staying there a little too long.

Bucky let it.

He let it because maybe you would look over and see it. Maybe you would see her hand on his arm, see her leaning into his space, see him not pulling away. Maybe you would realise he had options. Lots of them.

Girls who laughed easily and touched without hesitation and made him feel like he was winning instead of losing.

He did not need you.

He didn’t.

He had never needed any girl to want him. That was the whole point. Girls liked him. Girls came easy. Girls wanted to be chosen by him, and he had always been good at choosing, at taking what was offered, at moving on before anyone could get too attached.

So maybe you should see that.

Maybe you should watch someone else touch him, watch someone else laugh at his jokes, watch someone else look at him like he was something worth having.

Maybe you should feel even half as stupid as he had felt standing in his room after you left, the silence still ringing in his ears.

Your eyes moved.

Just once.

A quick glance over Natasha’s shoulder, brief enough that anyone else would have missed it. A flicker of movement, a shift in focus. You looked at him and then away again.

Bucky should have felt triumphant.

He should have felt vindicated. Relieved, maybe. Like he had finally managed to press one finger into the soft place beneath all your careful indifference and prove there was something there.

Instead, his stomach twisted into a knot that sat heavy and cold.

Because you did not look angry.

You looked away too fast for him to understand anything at all.

And that was worse.

Mia was still smiling up at him when he turned back, her head tilted just enough to catch the tail end of the afternoon light across her cheekbone.

Her mouth was parted, ready to laugh at whatever he said next.

“You want to try again?”

No.

The word cut through him clean and fast.

He wanted to walk across the quad. He wanted to cross the trampled grass and the careful, deliberate distance you had carved between you like a border he wasn’t allowed to cross.

He wanted to stand in front of you and ask why you had looked at him like that—like he was the one doing something wrong just by existing, just by letting someone else’s hand rest on his arm.

He wanted to grab your stupid green cup out of your hand and press his mouth to the plastic rim, taste whatever sugar-sour thing you had been nursing all afternoon, because, for a reason that made him feel deeply, disgustingly pathetic, he wanted his lips to touch where yours had been.

He wanted to ask why the fuck you got to look wounded when he was the one bleeding out all over the place.

He set the last plastic ring down on the counter.

“You know what?” His voice came out easier than he felt, smooth and practiced. “I’m gonna quit while I still have some dignity.”

Mia laughed, “You had dignity?”

“Once. Briefly.” He dragged a hand through his hair, let his mouth curve into something rueful and self-deprecating. “Freshman year, I think. It was a Tuesday. I peaked early.”

She shifted closer, the toe of her sneaker brushing against his. Her fingers grazed his wrist again. He could feel the opening there, easy, the way girls always were.

All he had to do was lean into it. Let the conversation carry. Let his hand find her waist. Let himself get lost in something simple for once.

Instead, he stepped back.

“See you around, Mia.”

Her face flickered. The smile didn’t drop, but something behind it cooled. A subtle tightening around her eyes, a slight press of her lips.

“Maya,” she corrected.

Fuck.

Bucky blinked.

He smiled anyway, because what else was he supposed to do?

“Right. Maya.” He let the apology bleed into his voice. “Sorry.”

Her smile thinned.

Bucky deserved that too.

He turned and walked away before he could make it worse.

For the next two hours, Bucky made a point of being seen and not approaching.

He let Sam drag him toward the food trucks, let himself be pulled through the thick crowd of students and families and drunk upperclassmen.

He let Steve talk him into watching Clint get disqualified from the pie-eating contest. Thor had stood up from the judges’ table, pointed a finger the size of a hot dog, and loudly accused Clint of being “the same small blond criminal in a wig.”

The crowd erupted. Clint flipped him off with a mouthful of whipped cream. Steve laughed so hard he had to brace himself on Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky laughed too. He did. It came out at the right time, in the right pitch, convincing enough.

He stood by the dunk tank while Rhodey heckled Tony into climbing onto the seat. Tony was wearing a linen shirt that probably cost more than Bucky’s entire closet, and he looked profoundly uncomfortable with the idea of getting wet.

He kept his distance. But never so much distance that he could not see you.

That was the pathetic part.

His body moved on its own, tracking you like a compass needle finding north. He always arranged himself somewhere with a clear line of sight. Near the stage when you drifted toward the booths.

By the food trucks when you wandered toward the grass, your silhouette cutting through the golden haze.

Close to Steve when Steve decided to talk to Natasha, because then Bucky had an excuse to stand twenty feet from you and pretend it wasn’t intentional, pretend he was just hanging with his friend while he watched your every move.

But every time your face turned away, his mood soured. Every time you smiled at someone else, he wondered what they had said, what they had done to earn that warmth that he couldn’t seem to coax from you.

He was exhausting.

But he couldn’t stop.

By late afternoon, the sun had started to dip behind the science building, turning the quad warm and gold at the edges. The light slanted long across the grass, casting everything in a honeyed haze.

The air smelled like fried dough, cut grass, spilled beer, and the sharp chemical sweetness of the slushie machine that had been running too hard all day, its motor grinding low and tired.

Bucky had finally lost sight of you.

At first, he told himself it was a relief.

Good.

Great.

Maybe you had left. Maybe you had gone back to your dorm. Maybe the festival could go back to being a festival instead of a slow, public study in how little self-respect James Buchanan Barnes apparently had left.

He lasted thirty seconds.

Then his eyes were moving again, dragging across the quad like a searchlight. Toward the drink stands. Over the line at the food trucks, scanning faces. Past the stage, where the band was packing up their equipment.

Back toward the slushie booth, where Natasha was now talking to Wanda, their heads bent together in quiet conversation.

You were not beside her.

Gamora was there, though, standing with her arms crossed in that way she had. Her eyes cut toward him like she had known exactly where he would be looking.

Bucky looked away immediately.

His pulse hammered in his throat.

Fuck.

He shoved both hands into his jacket pockets and turned in the opposite direction, jaw tight, pulse irritated beneath his skin. He was not looking for you. He was not going to walk around this whole fucking festival like a lost dog because you had vanished for five minutes.

“Hey.”

Bucky turned too fast.

And there you were.

Standing behind him. Sunlight soft around your shoulders, spilling through the gaps in the trees behind you, catching the faint sheen of condensation on the clear plastic cups in your hands. Two iced coffees.

For one stupid second, he forgot to be angry.

The feeling arrived in his chest before he could stop it. A loosening. A warmth. The same stupid, gravitational pull he had been fighting all day, undoing him with a single glance.

Then you smiled at him.

Not the teasing, knowing curl of your mouth that made him want to grab you by the waist and pull you into somewhere quiet. This one was smaller. Softer. Almost shy. The corners of your lips lifted slowly, like you were testing whether it was safe to show him that part of yourself.

He did not trust himself to name it.

“They messed up my order,” you said, lifting one of the cups a little. The ice shifted inside, a soft, crystalline sound against the plastic. “Gave me hazelnut instead of caramel.”

Bucky stared at you. He could smell the coffee now, faintly bitter, cut with something sweet.

You held the cup out toward him.

“I remembered hazelnut’s your favourite.”

That was all.

One sentence.

One stupid fucking coffee.

And Bucky felt every cruel, petty thing he had been rehearsing all day loosen in his hands. They slid through his fingers like water, leaving nothing but the raw, embarrassing truth beneath.

He was supposed to be cold. He had planned it. If you came over he was going to look at you the way you looked at him in dayligh; casual, polite, with nothing owed. He was going to make you work for his attention. Make you feel the distance.

Instead, he took the coffee.

His fingers brushed yours around the damp cup. Your skin was cool and wet from the condensation, and the contact was brief but electric. He felt it in his fingertips, up his wrist, settling somewhere low in his chest.

“Thanks,” he said.

The word came out awful. Pathetic. Barely even mean. It was soft when he had wanted it hard. Grateful when he had wanted indifferent.

Your eyes searched his face, careful and quiet. There was something watchful in the way you looked at him, like you were reading a line of text you had read before but were trying to understand differently this time.

“You haven’t talked to me all day.”

Bucky gave a shrug. The motion was stiff, defensive. He brought the straw to his mouth and wrapped his lips around it, buying himself a second.

“Been busy.”

“I saw.”

The straw stopped against his lips.

There it was. Not an accusation exactly. Not jealousy either. Just two words, soft enough to slide under his skin. They found the tender places, the ones he had been trying to protect, and settled there.

He took a sip to give himself something to do.

Hazelnut. Sweet. A little bitter underneath. Warm on his tongue despite the ice.

Of course you remembered.

He lowered the cup. The plastic was slick in his grip.

“Did you?”

Your mouth tightened slightly. A small, almost imperceptible press of your lips that told him the words had landed where he meant them to.

“Bucky.”

He hated that too. The softness. The warning.

“What?” he asked, and even to his own ears it came out harder than he intended.

“You’re being weird.”

He let out a short laugh. It was hollow, barely more than a breath. “I’m being weird?”

Your eyes dropped to the coffee in your hand. The condensation had started to pool between your fingers, and you shifted your grip, watching the water trail down the plastic.

That should have helped him. That should have given him something solid to stay angry with. He wanted you to roll your eyes. He wanted you to smirk, to toss some sharp little joke at his feet and dare him to pick it up. He wanted you to give him a reason.

But you did not.

You just stood there, looking smaller somehow in the middle of all that noise. The festival kept spinning around you and you were still. Quiet. Waiting.

Then you said, “Are you mad at me?”

He was finished.

He hated that he was finished before he even opened his mouth. Hated that the question undid him so completely, that it found the lock and turned it without effort. Hated that you could stand there with a small, uncertain crack in your voice, and he would fold every single time.

Bucky looked away. He dragged his tongue along the inside of his cheek, tasting coffee and bitterness and something that felt too much like surrender.

He brought the coffee to his lips again. Just to have something to do with his hands. Just to keep from saying something he could not take back.

“Why would I be mad?” he asked, because apparently he had decided to be a dick anyway.

You did not answer immediately.

The silence stretched between you like a thread pulled taut, and Bucky watched the shape of your mouth as it hovered around words you weren’t ready to say.

When he looked back at you, your face had gone still in that careful way he was beginning to recognise. The muscles around your eyes had softened, your lips parted just slightly, and there was a patience in your expression that felt heavier than any accusation.

“I don’t know,” you said, and your voice was thinner now. “I thought maybe the other night…”

You trailed off.

The sentence hung in the air, unfinished, fragile. The kind of opening that could be filled with anything; with hope, with blame, with the truth neither of you had been brave enough to say aloud.

Bucky’s grip tightened around the coffee cup. The other night. So you did remember. You weren’t pretending it hadn’t happened, weren’t going to let it dissolve into the haze of party noise and cheap beer.

“You thought maybe what?”

Your lashes lifted. Your eyes met his, and there was no deflection in them now. No clever sidestep.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel stupid.”

The words went straight through him.

Clean through the ribs, past the armour he had spent the last three days layering over his chest, settling somewhere deep and tender. It was meaner than anything cruel would have been.

Because that was it. That was the thing he had been carrying around and dressing up as anger, because anger looked better on him than humiliation. You had made him feel stupid. Stupid for wanting you.

And now you were standing in front of him with hazelnut coffee and remorse in your eyes, saying the one thing he had not known he needed to hear.

His anger lost its shape.

It did not vanish. He could still feel it, somewhere under his breastbone, hot and sore, a bruise that had not finished healing. But it had nothing to hold onto now.

Bucky swallowed. The motion was dry, his throat tight.

“You didn’t,” he lied.

Your brows pinched. The disbelief was immediate, a small furrow forming between your eyes that told him you had seen right through the denial.

He sighed, hating himself, hating you a little, hating the way his body was already angling toward yours like it had forgiven you without consulting him.

“Fine,” he muttered, the word scraping past his teeth. “Maybe a little.”

Your mouth softened. The corners of your lips turned down in a way that was not quite a frown, more like a quiet admission of guilt.

“I’m sorry.”

There it was again. Another scrap. Barely enough. Two words that should not have been enough to undo the knot in his chest, but somehow they were.

Bucky looked down at the coffee in his hand. The ice had melted more now, the water pooling at the bottom of the clear plastic. Then he looked back at you, and the corner of his mouth lifted despite himself.

“You always apologise with beverages?”

“Only when I’m feeling generous.”

“Dangerous habit.” He tilted his head, letting the smirk settle into something more real. “I’m very bribable.”

Your smile came back slowly. It started in your eyes first, a flicker of warmth that spread to your lips, and God, there he went. There he fucking went.

All that resolve, all that careful, bitter distance, folding inside him like wet paper because you looked at him with warmth again.

“You’re cheap,” you said.

“Not cheap.” He shook his head, the coffee cup swinging in his grip. “Accessible.”

“That’s worse.”

“You say that like you’re not standing here trying to buy my forgiveness with six dollars of iced coffee.”

“Seven fifty,” you corrected, and there was a spark of humour in your voice now. “Campus pricing is criminal.”

He laughed before he could stop himself. The sound came out rough and surprised. But there it was, and it loosened something between you, closed the last of the distance.

Your smile widened at the sound, and something in his chest went soft and stupid and loyal.

Across the quad, Sam caught his eye from beside the food trucks. He was standing with a paper tray of fries halfway to his mouth, staring at Bucky over the top of them with an expression flat with disbelief.

His eyebrows were raised, his head tilted in a slow, accusatory shake.

Bucky ignored him.

He looked back at you, and the festival noise swelled around you again, but it felt distant now. Muffled. He nodded toward the far end of the festival where the temporary rides had been set up near the parking lot.

A cheap spinning thing with hanging seats was creaking in slow circles, its lights flickering green and white even though the sun had not fully gone down yet.

Nearby, a smaller ferris wheel groaned every time it moved, looking only slightly safer than a lawsuit.

“You wanna go on a ride?”

You glanced over, your gaze following his nod. Your brows lifted, a flicker of amusement crossing your face.

“With you?”

“Don’t sound so horrified.”

“I’m not horrified.” You turned back to him, and there was a glint in your eye now. “I’m considering the risk.”

Bucky tilted his head, trying for careless and landing somewhere much softer. The words came out before he could stop them, “C’mon, sweetheart. Let me be a bad influence.”

You looked at him for a second too long.

Then you stepped closer, just enough that your shoulder brushed his arm as you moved past him.

“Fine,” you said, the word carrying a reluctant smile. “But if I die, I’m haunting you.”

Bucky followed immediately, coffee in hand, heart gone embarrassingly light.

“Good,” he said, “Then at least you’d be consistent.”

For the last three years at NYU, Tony Stark had treated the end of spring semester like a religious holiday.

A very expensive, deeply obnoxious holiday that involved a beach house weekend at his parents’ sprawling Malibu mansion, that forced you to acknowledge how much money some people had just by existing in its shadow.

First-class flights for anyone he deemed entertaining enough to invite, which was a broad and chaotic metric.

Enough alcohol to poison a small country, and a guest list he described as “intimate” in the same way someone might call a riot “spirited,” given that it usually hovered somewhere around fifty people.

Closest and dearest friends, Tony called it.

Which, for Tony, meant anyone he had laughed with more than twice, anyone who looked good in bikinis, anyone who owed him money, anyone he owed money, and at least three people he claimed were “essential to the ecosystem” despite no one else being entirely sure who they were.

Bucky had always loved it.

How could he not?

It was a weekend designed for him to love. Sun-warm skin and salt-crusted hair, the sharp iodine scent of the Pacific mixing with expensive cologne. Music vibrating through the glass walls deep into the night, until the floors hummed under his feet.

Top-shelf liquor sloshing into cheap red cups because Tony loved the visual dissonance of it, the clash of refinement and raucous excess. People half-dressed and fully drunk before the sun had even properly set.

Bodies, careless and comfortable, everywhere, draped over pool chairs, melting into leather couches, disappearing into guest rooms with sheets that cost more than his tuition.

And this year was supposed to be the best one.

Senior year.

The final spring before reality politely asked everyone to grow up. Before the forced enthusiasm about internships, leases, and entry-level jobs that paid barely enough to justify the commute.

Before the slow, quiet humiliation of being twenty-two and realizing the world had never promised to stay exactly how it was.

The last Malibu trip had a gravity to it, even if no one wanted to say that out loud. Everyone could feel it pressing down on their shoulders.

Steve said it once on the plane, because of course he did.

Mid-flight, with the Pacific stretching blue and endless beneath them, he said something earnest and quietly devastating about how strange it was that they would probably never have this much time together again.

Sam threw a pretzel at his forehead with surgical precision. ”Stop making the trip sad, Rogers. You’re gonna manifest a bad vibe.”

Bucky had laughed along with everyone else.

He was good at that. Keeping things light. Acting like the future was just some vague concept waiting politely far away from him, instead of a door already clicking shut in slow motion while they weren’t looking.

Besides, he had more pressing things to occupy his head.

Like the fact that you were coming.

Not that he was thinking about that. Not obsessively. He hadn’t checked the group chat four times to see if Natasha had confirmed the flight details. He hadn’t hovered near the baggage claim exit a little too long, pretending to stretch his shoulders out, stomach tightening every time the automatic doors slid open.

He hadn’t carefully packed the black shirt, the one you had touched once, months ago, fingers smoothing the collar, your smile going slow and private in a way that he had replayed more times than he’d ever admit.

He was just excited for the trip.

That was all.

The house came into view just as the car turned up the long private drive, a ridiculous sprawl of glass and white stone sitting above the water like it had been dropped there by God specifically to make poor people feel unwelcome.

The Pacific flashed blue beyond it, bright enough to hurt, the sun catching the surface in a million tiny explosions of light. Palm trees leaned over the road, their fronds swaying lazily in the salt-warm breeze.

The afternoon sun poured itself across everything, turning the windows gold and the pool a hard, glittering turquoise, the kind of color that looked fake in photographs but was somehow real here.

Tony stood out front in linen trousers and sunglasses, arms spread wide like a cult leader welcoming his congregation home.

“My children,” he called as soon as the car doors opened. “You made it.”

Sam stepped out first, stretching his arms over his head, his spine cracking in a way that made Steve wince sympathetically. “You say that like we survived war and not a six-hour flight where you slept through turbulence.”

“I survived being seated beside Barton,” Tony said, pulling his sunglasses down his nose just enough to make eye contact. “Which is worse.”

Clint, emerging from the next car with his hair flattened on one side. “I heard that, Stark.”

“You were meant to.”

Bucky climbed out after Steve, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, the warm Malibu air hitting him all at once. The air was different here. Thicker. Slower. It made you want to breathe deeper.

Somewhere inside the house, music was already playing, a low, thrumming bassline that vibrated through the glass walls. Someone had arrived before them and started early, because of course they had. Tony’s parties never waited for the host.

Bucky looked toward the road before he could stop himself, his gaze dragging along the curve of the driveway.

No other car yet.

He looked away immediately, his jaw tightening.

Sam, because he was a terrible person and a worse friend, noticed.

“Subtle,” he said, the word drawn out.

Bucky frowned. “What?”

“Nothing.” Sam’s grin widened, but he didn’t push further. He knew better than to push Bucky when he was already coiled tight.

Steve had the decency to say nothing, but his mouth did that thing where it pressed flat at the corners, the kind of silent judgment that was almost worse than Sam’s teasing.

Bucky shoved past both of them, his duffel bag thumping against his hip, and grabbed his bag from the trunk before anyone else could offer to help.

“I’m getting a room before all the good ones are gone.”

Tony scoffed. “Please. Your rooms are assigned. I’m not running a hostel.”

Sam paused mid-step, his duffel slung over one shoulder. “You assigned rooms?”

“Obviously.” Tony turned on his heel, leading the way inside. “I’m not having a repeat of the Cabo incident. Some people don’t know how to handle free choice sleeping arrangements.”

Clint, trailing behind, muttered, “That was one time.”

“It was twice,” Tony shot back, not looking back.

The inside of the mansion was already half-chaos. Suitcases abandoned in the entryway, a pair of heels kicked off and left under a marble console table, a half-empty bottle of champagne sweating on the counter of the kitchen island.

A bowl of limes sat on the kitchen island, untouched and decorative for now, though Bucky gave it six hours before Thor tried to bite into one whole.

Bucky followed Tony upstairs with Sam and Steve, his bag slung over one shoulder, his footsteps padding on the wide wooden staircase. He tried very hard not to wonder where you would sleep.

Tried and failed.

Which room would you get? Would you be on the same floor as him? Across the hall? At the other end of the house, where he’d have to walk past a dozen doors just to catch a glimpse of you?

Tony stopped at the end of the hall and pointed at a door like a bored hotel concierge, his hand a lazy gesture. “Rogers, Wilson, Barnes. Try not to destroy anything structural.”

Sam pushed open the door and whistled low, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged room. “Damn.”

Steve stepped into it after him, his gaze sweeping across the king-sized bed, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the balcony that jutted out over the lawn. “This is excessive.”

“That’s the family motto,” Tony said, already turning away, his phone buzzing in his pocket. “There’s food in the kitchen. Drinks on the terrace. Don’t break the bed, I’ll know.”

Bucky went in last. Ocean-facing, because Tony was an asshole who pretended not to be thoughtful.

The room was huge, the bed draped in white sheets that looked impossibly soft, the glass doors slid open to let the breeze in. The water was visible beyond the slant of the lawn, a deep, endless blue that seemed to go on forever.

He dropped his bag on the floor by the bed and walked to the balcony, his hands gripping the railing.

The warm Malibu air hit him again, thicker now. The sound of the party drifted up to meet him, carried on the breeze; the low thrum of music from inside the house, the clatter of ice in glass.

Down below, the patio had already started filling.

Someone was carrying crates of alcohol toward the outdoor bar, bottles clinking with every step. Rhodey was arguing with Tony about speaker placement, his hands moving in broad, frustrated arcs while Tony gestured at the pool like he was explaining architecture to a child.

A few girls Bucky vaguely recognised from campus were stretched near the pool on lounge chairs, their sunglasses pushed up into their hair, laughing too loudly at something Thor said while he stood at the edge of the water, gesturing broadly.

Still no you.

He let his gaze sweep the patio once, just once, the way you might check a clock you already knew the answer to.

Fine.

He had time.

He could get settled. He could take a shower, let the hot water loosen the knot wedged between his shoulder blades.

Behind him, Sam appeared in the open doorway of the balcony, his silhouette filling the frame.

“Don’t start,” Bucky said, not turning around.

Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. “I just came to tell you Tony’s making drinks downstairs.”

“Great.”

“And to remind you that this is supposed to be a fun weekend.” Sam’s voice was light, conversational, but the words had edges.

Bucky turned from the balcony then, the ocean falling away behind him. The breeze caught his hair, pushing it across his forehead. “I know how to have fun, Sam.”

“Historically, yes.”

Before Bucky could respond, Steve appeared behind Sam in the doorway, his shoulder brushing the frame as he stepped up.

He looked between them with that resigned expression, the one that said he had walked into the middle of something and would now be forced to participate, like it or not. “What are we talking about?”

“Nothing,” Bucky said.

“His disease,” Sam said at the same time.

Bucky stared at him. “My what?”

Sam held up a hand, ticking off fingers. “Symptoms include staring at doors. Emotional constipation. And abandoning perfectly nice girls mid-conversation when a certain someone walks into a room.”

Steve sighed. “Sam.”

“What? He needs medical attention.”

Bucky grabbed one of the pillows from the bed behind him and threw it at Sam’s head. Sam caught it easily, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself.

“See? Irritability. Another symptom.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but heat crawled up the back of his neck anyway. “I’m not doing this all weekend.”

“Good.” Sam’s voice dropped then, the grin fading around the edges, “Don’t.”

It was said lightly, but not entirely.

Bucky looked at him. For a second, the room shifted into something less like sparring and more like concern.

Sam’s shoulders loosened, the humor bleeding out of his face just enough to show the worry underneath, the part of him that had watched Bucky turn himself inside out over you for months and did not find all of it funny anymore.

Steve stepped forward, his voice gentler now. “Just... don’t spend the whole trip waiting for her to decide your mood.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. The muscle in his temple jumped.

He wanted to tell them they were wrong. He wanted to say you did not decide anything. That he was fine.

But the words sat heavy in his mouth, and he couldn’t force them out.

So he said nothing.

From downstairs, Tony’s voice carried up through the open doors, bouncing off the glass and the stone. “First round is ready, you ungrateful peasants!”

Sam clapped his hands once. “Saved by alcoholism.”

Steve gave Bucky one last look then turned and disappeared toward the hall.

Bucky followed, because staying behind would look pathetic, and he had already met his quota for the day.

Downstairs, the house had grown louder. More people had arrived while he was up there. Bags piled by the stairs, sandals kicked off near the sliding doors, laughter spilling in from the patio in overlapping waves.

Tony was behind the outdoor bar in sunglasses, pouring something violently green into a row of cups while Pepper stood beside him looking like she had already accepted God’s plan for her evening.

Bucky took a cup the second Tony handed him one.

It tasted like lime, expensive vodka, and exactly what he needed. The alcohol burned a clean path down his throat and settled warm in his chest.

Perfect.

He tipped his head back and drank half of it.

By eleven, Bucky was absolutely, spectacularly shitfaced.

The whole mansion seemed to tilt and breathe around him, swaying on its foundations in slow waves of green pool light, salt-scrubbed air, and the sweet, cloying scent of expensive liquor bleeding from every glass.

Someone had thrown all the glass doors to the patio wide open, letting the party spill out of the house and down toward the pool, toward the dark strip of beach below, toward the ocean rolling black and endless under a crescent moon.

Bucky was having the time of his fucking life.

He had spent the last hour ricocheting between Sam’s shoulder and Steve’s long-suffering presence, laughing so hard his ribs ached and his vision blurred.

Tony had climbed onto the kitchen island at some point to deliver a toast no one had asked for, sloshing amber liquid onto the pristine marble. Bruce had lost a sandal. Rhodey had found it in the freezer, holding it up like a trophy.

Thor had challenged half the house to a drinking competition and laid them out, one by one, a trail of empty glasses and ruined egos stretching behind him like a battlefield.

Bucky, because he was an idiot and because the liquor had convinced him he was invincible, had tried to take him on.

Thor drank like he had been weaned on kerosene and raised by wolves. Bucky had made it three rounds before Sam materialised at his elbow and physically removed the cup from his hand.

“Too pretty to die on Tony Stark’s imported marble,” Sam had said.

Bucky had laughed in his face.

Then his heel caught on nothing and he nearly pitched headfirst into a decorative fern the size of a small car, catching himself on the wall at the last second.

And you had seen it.

You had seen him almost eat shit beside a fern, and instead of looking unimpressed, instead of giving him that careful, distant smile he had grown to hate, you had laughed.

Your head tipped back, the long column of your throat exposed, one hand pressed to your mouth as your shoulders shook. Natasha leaned in to whisper something in your ear, and you laughed harder, nodding.

It was the best sound he had heard all night. The best thing he had seen all month.

You weren’t ignoring him tonight. Not even a little. He had been braced for it, waiting for the familiar wall to go up, but it never came. Since the moment you arrived, you had been sweet. Warm. Present in a way that made his chest feel too tight and his hands itch to reach for you.

Honey, he kept thinking, the word a stupid, syrupy refrain in the back of his mind.

You were warm like honey tonight, golden and thick and spilling over everything. He was a fly caught in it, too far gone to care.

And fuck, you looked good.

That was the other problem, the one pressing insistently against the front of his jeans with every glance you threw his way.

You were trying to kill him. There was no other explanation for the top you had chosen. Thin and tight, clinging to the curve of your torso like it had been made specifically to undo him.

The fabric shifted with every breath, catching the light, and the neckline dipped just low enough to make his mouth go dry. Every time you lifted your arms, your boobs shifted and threatened to spill out entirely.

A possessive, animal part of him wanted to cup them in his palms, slide his thumbs over the soft swell, tuck them back in himself and never let them go.

Your shorts were no better. Sitting high on your thighs, hugging the flare of your hips, leaving acres of bare skin on display. He kept wondering how you had managed to squeeze into them and whether he was going to survive watching you walk away in them one more time.

He was not proud of himself. He wanted to pounce on you right there, in front of everyone, sink his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, taste the salt and sugar on your skin.

He wanted to haul you against him and find out if you felt as soft as you looked.

You wandered back to him sometime after Tony’s third terrible toast, barefoot now, your sandals abandoned somewhere by the pool. In your hands, you held two little glass shot glasses, the liquid inside them a violent, fluorescent pink that glowed under the patio lights like a dare.

Bucky looked at the shots, then at you.

“No.”

You blinked at him, a pout already forming on your lips. “No?”

“I challenged Thor,” he said, as if that explained everything. “I’m cut off. Sam declared a moratorium on my alcohol intake for the sake of my liver and the integrity of the marble flooring.”

“That was stupid,” you said, but your eyes were warm, amused.

“Thank you, sweetheart. I’m acutely aware.”

Your smile widened. God, there it was. That specific, dangerous curve of your mouth that made the bottom drop out of his stomach every single time.

You stepped closer, close enough that the cold plastic rim of one shot glass pressed lightly against his chest, just over his heart. “Come on, Buck,” you said, your voice soft and honeyed beneath the thrum of the bass. “One more. Just for me.”

He should have said no. He had every intention of saying no.

Then your fingers curled into the front of his shirt. Just the tips of them, hooking into the fabric, not enough to pull him toward you, just enough to hold him there.

“Fine,” he heard himself say, the word a complete and total surrender. He was weak and you were evil and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

The two of you clinked the plastic cups together and threw them back.

The liquid hit his tongue. Sugar first, cloying and thick. Then vodka, sharp and medicinal. And something aggressively sour that made his jaw clench and his eyes water.

You made a face immediately, your nose scrunching up, your eyes squeezed shut, a soft sound of disgust escaping your throat.

Bucky laughed so hard he had to brace one hand against the edge of the counter behind him. “Awful, right?”

“Awful,” you croaked, coughing once into your fist.

“You brought it to me,” he pointed out, still grinning.

“I wanted you to suffer with me,” you murmured, your voice hoarse from the liquor.

“Romantic. You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

“Don’t get excited.”

“Too late.” The words came out rougher than he meant them.

He was already excited. Had been excited since you walked through the door in that top, looking like everything he had ever wanted and had no right to touch.

You leaned your shoulder into his side, just for a second. Maybe for balance. Maybe because you wanted to. The weight of you pressing into him, fitting too perfectly into the curve of his body.

Bucky looked down at you. Your mouth was wet from the shot, shining under the dim glow of the patio lights. Your eyes were heavy-lidded, warm, fixed on his mouth.

He didn’t think about it. His hand found your waist, fingers spreading over the bare skin exposed by the crop of your top. You were soft and warm and solid under his palm, and the contact sent a shiver of heat up his arm.

“You’re drunk,” you murmured, your breath brushing his collarbone.

“So are you,” he countered, his thumb tracing a slow, idle circle on the dip of your hip.

“Mm. Maybe.” You didn’t pull away.

“Definitely.”

“You always this handsy when you’re drunk, Barnes?” The question was velvet over steel, a challenge wrapped in silk. But you leaned into him instead.

Bucky’s thumb shifted against your waist, sliding higher, tracing the edge of your ribcage through the thin fabric of your top.

He felt the soft intake of your breath, the way your stomach tightened under his touch. “No,” he said, the word dropping an octave, sliding under the bass of the music, rougher than before. “Just when you’re dressed like that.”

You sighed against him, warm and tipsy, your cheek brushing his shoulder as if you had every right to be there.

“I think I need to call it a night.”

Bucky’s head snapped down so fast the room tilted with him.

“No.” The word came out instantly, offended and pathetic. Then again, worse. “No, no, no.”

You laughed, and he felt it more than heard it, the soft shake of your body against his side. He had one arm locked around your waist, fingers splayed over the exposed strip of skin where your tank had ridden up.

“It’s only eleven,” he protested, tightening his grip like you might dissolve into the party if he let you breathe too freely. “Party’s gonna go on for another couple of hours.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“Don’t leave me alone.”

Your smile curved against his neck. “There’s like forty other people here, Buck. I’m sure you won’t be that lonely.”

He made a wounded noise into the crown of your head. “None of them are you.”

The words came out before he could dress them up as a joke, before he could hide them behind a grin or a roll of his eyes.

You went quiet for half a second.

Then you tilted your face up to him, eyes glassy-bright from alcohol and the green spill of party lights. “I wanna explore Malibu tomorrow. I’m not wasting the whole day hungover because you need attention.”

“You’re so boring,” he groaned, dropping his forehead briefly to your temple.

“And yet.”

“And yet,” he repeated, the words heavy, loaded, full of everything he couldn’t say.

“I’ll let you take me to my room, then.”

Bucky pretended to consider it. Really sold it too, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed like this was a difficult sacrifice and not the only thing he wanted in the world. “If that’s the only way to keep you with me.”

“It is.”

“Well.” He pulled you closer, his hand sliding more securely around your waist, his fingers pressing into the warm skin of your hip. “Who am I to deny a lady?”

“Oh God.”

You laughed again, the sound soft and breathless, and Bucky started walking before you could change your mind.

Or tried to.

The first few steps were a test of faith. The floor seemed to tilt and roll beneath him like the deck of a ship, and the hallway stretched and contracted in confusing rhythms.

You pressed tighter against his side, your arm sliding around his waist to steady both of you, and every time your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, Bucky had to remind himself that he was escorting you to bed, not dragging you into his mouth.

The mansion blurred around him. He passed a painting of a sailboat. Then another painting of a sailboat. He definitely took a wrong turn past a large, ugly vase.

Behind him, Sam called out something that got swallowed by the bass. Someone else whistled, low and knowing.

Bucky ignored all of it.

All he cared about was the feel of you tucked under his arm, the soft drag of your breath on his neck, the way your hip bumped against his thigh with every stumbling step. The air through the open windows smelled like jasmine and salt and the faint, clean scent of your perfume mixing with the liquor in his veins.

“Is this even the right way?” you asked as he led you past a framed painting of something expensive and ugly.

“Yes.”

“You’re lost.”

“I’m exploring Malibu.”

“That is not what that means.”

He shushed you, then immediately turned down the wrong hallway.

By the time he found the staircase, both of you were laughing too hard to move quietly. You clung to his shirt as he guided you up the stairs, your body shaking against his, and every time your fingers curled against his chest, Bucky’s pulse kicked harder.

He opened the door with the confidence of a man who had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

The room was dark except for the moonlight spilling through the balcony doors, silver and heavy, painting everything in soft shadows.

The bed was massive, white sheets tangled from where he had thrown his duffel earlier. His shirt hung off the back of a chair. His shoes kicked carelessly near the dresser. The balcony doors were open a crack, letting in the sound of the waves and the cool night air.

You stepped in beside him, looked around for one long second, then burst into laughter.

“This is not my room, Buck.”

Bucky blinked.

Looked at the bed. Looked at his duffel on the floor. Looked at you.

“Oh.”

He turned back to you, trying very hard to arrange his face into something less guilty.

“Oops.”

You laughed harder, your head tipping back, your hand pressing to your stomach like this was the funniest thing that had happened all night. And maybe it was. The sound was bright and unguarded, and Bucky wanted to bottle it.

“I cannot believe you,” you said.

“Honest mistake. Tragic, really. Very confusing architecture in this house.”

“Sure.”

You should have turned around.

You should have made him find the right room. Should have rolled your eyes and dragged him back into the hallway before he could get any more ideas, before Bucky remembered exactly how little space there was between want and stupidity.

Instead, you walked farther in.

Then you collapsed backward onto his bed.

You fell into the mattress with a soft, breathless sound, the white sheets whispering beneath you. Your hair spilled loose across his pillow. The tank top had ridden up from the fall, baring the soft curve of your belly, the delicate jut of your hipbone just above the line of your shorts.

The moonlight sliced silver across your thighs, caught the damp shine of your lips, traced the lines of your body and turned your skin to shadow and glow.

You looked obscene.

You looked perfect.

Like you had been poured into his bed by some cruel, generous god.

Bucky stayed frozen at the foot of the bed. His hand was still on the doorknob, a solid point in his grip, the only thing keeping him upright. His blood was too loud in his ears. He was wrecked.

Thrown off.

Completely, catastrophically fucked.

“You’re in my bed,” he said, the words scraping out of him rough and disbelieving, a rasp that barely carried over the sound of his own pounding heart.

You stretched one arm over your head, a slow motion that arched your spine against the sheets and made the fabric of your top strain across your chest. Your ribs lifted. Your shorts shifted. You looked soft, drunk, a problem he wanted to have forever.

“So I am.”

Bucky swallowed, his throat clicking audibly in the quiet hush of the room.

The alcohol was a warm, syrupy fog settled deep in his skull, blurring his edges and dulling his sense, but some sliver of awareness remained, sharp enough to recognise the disaster unfolding in front of him.

He tried to keep the mood light, to sound like the version of himself that could laugh this off and walk away.

He let out a breathy, unconvincing laugh.

“C’mon, get up. Let me take you to your room.”

“Mhm-mhm,” you hummed, a sound so lazy and content it made his stomach clench.

You closed your eyes and arched your neck, baring the long vulnerable line of your throat to the mercury glow of the moon. Your pulse beat visibly just beneath your skin, a delicate, rhythmic flutter that made his mouth water. 

Fuck, he wanted to sink his teeth into that skin. To taste your heartbeat on his tongue. To mark you. “But I’m so comfortable here, Buck.”

His mouth was sandpaper. He tried to swallow again and failed, the motion scraping against his dry throat.

“You gonna get me in trouble, honey.” The words came out rough, a warning wrapped in something that sounded almost like a plea. Please don’t make me do this. Please don’t let me do this.

You lifted your head from the pillow, your hair spilling across his sheets and gave him a slow smile. It was the smile of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.

“Yeah?” you murmured, your voice turning syrupy. “How?”

You weren’t just looking at him. You were fucking him with your eyes, taking him apart piece by piece without lifting a finger.

“For fuck’s sake,” he heard himself mutter.

He felt the last thread of his self-control snap. The sensible part of his brain went entirely offline, leaving nothing behind but pure, aching, consuming want.

He pounced on you, covering your body with his, the mattress groaning under his sudden weight. You met him halfway, surging up to meet him, your hands fisting in the front of his shirt and yanking him down into your mouth.

The first taste of you was sweet, fucking relief.

Expensive vodka, the lingering sugar of your lip gloss, the faint salt of your skin, and something purely you. It flooded every empty space inside him, drowning out every doubt, every hesitation.

He groaned loudly into your mouth, a raw, animal sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours.

He couldn’t get enough. He forced your mouth open wider with his tongue, sliding inside, tasting. Shit, he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop.

Every rational thought dissolved into static, overwhelmed by the wet heat of your mouth, the soft give of your body beneath him, the way you kissed him back like you wanted to devour him too.

He wrenched his mouth away, just far enough to pant against your lips, his forehead pressing to yours. His breath came in ragged, desperate heaves.

“We’re drunk,” he breathed, the words scraping out of him like a confession he didn’t want to make. “We... we shouldn’t do this.”

And then he felt it.

One of your legs slid up, the smooth, warm skin of your thigh brushing his hip before your calf hooked around his waist, locking him firmly against you. There was no escape now. You had him trapped.

Your hand came up, your palm cupping his jaw, your fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. You pulled his mouth back to yours, your lips brushing his as you spoke.

“But I want to,” you murmured against his lips. “Don’t you?”

Bucky never claimed to have any strength. He had never pretended to have a strong will. Not when it came to you.

He dove back into your mouth like a man starving, like a man drowning who had finally found oxygen. His hands were everywhere now, making up for every moment he had held back.

They roamed down your sides, feeling the heat and softness of your body beneath. Down to your waist, gripping the bare skin where the fabric had ridden up. Lower still, over the flare of your hip, the silky expanse of your thighs.

And then your ass. Fuck. Perfect and full, fitting into his palms like it was made for them. He grabbed handfuls of it, squeezing, kneading, pulling you harder against him as he ground his hips into yours.

The moan you let out was muffled against his mouth, a broken, breathy sound that vibrated through his entire body and went straight to his cock.

His hips rolled forward in a rough, involuntary thrust, grinding his aching hardness against the heat of your cunt, the friction electric even through the thin layers of fabric separating you.

A guttural groan tore from deep in his chest, swallowed by your mouth as he kept moving against you.

Your moans were muffled against his mouth, your fingers twisted in his hair, holding him to you like you were afraid he’d disappear. The world had narrowed to the slide of his tongue against yours, the damp heat of your breath mingling with his.

But he couldn’t get enough. Every taste made him hungrier. Every sound you made drove him further past the edge of reason.

He broke the kiss with a ragged gasp, pushing himself upright, his chest heaving. Your hands followed him immediately, desperate fingers catching at his shirt, trying to pull him back down, trying to keep his mouth on yours.

“Sit tight, honey,” he breathed.

His hands were already moving, clumsy and urgent, fumbling at the button of your denim shorts. The thin metal slipped through his fingers once, twice, before he got it free.

His eyes met yours, dark and serious despite the haze of alcohol.

“Tell me to stop, baby.” The words came out low, a last gasp of something that might have been conscience. “Tell me to fucking stop.”

You shook your head hard, the motion fierce and immediate. Your hips lifted off the mattress as you shoved at the waistband of your shorts, helping him drag them down your legs along with your panties.

“Please don’t stop, Bucky.” Your voice cracked, “Please. I’ll die.”

The raw desperation in your voice hit him like a punch to the sternum. His cock throbbed painfully in his jeans, and he had to bite back a groan, had to clench his jaw to keep from spilling right there like a fucking teenager. Christ.

But first, he needed to see you.

He settled back on his heels, his hands braced on your thighs, and let his gaze travel down the length of your body. His eyes traced the curve of your hips, the soft swell of your belly, and finally, finally, to the place he had been dreaming about for months.

He stared.

It felt like the air left the room. His mouth went dry, then flooded with saliva.

She was beautiful. Perfect. Pretty and glistening, the soft folds glistening with your arousal, the little hooded pearl peeking out like she was waiting for him. He felt like he was going to drool.

A sharp shove hit his shoulder, rocking him back.

“Bucky.” Your voice was a whine, “Stop staring. You’re making me shy.”

He let out a laugh, shaking his head slowly. Shy. After everything, you were shy.

He lowered himself, pressing his mouth to the inside of your thigh. Then higher. Another kiss, closer. His lips dragged along your skin, following the sensitive line of your inner thigh.

“M’sorry, sweetheart.” His voice was a murmur against your flesh, “She’s just so pretty. Been dreaming about her.”

You sighed above him, the sound dreamy and soft. “Really?”

He didn’t answer with words. He pressed his mouth to your clit, a single, gentle kiss. You gasped, your hips twitching.

Then he went for the kill.

He dragged his tongue up in a long, slow stripe, from your entrance to your clit, savouring the taste of you; salty and sweet and everything. And then he closed his lips around that little pearl and sucked. Hard.

Your moan was loud, broken, spilling out of you like you couldn’t hold it back. It hit him straight in the gut, a jolt of electricity that traveled down to his cock, making him grind helplessly against the mattress, seeking any friction he could find.

He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He buried his face in your cunt like a man starved, his tongue sliding through your folds, dipping inside you, then back up to circle your clit. He ate you out with messy, desperate strokes, his moans vibrating against your sensitive flesh.

He fucked you with his tongue, pushing inside you, tasting your heat, your want, your need.

Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling him harder against you, and he went willingly, eagerly, lost completely in the taste and the sound and the feel of you falling apart under his mouth.

You moaned at the intrusion, a broken, breathless sound that vibrated around his knuckles as he sank his middle finger deep into your slick heat.

You didn’t need the encouragement, your hips were already rolling, riding his hand with a desperate, frantic rhythm that made the mattress creak beneath you.

He could feel it building in the way your walls fluttered and clamped around him, chasing that peak with a single-minded hunger that made his mouth water.

“Want another one, sweetheart?” His voice was honey and gravel, the pad of his thumb dragging a lazy, torturous circle over your clit.

You glared down at him from above, your frown sharp and impatient. “Stop fucking with me, Bucky.”

He grinned, and pushed a second finger into you without breaking eye contact. The stretch pulled a sharp gasp from your parted lips, and he started thrusting harder, deeper, the wet, obscene sound of it filling the quiet room. “Don’t wanna fuck with you, baby. I wanna fuck you.”

He felt you clench around his fingers immediately, a violent, fluttering grip that sent a tremor up his arm. A loud, broken moan tore out of you as you came, your body shuddering against his hand, your slick coating his palm and dripping down his wrist. 

Fuck. He stared down at the way you pulsed around him, and his brain short-circuited. If this was how you came on his fingers, his cock was going to be absolutely fucking suffocated inside you.

He didn’t give you a second to recover.

He pulled his fingers out and brought them to his mouth, stuffing them past his lips, tasting you. He sucked them clean, groaning around the flavour of you, before he was crawling up your body, dragging his chest over your damp, trembling skin.

He thrust his tongue into your mouth without warning, sharing the taste of yourself with you. You opened for him eagerly, moaning into the kiss, your hands tangling in his hair and pulling him deeper.

Your fingers found his belt, the buckle clicking open under your quick, determined hands. He heard the rough rasp of his zipper, felt your palms push his jeans down over his ass, and you paused just long enough to squeeze, an appreciative grip that made him groan against your lips.

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. He was about to fuck you. Actually, really, truly, about to fuck you.

He had to contain his excitement, had to focus on his breathing, or he was going to spill like a goddamn virgin before he even got close to being inside you.

And then your hands were flat on his shoulders, shoving.

He pulled back, frowning, ready to ask what was wrong, but the look on your face stopped him cold. You were grinning up at him, wicked and beautiful.

“Let me suck your cock.”

You didn’t give him a chance to respond. You shoved him sideways, trying to climb on top of him, trying to get your mouth on him, and the thought of your lips closing around him almost made his vision go white.

“No, no, no, no.” He caught your hips, tried to wrestle you back down onto your back. “No, sweetheart, just—stay—let me—”

You were laughing, light and playful, but he was deadly serious.

“If you even breathe on my cock, I’ll cum on the spot. I promise.” His eyes met yours, desperate and honest. “Please. Not tonight. Just let me have you. I’ve been waiting for this—waiting for you.”

You paused on his lap, considering. The laughter faded from your face, replaced by something softer, something thoughtful that made his chest ache.

He had to close his eyes. He had to focus on his breath.

Because your cunt was right there. Right on top of his dick. The heat of you seeping through his skin, the dampness of you threatening to coat his aching length.

He could feel every inch of your weight pressing down over him, and if he looked, if he moved, if he so much as twitched his hips, he was going to lose his entire fucking mind.

And then you began to slowly rock up and down his dick, the friction of your slick heat dragging against him like a live wire. You looked down at him with that small, knowing smile, the one that made his chest ache and his cock throb.

“You’re really that desperate for me?”

Bucky nodded, his jaw tight, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Painfully. Desperately. A confession without words.

You leaned down, your lips brushing his in a kiss so quick and soft it was almost cruel. “Okay, baby.”

He let out a shuddering sigh of relief, of gratitude… and then his eyes flew wide.

Because you were rising. Rising off his lap. Reaching down between your bodies. Taking hold of his dick in your warm hand, and positioning it exactly where you wanted it.

He was hypnotised. Transfixed. The sight of his own flushed tip nudging against your soaking, glistening entrance made his brain short-circuit.

He felt a drop of saliva escape the corner of his mouth, rolling down his chin, and he couldn’t even muster the shame to wipe it away.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You were so tight. The first inch of him sliding into you felt like being wrapped in molten silk, searing and perfect. His eyes flicked up to your face, and he found yours squeezed shut, your lips parted, your breath catching in broken little gasps as you fed yourself his cock inch by agonising inch.

It felt like an eternity before your hips met his, before he was buried to the hilt inside you, and the sight of his cock disappearing completely into your body made his vision haze.

Your thighs settled flat against his, skin to skin, and he gripped your waist so hard he knew he’d leave bruises.

“Don’t move,” he rasped, his voice ragged. “Stay still for me. Just… keep still.”

You clenched around him involuntarily, a soft, reflexive squeeze that made him groan deep in his chest.

“Don’t do that. Don’t do that.”

You pouted, your bottom lip jutting out, eyes still hazy with pleasure. “I can’t help it, Bucky.”

And then you clenched again. Accidentally. Deliberately. He couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He tried to think of other things. Disgusting things. Anything to keep from spilling inside you like a goddamn teenager.

Cut toenails. Moldy fruit. Steve’s ass. None of it was working. Not when your heat was wrapped around him, not when you were sitting there looking so soft and sweet and patient, waiting for his permission.

He gave a strained nod, his voice barely a whisper. “Okay. Go ahead, baby.”

You smiled and then you rose. Rose until only the tip of him remained inside you. And then you dropped.

Violently. All the way down, slamming into his hips, the force of it knocking the air from his lungs and making him grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached. And then you were bouncing, riding him like he was a fairy pony, your pace frantic and relentless, your walls gripping him with every upward stroke.

All he could do was try to keep up. He dug his fingers into your hips, his hands guiding your rhythm, and began to fuck up into you matching your wild tempo, chasing the heat pooling at the base of his spine.

Bucky was pretty sure if his heart gave out right now; if he dropped dead beneath you, buried to the hilt, watching you fall apart on his cock, he’d die the happiest man alive.

This was heaven. You were heaven. The way you moved on top of him, taking everything he had, stealing his breath, his sanity, every coherent thought he’d ever had.

And then he realised.

You were still wearing that top.

The thin fabric clung to your skin, damp with sweat, hiding the one thing he needed to see more than his next breath.

Concealing the soft bounce of your tits with every roll of your hips. He reached up with both hands, fisting the hem, and you didn’t even notice, too busy fucking yourself on him, too lost in the rhythm to pay attention to anything else.

Until the violent shrrrip of cotton splitting in two cracked through the air like a gunshot.

Your eyes flew open, head jerking back. “Bucky!”

“’M sorry.”

The apology came out wrecked, and completely insincere. There was zero remorse in his voice, none in the greedy way his hands immediately found your bare chest, cupping the soft, heavy weight of your tits, his thumbs dragging over the stiff peaks of your nipples.

The moan that slipped past your lips was immediate.

“Needed to see them,” he rasped, watching the way they filled his palms, the way your back arched into his touch. “Needed to feel them.”

A breathless laugh escaped you, a soft shake of your head as you planted your hands flat on his chest and steadied yourself. And then you were bouncing harder, riding him like he was made for this, like you were trying to wring every last drop of sanity from his bones.

But he needed more.

The angle wasn’t deep enough. He couldn’t get close enough. Couldn’t be buried deep enough inside you.

Gathering every ounce of strength he had left, his hands locked onto your waist.

In one fluid, powerful motion, he used his hips to wrench you off balance and flipped you onto your back, twisting your bodies until he was hovering over you, and never once did he slip out of the slick, perfect heat of your body.

A delighted, breathless cry tore from your throat at the sudden shift in power. Your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, pulling him deeper.

He reached up, one hand curling around the wooden slats of the headboard. The frame groaned under his grip as he pulled back and snapped his hips forward. Harder. Deeper. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room mixing with your ragged breaths and the desperate groans rumbling in his chest.

Bending down, he pressed his mouth to the sweat-slicked curve of your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp, to feel your pulse flutter against his lips. “I need you to cum,” he grunted against your skin. “Please, baby. Need it.”

“Huh?” The word came out dazed, strangled. You hadn’t heard him. Your eyes were half-lidded, your lips parted, completely lost in the relentless rhythm of him pounding into you, too far gone to process anything beyond the next wave of pleasure building in your core.

“Cum now,” he grunted, the words ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. “Shit… now.”

He drove into you harder, each thrust a desperate, punishing demand. The headboard groaned against the wall, the frame shuddering with every brutal snap of his hips.

Your nails raked down his back, sharp, frantic lines of fire that he felt all the way down to his bones. And then he heard it; a choked sob that broke past your lips. Not pain. Release.

There. He’d found it.

“Right there, Bucky—right there—”

The cry was wrecked, broken, a plea that sexed through him like a current. He zeroed in on that spot, that deep, swollen place inside you that made your voice crack and your back arch off the mattress.

He bullied it with his cock, over and over, relentless, until your moans dissolved into something shattered and raw.

Then you broke.

He felt it in the way you clenched around him first; a sudden, violent flutter that turned into a pulsing grip, suffocating his cock, milking him with wave after wave of your release.

Your nails dug into the meat of his shoulders, your thighs locking around his waist, and the sound you made, a broken, keening gasp, was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.

It was enough to push him over.

Bucky let go.

His balls drew up tight, a hot rush of pressure building at the base of his spine, and then he was coming… violently, uncontrollably, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself into you with a guttural groan that sounded more animal than human.

He stayed buried deep, pumping into you through the aftershocks, his body trembling above yours, every nerve electric and raw.

For a long, suspended moment, there was nothing but the sound of ragged breathing and the slick, wet press of skin against skin.

Then his body went lax.

He collapsed onto his elbows, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his weight pinning you into the mattress as he tried to remember how to breathe. The high was liquid and warm, a blanket of bliss settling over his bones.

And then—

“You’re not gonna be weird about this, are you?”

The words came soft. Disarmingly soft. That was the cruelest part of it.

You pressed them into his skin, your cheek turned against his hair, your voice a low, sleepy murmur. One hand rested loose at the nape of his neck, thumb tracing an idle, almost tender path across the damp skin there.

Like you hadn’t just carved something out of him.

Bucky went still.

He forced his lungs to keep moving. Forced the tension in his shoulders to dissolve before you could feel it. His face was still buried in the curve of your shoulder, his mouth hot and wet against your collarbone, his body a weighted, useless thing draped over yours.

The room smelled of them. Sweat and salt and the crushed-flower sweetness of your perfume, tangled with the raw musk of sex that clung to the sheets.

Below, the house was still alive. The bass was a distant heartbeat through the floor, the drone of voices rising and falling like surf against stone.

Ten seconds ago, he had been floating in it.

Ten seconds ago, he had felt stupidly, dangerously complete.

The whole night had collapsed into this single moment; this bed, this room, the slick, fluttering grip of your body around his, your fingers knotted in his hair, holding him at the center of something that felt, for one perfect, delusional instant, like it mattered.

He had let himself think—

No.

He didn’t get to finish that thought.

Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose. Then he laughed, a short, easy sound that he shaped into exactly the right shape.

“Weird?” He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. “Me?”

Your mouth curved, “Yeah. You.”

He gave you the grin. The practiced one. The one that had saved him from worse than this.

“Sweetheart, I’m the most normal guy you know.”

A beat. “That is deeply untrue.”

You laughed then, and the sound hooked into his ribs. He let himself feel it, just for a second. There. It’s fine. Keep it light.

He could do this. He could keep the room warm if he didn’t push. He could lie here, tangled in you, and pretend the words hadn’t hit him like a fist.

Slowly he shifted his weight and pulled out of you. The sound was wet, obscene in the quiet, and it twisted something low in his gut. The heat he had been drowning in vanished the second he was empty.

The chill that replaced it crept up his spine and settled cold in his chest.

Still, he didn’t move away.

His arm stayed heavy across your waist, palm spread flat against the curve of your hip. His thumb began a slow, lazy stroke against your skin, a betrayal of every intention he had to act unaffected.

Bucky swallowed the bitterness climbing his throat and ducked his head, pressing his mouth to the warm skin just under your jaw. Not quite a kiss. Soft enough to deny.

“Relax,” he murmured against you, the words a low vibration. “I’m not gonna propose before breakfast.”

Your fingers paused against his cheek. For one terrible second, he thought he had said the wrong thing.

Then you huffed a laugh, thinner than before. “Good.”

Good.

Bucky smiled anyway, pressing it into your skin.

“Would’ve been a nice proposal, though.” He said it like a joke, because apparently he couldn’t stop picking at the bruise. “Real romantic. Me, you, Tony’s guest room, half the house tanked downstairs.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, lifting his head to look at you properly. “Probably.”

Your smile flickered.

There it was. That tiny break in you, so fast he would have missed it if he hadn’t spent months training himself to read your face. Your eyes searched his, and for a breath, he thought you might take it back.

Thought you might pull him down and kiss him until the hollow ache in his chest stopped screaming.

Instead, your gaze dropped first.

“I just don’t want things to get complicated.”

Bucky stared at you.

Complicated.

You were in his bed. Your body was still warm and pliant beneath his hand. You were still wet with him. The scratches from your nails were still raised and stinging on his back. His heart was beating so hard it felt exposed, shameful.

And you were talking about complicated like it was something waiting outside the door, not something you had already dragged in by the throat.

He nodded once. “Right.”

Your eyes flicked back to him. “Buck—”

“No, I get it.”

He didn’t get it, yet he got it perfectly.

Both were true. It was becoming a theme with you.

He pulled the blanket up over your hip because some stupid, aching part of him noticed you shiver. Then he settled back beside you, close enough for your shoulder to press against his chest, close enough to pretend nothing had shifted if he tried hard enough.

And he did try. God, he tried.

He let his lips graze your temple. Let his hand find yours under the sheet. Let himself feel the way your fingers curled, briefly, around his before loosening again.

Downstairs, someone screamed with laughter, a bright, drunken shriek that cut through the bass like glass.

The music kicked louder, the walls shuddering with it, the whole house groaning under the weight of bodies and noise.

You closed your eyes.

Bucky stayed awake, watching the ceiling blur above him.

Your warmth was pressed all along his side, your thigh hooked loosely over his, the damp glide of your skin against his making it impossible to forget where they had been ten minutes ago.

And your words were still lodged cold beneath his ribs, sharp as swallowed glass.

Not weird. Not complicated. Not a thing.

He turned his head and looked at you anyway, because he was weak, because he was stupid, because he had apparently decided that dignity was optional where you were concerned.

Your face had softened into sleep. Lashes dark against your cheeks, lips parted just enough to let the slow rhythm of your breath slip through.

You looked younger like this. Softer. Less like the girl who could walk into a crowded room and tilt his whole goddamn world sideways without breaking stride.

He hated you a little then.

The thought came sudden and ugly, rising from his chest like bile.

He hated you.

Hated the way you could lie here, still slick with him, your body still marked from his hands, and ask him not to make it mean anything.

Hated the way you took his wanting like it was expected, like it was easy, like he hadn’t spent months carving pieces of himself off and pressing them into your palm while you barely noticed.

Selfish, he thought.

And yet his arm tightened around you anyway.

Selfish fucking brat.

You take and you take and then you get scared it might mean something, so you push it away before it can push back.

The words burned through him. He imagined saying them. Imagined the way your mouth would part, the little furrow between your brows, the wounded look you would try to hide.

Good, some cruel part of him whispered. Let it hurt. Let you feel stupid for once. Let you feel even half of what I feel right now.

He wanted that. For one vicious, starving second, he wanted to hurt you exactly where you had hurt him.

Then you shifted in your sleep. Barely a breath of movement, a sigh, the slow curl of your fingers against his chest, your palm pressing flat over his heartbeat.

And Bucky melted.

He looked down at your hand resting over his heart and felt the anger lose its teeth.

Not disappear,it stayed there, sore and simmering beneath his ribs, but it had nowhere to go when you were tucked against him like this, soft and warm and trusting him with your sleeping body even while you refused to trust him with your heart.

His throat tightened.

“You’re so fucking confusing,” he whispered, the words barely a vibration against your hair.

He turned carefully onto his side, gathering you closer despite every reasonable part of him screaming to pull away.

His arm slid around your waist, his palm spread wide against the dip of your back, and you came easily, your forehead finding the hollow beneath his jaw as if your body knew where to belong.

The party roared on beneath them. Drunk and careless and alive. The whole house shaking with it.

And Bucky lay there, holding you, feeling like someone had cracked his chest open and left it that way.

He should have moved away. Should have rolled onto his back and let the cold settle between them, let it harden into the shape you had asked for.

Should have protected himself before morning came and you slipped back into whatever version of yourself could smile at him over breakfast like he hadn’t been inside you, like you hadn’t held his face in your hands and asked him not to love you.

Instead, he held you tighter.

Because this was still more than he had before.

Because despite everything, you had become the shape of his world.

His want began and ended with you. His mood rose and fell on the sound of your laugh, the lift of your eyes, the careless brush of your fingers against his.

You made him desperate and angry and embarrassingly alive. You made him feel chosen. You made him feel disposable. You made him feel completely insane.

And he would take it. Every scrap. Every confusing, contradictory piece.

He would take it because he didn’t know how to stop.

Bucky closed his eyes, his jaw tight enough to ache, his arms locked around you like holding on hard enough could keep the morning from coming.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured into your hair, almost mean with the tenderness bleeding through it. “I won’t be weird.”

a/n | my initial plan was after the smut reader avoids, and then bucky freaks out and screams at her during another party and lays out all his frustrations that steve and sam have to physically remove him. three months pass without contact until you two see each other again and we finally get a look at what’s going through reader’s mind and ends with hurt/comfort and hopeful ending

oh well…

It was just as well, too, as she'd had a certain look in her eye that always spelled trouble. For whom, you couldn't say at first. Surely, it would've been Steve as she hadn't given up hope of setting him up with someone. Or maybe even Bucky. Though, he'd made it clear that he wasn't looking for a relationship with anyone. He didn't want to put his baggage on someone else's shoulders.

You soon, however, learned neither Steve nor Bucky were her target.

No, it was you.

"Nat, come on. It's not a big deal," you whined as she trapped you in the common kitchen. All you'd been looking forward to was a snack, not a third degree from the Black Widow herself. "I'm not even sure I'm even interested in dating right now."

"Maybe you're not interested in just anyone. After all, I've seen the way you perk up whenever he comes into the room."

The warning look you shot her only made her smirk deepen.

"Ah, so I was right. You've got it bad for a certain super soldier."

You quickly surveilled your surroundings before you hissed, "Please, stop. We're friends, and I'm not going to rock that boat if I don't need to."

"But you want to," Nat said, so assured in her belief. She even went so far as to lean against the counter and study you. "And what if I said I knew he felt the same?"

"Doubtful. I've heard him say otherwise long enough to know you're messing with me."

"Maybe he wants the same as you. Maybe he's afraid to rock the same boat. Ever think of that? Maybe all you two need is a little push," Nat leaned into your space then even as she remained against the counter, "and I can be the one to help if you're interested."

Knowing she would go away faster if you indulged her and not because you wanted to know, you exhaled before asking, "And what kind of help could I expect?"

"Well, since I planted the mistletoe, then I could maybe send you in the right direction. Should you find it, then maybe, just maybe, you could finally kick things off between you with a kiss under said mistletoe."

And that was how you found yourself seeking out the pesky bough not even an hour later.

How Nat had convinced you, you could never truly say.

All you knew was that that plant was going to be yours, kiss or no kiss.

"Looking for something?" a familiar, deep voice asked behind you.

It took everything in you not to squeak with fright, knowing you'd never live it down.

"One shouldn't sneak, Bucky," you admonished, whirling around to face him.

"I wasn't. Not my fault you were too caught up in whatever you're looking for."

He had the nerve to cock a brow at you in challenge. Almost as if he had some clue to what it was you sought, and that thought couldn't be born.

"I thought I left…" you searched around and picked up the first thing you could find, "my lamp."

His brow rose further. "I thought that belonged here in the common room. Didn't Tony brag about it not a week ago for winning it out from some other billionaire collector?"

Blast it, he was right, you realized and set the lamp back down.

"Wanna try again?"

You shook your head.

Silence descended upon you both, but it wasn't necessarily uncomfortable.

In fact, you were almost certain you'd temporarily shocked Bucky. He'd grown quite use to your fighting nature, even in silly arguments. It simply wasn't like you to not try and get yourself out of a situation, especially a possibly embarrassing one like this.

That had to be why he eventually took pity on you.

"Sure, you weren't looking for this?" he asked, holding the mistletoe bough out for you to see.

"How did you find it?"

He shrugged. "Nat gave me a small hint earlier. Didn't take much looking from there."

"And why would she give you a hint?"

A glint came into his eyes as he watched you. While you couldn't quite pinpoint that look, it did have you a bit more at attention, curiosity coursing through you.

"It's for kissing under, right? Maybe I'm thinking about kissing someone."

The way he said it, you couldn't help believing he had someone in mind. As good friends as you were, you felt woefully unprepared for this moment. Up until this moment, you'd really thought he wasn't interested in a relationship or in kissing anyone. To hear otherwise almost threatened to buckle your knees and send you to the floor.

"Oh," you said finally, unable to come up with anything else.

"It's been a while though. Not sure I won't disappoint."

You shook your head. "You'll do great, Bucky. You've always been good at reading signals, and I'm sure whoever the person is, you won't disappoint them. They'll be lucky to get a first kiss from you."

"Yeah?"

You nodded and even managed a small smile. "Yeah."

After a beat, Bucky closed the bit of space between you. His free hand came up and ran his fingertips along your cheek. They didn't stray or stop when you sucked in a shallow breath. No, they continued to traced along your cheek and down to your jaw, warming your skin under their ministrations.

"Been thinking about this for a while now, but I wasn't sure you'd be interested. I have a lot of baggage, more than most. I could understand if you're not interested," he spoke softly, his gaze meeting yours.

While you could see the hint of hope in his eyes, you could also see the uncertainty. His words weren't spoken without reason, you knew, but you also knew that you could handle his baggage if he ever asked you to.

Letting your smile grow a bit more, you leaned into his hand. It soon covered the expanse of your cheek. Your hand came up to grip his wrist to keep him there.

"I'm interested," you whispered, your lips not far from his, "I'm so, so interested."

If you giggled into the kiss after he belatedly recalled the mistletoe bough in his hand, you couldn't be blamed for it. The bough did eventually go above your heads for a proper mistletoe kiss, but you would never forget that first one.

It was, after all, the beginning of your happily ever after.

Manhattan had always been where your heart settled. 

There was just something about stepping off the train at Penn Station or Grand Central that made your lungs seem to work a little easier, like your body had finally realized it could unclench. It was the only place you'd ever been where your mind quieted instead of sped up.

It made your heartbeat slow down, your blood pressure decrease, it triggered your parasympathetic nervous system into calming you down. You felt free.

You'd spent years making your parents stop in the city whenever family trips brought you anywhere remotely close. While Steve wanted Yankees games and Bucky wanted to wander into every record store he could find, you wanted to walk.

The day you got the acceptance letter for Columbia, you squealed, screamed, threw your arms around your brother's neck and then ran down the stairs to jump on the couch and tell your parents. 

You pointed dramatically at the acceptance letter. "I am moving to Manhattan!"

Bucky snorted beside Steve on the couch. "I think even the current Space Mission knows that." He motion to his ear like it hurt from your shriek.

"No, you don't understand." You were already talking too fast. "I get to live there." You looked around the room like someone might still tell you it wasn't real. "I get to wake up there." Another laugh bubbled out of you. "I get to buy groceries there."

Steve chuckled. "Very exciting."

"It is exciting!" You looked back at Bucky. "I get to be one of those people that complains about the subway."

He grinned. "I've never seen anyone so excited about public transportation." He looked at you for a long second. "But I'm happy you are."

Move-in day came faster than anyone was prepared for.

Your entire life somehow fit into cardboard boxes, plastic storage bins, and two very overstuffed suitcases.

When they helped move you into your freshman dorm, Bucky and Steve were there in tow to carry the heavy things, pick on you, and flirt with girls on your floor. Well, Bucky did. Steve politely talked himself out of having to fake an alibi for Natasha if she ever sniffed out freshmen trying to get at him.

The first year had consisted mostly of Steve reading assembly instructions upside down while Bucky silently took the Allen wrench out of his hands and built the entire bookshelf in twenty minutes.

And then they were there at the end of the year to help you unpack. And back at the beginning of the year, at a different dorm building to help move— you get the picture. 

Three years later, Manhattan had become home in the way only a city that exhausts you every day somehow can.

The city moved so quickly that no one noticed if you were having a bad day.

There was something comforting about being able to disappear into eight million people and somehow feel less alone than you ever had anywhere else.

It was loud, and messy, and busy, but it was home. 

Sirens at two in the morning. The rumble of the subway beneath your lecture hall. Street vendors shouting over one another. The smell of roasted nuts mixing with rain-soaked concrete and coffee that somehow tasted better when it cost six dollars.

Steve and Bucky shared a two-bedroom apartment down in the Financial District. It was exactly what anyone would expect from two men in their twenties.

Reasonably clean, lived in, backbacks slung over a chair, smelling of sandalwood and saffron and a Bath and Body Works candle you gifted them, pretty neat. Except for the coffee mugs. There were always coffee mugs.

Everywhere.

You and Bucky never really talked about what happened prom night. It never… came up, per se. 

Neither of you wanted to touch on the subject that could end up ruining a good thing, so you both just moved on with your lives. 

Birthdays.

Christmases.

Sunday breakfasts.

Study sessions.

Phone calls that started with, "Are you busy?" and ended three hours later.

You stayed exactly what you'd always been.

Best friends. Forever. 

23 blocks apart. 

Halloween in Manhattan wasn't a holiday.

It was a competitive sport.

By seven-thirty that evening, the sidewalks of the Lower East Side were overflowing with pirates ordering espresso martinis, sexy astronauts trying not to break ankles on uneven pavement, and at least four different Spider-Men arguing over whose suit was comic accurate.

Your group squeezed out of the subway station laughing, immediately getting swept into the current of people flowing down St. Marks Place.

It felt like the entire city had decided to meet in one neighborhood.

Music poured out of every open doorway, bass vibrating through the pavement beneath your boots. Someone dressed as Frankenstein was arguing with a traffic cop. Two girls dressed as matching angels were taking photos in the middle of the crosswalk while yellow cabs laid on their horns. Somewhere farther down the street, a saxophone player was somehow making Thriller sound like smooth jazz.

You took a deep breath and the air smelled like cigarettes, perfume, street tacos, pumpkin beer, and roasted peanuts.

"I love this city," you sighed happily. 

Kate snorted beside you, eyeing you up and down before chuckling. "You've literally said that every five minutes since we got off the subway."

"Because every five minutes I find another reason."

Yelena, dressed in what she'd proudly called "the least historically accurate vampire ever conceived," adjusted the fake cape hanging off one shoulder. "Personally," she announced, "I think New York should make Halloween a federal holiday."

"It isn't already?" Dot asked.

Ah, sweet Dot. 

She was in your Intro to Statistics class and definitely pursuing an M.R.S. degree with the first Finance guy she could find. Beautiful head of hair, pretty lips that looked sinful in red lipstick, but not a light inside that house.

If there was ever an award for selling your friend out to get a man, she'd get it. 

Somewhere behind you, a group dressed as the entire cast of Scooby-Doo broke into a drunken rendition of "Mr. Brightside."

The first bar was already packed wall to wall, there had to be two hundred people squeezed inside, every inch of brick wall covered in fake cobwebs and orange lights, the bartender was dressed as Beetlejuice, and someone in a Ghostface costume was singing karaoke with alarming confidence.

You squeezed your way to the bar shoulder-first, turning around ready to ask for Kate's order, only to realize she has pulled a Houdini on your Cowgirl Barbie, and disappeared almost immediately.

"Where'd she go?"

Yelena pointed toward the dance floor. "Found a cowboy."

You watched as Kate somehow convinced the poor man to spin her around, huffing. "It's been thirty seconds."

"Devil works fast, but Kate Bishop is faster." She asked the bartender for two Green Tea Shots, and once the glasses were in front of you, they were instantly downed and substituted, your eyes rolling back in grimace as you hissed at the burn of the alcohol in your throat. "Where's your boytoy?"

"His name is Joaquin, Lena." You corrected, lovingly, a chuckle escaping you as you took a sip of your pina colada that you had ordered with the shots. You pointed at the group playing darts, just in time to see Joaquin turn around, find you, and happily make his way over. 

Joaquin and you met during one of the track events, he ran with Pietro, your friend Wanda's brother. Wanda, who you sat next to in Psych 102 and also shared a dorm room with for two years. 

He was cute, nice, polite, smart, and kind of a charmer…

Even with his dumb joke and wanting to be dressed as… slutty Big Bird. Obnoxious, chest-painted-yellow, borrowed your feather boa, easygoing Joaquin. 

Easy to talk to, easy to laugh with, easy to spend an afternoon wandering through Riverside Park with. The kind of guy who remembered to walk on the outside of the sidewalk and always sent a text making sure you got home safely.

"There she is." He smiled, leaning down to kiss your cheek before wrapping an arm loosely around your waist. "Six blocks and you already found rum."

"It found me," you corrected.

"That's what they all say." He reached over and stole your drink without asking, taking a sip through your straw.

You gasped dramatically. "My piña colada!"

"Our piña colada."

"You've known me for four months."

"I feel like that's long enough to establish communal property."

You scoffed. "You sound like a communist."

"I sound thirsty." He grinned before handing the drink back.

Joaquin slipped his hand into yours absentmindedly, thumb brushing across your knuckles as he listened to Kate and Yelena bicker.

It was sweet, throughtful. The kind of unconscious affection that should've made yout stomach flutter. 

Instead your gaze drifted to the Islanders playing on the TV, and without thinking, you wondered if Bucky was watching. He'd probably have his feet kicked up on the coffee table, laptop balanced on one knee, muttering at the television whenever the ref made a bad call.

The thought came so naturally that you almost missed the next thing Dot said.

"Speaking of men," Dot chimed in, sipping the neon-blue cocktail she'd ordered solely because it came with dry ice. "Are Steve and Bucky coming out tonight?"

You looked over, your heart skipping a beat. "No." You sipped your drink. "Steve's out of town with Nat in Budapest with her grandparents. Buck's been working on a contract or something…" You realized you probably knew a little too much about the latter. "Merger something, something…" You shrugged it off. 

Dot pouted dramatically. "That's a shame."

You smiled into your piña colada. "Why?"

She shrugged one shoulder, swirling the straw around her drink. "I think Bucky's cute." Kate's eyes immediately found yours, quick, almost not there at all, then sliding away again. 

"Is he seeing anyone?" The question landed with surprising weight.

You busied yourself adjusting the brim of your pink cowboy hat. "No."

"No girlfriend?"

"Nope."

"No situationship?"

You laughed. "He's not… A situationship kind of guy." 

"I might ask him to coffee."

Kate choked on her vodka soda and Yelena very carefully looked anywhere except your face, trying to change the subject and make conversation with Joaquin. 

You took another sip of your drink before anyone could notice the strange ache settling beneath your ribs.

Beside you, Kate was already looking at Yelena over the rim of her glass. Yelena gave the tiniest shake of her head.

"...I mean, if he's single, I don't really see the harm in asking."

Your attention snapped back. "Hm?"

"Bucky." Dot shrugged. "I think I'm gonna text him. Can I have his number?"

Joaquin looked between all of you. "Who's Bucky?" 

At the same time, you answered Dot with something like "Let me talk to him first before giving his number out, okay?"

Kate answered before anyone else could. "Her brother's best friend." She pointed at you. 

Joaquin nodded. "Oh."

"He practically grew up with us," you added, perhaps a little too quickly. "He's basically family."

The words left your mouth with practiced ease. You'd been saying some version of them for years.

Dot smiled. "Even better."

"Better?"

"That means he's probably already been vetted." Kate's lips pressed into a thin line and Yelena suddenly became intensely interested in the fake cobweb hanging from the ceiling.

Joaquin, blissfully oblivious, laughed. "Honestly, that's a solid endorsement."

You forced a smile. "Yeah."

It was true. Bucky was kind. Patient. Reliable. Funny in that dry, under-his-breath way that snuck up on people.

He remembered birthdays without Facebook reminders. He carried heavy boxes before anyone asked. He made coffee exactly the way everyone liked it. He was, objectively, the sort of man any woman would be more than lucky to date.

You'd always known that.

You just hadn't realized how much it would sting hearing someone else say it out loud.

Kate bumped your shoulder gently.

"So," she announced, loud enough to redirect everyone's attention, "whose terrible idea was it to do a seven-bar crawl?"

One drink became two.

Two became dancing.

Dancing became laughing so hard your stomach hurt because Kate somehow won fifty dollars in a costume contest she hadn't even entered by convincing the DJ she was Barbie and everyone else was simply underdressed.

Joaquin found you every few songs, wrapping an arm around your waist to spin you beneath strings of orange lights before disappearing back toward the dart boards or the beer pong table with Pietro and a growing collection of men dressed as things that had absolutely no business standing next to each other.

At one point he was taking shots with Obi-Wan Kenobi, a banana, and someone whose entire costume was simply a cardboard cutout of the Empire State Building.

You kissed him somewhere between the second and third bar.

Quick.

Easy.

He smiled into it, squeezed your hand, and promised he'd find you after he beat Pietro at pool.

"You won't," Pietro called from behind him.

"I absolutely will."

"You absolutely won't."

Joaquin looked back over his shoulder.

"If I lose, tell my mother I died handsome."

"You'll die dressed like slutty Big Bird."

"A hero's death."

By the fourth bar, your groups had slowly begun to separate without anyone really noticing.

Pietro had made friends with a bachelor party from Boston.

Joaquin disappeared with them after someone challenged him to karaoke.

Kate adopted three girls dressed as the Powerpuff Girls because apparently they all went to Bishop Academy together ten years ago.

Dot vanished every fifteen minutes only to reappear with another free drink she'd sweet-talked out of some finance bro dressed as Patrick Bateman.

You weren't entirely convinced she'd paid for a single cocktail all evening.

Only Yelena remained your constant.

Mostly because she'd decided your level of intoxication required supervision.

"You are doing that thing."

You frowned over the rim of your drink. "What thing?"

She rolled her eyes. "The blink."

"...The blink?"

"You blink slower when you are drunk."

You faked offense. "I do not."

She pointed her hands towards you, case in point. "You just did it."

"I am blinking at a medically appropriate speed."

She hummed. "Mm."

"I am." You shook your head side to side. "Things aren't even slower when I do this like they are when I'm dru-uu-okay, yeah, yeah, I'm drunk." 

You braced yourself on the wall, resting yuor back on the cool tile and sliding all the way down until you sat down on the floor, Yelena crouched in front of you. "Okay, drunkie, time to call your knight in shining armor."

You hiccuped. "He's not dressed as a knight, he's a bird." You pouted, fishing your phone out of your pocket, pressing the button, tapping the screen, and seeing nothing but a black screen staring back at you. 

Dead. 

The pout on your lips deepend, the furrow in between your brows showing. "Here, take my phone." Yelena talked over the music, unlocking her phone and putting it in your hand. "I'll go get you some water." 

She got up from her place on the floor with you and braved the bar crowd as you dialed the all too familiar phone number.

Bucky's Halloween had been considerably less exciting.

And that was exactly how he'd wanted it.

He'd gotten enough texts throughout the week asking if he was going out that he'd eventually stopped answering them altogether.

There had been an invitation from a few guys from work to some rooftop party in Midtown. Another from a college friend involving a warehouse in Brooklyn that, judging from the address, Bucky wasn't entirely convinced was legally allowed to have people inside of it. Steve had called him from the airport to remind him that he was twenty-three and therefore morally obligated to "do something stupid while dressed like something stupid."

Bucky had reminded Steve that he was currently flying across the Atlantic Ocean to spend Halloween with his girlfriend's grandparents.

So, for the first time in what felt like weeks, the apartment was completely his.

And Bucky was having a fucking fantastic night.

He'd changed into sweatpants approximately four minutes after getting home, ordered enough Chinese food for two people with absolutely no intention of sharing it with anyone, cracked open a beer, and claimed the entire couch for himself.

The Islanders were putting up a good fight on TV, his laptop sat open on the coffee table in front of him, illuminating the spreadsheets and financial projections he'd been staring at for the better part of an hour.

SHIELD.

The internship had started that summer, and somewhere along the way, Bucky had gone from fetching coffee and sitting silently in the back of meetings to actually being trusted with things.

Small things, but real things. "Things with numbers attached to them." as you would say. 

"They're important numbers!" He'd whine, nudging your foot off the back of his couch. 

Tonight's particular headache was a contract his team had been going over for the past week.

Merger, acquisition, something involving projected earnings and a frankly offensive number of Excel tabs. He'd explained it to you over coffee two days ago.

You'd listened for approximately thirty seconds before your eyes glazed over. "So, merger something, something?"

Bucky had stared at you. "You didn't understand a single word I just said."

"Not a thing."

That memory made him smile now as he stared at the spreadsheet. A sharp crack from the television pulled his attention away from the smaller screen, his feet, up on the coffee table until this moment, touching the ground so he could sit forward in anticipation. 

"Go, go, go—" The puck was getting closer and closer to the opposing team's goal. "Come on, come on." 

And in true hockey fashion, two guys tackled his player and the puck flew away. "Oh, fuck off." He dropped back against the couch with a groan. "Are you kidding me?" The announcers continued talking like they hadn't personally betrayed him.

Bucky reached for his beer. "Terrible." He took a swing, putting it back on the coffee table and resuming his position with his back on the couch and his feet up, laptop propped on his lap. "Absolutely fucking terrible."

His phone buzzed beside him with pointless notifications from ESPN, a text from Steve with pictures, one of him and Nat ready to deboard the plane, another one of a dish Natasha's grandma made.

you look like shit 💩

Was Bucky's reply.

Steve just hearted it, and sent another picture of Nat flipping him off. He scrolled through his texts, finding ones from you earlier that night. 

You standing in front of a mirror somewhere, dressed head to toe in pink and glitter, one hand on your hip and the other tipping the brim of your cowboy hat.

howdy partner 🤠

Bucky had stared at it for considerably longer than necessary.

nice hat. walker texas ranger called he wants his dignity back ;)

The response from you came with a chuckle. 

you're such a hater

He was about to text Sam, and see what he was up to in D.C. at his law firm internship, when his phone buzzed in his hand.

Unknown Caller ID

He quirked a brow, almost not picking up, and then the call was missed. Just as fast, it rang again. 

Unknown Caller ID

This time he picked up. 

"Hello?" His voice was suspicious, until he heard a soft, muffled sound from the other end of the line. 

"Buck?"

He recognized your voice immediately, even though the bass of the music made it so hard to distinguish your words. He said your name, also confused as to why you didn't call him from your phone. 

Knowing you, you didn't let it charge fully before leaving the house. "What's going on?"

"I don't know." Hiccup. "Everyone's busy. Whatcha doin'?"

He chuckled. You were in the middle of a bar and asking him what he was doing? "I'm watching the game. Home. Where are you?"

"On the floor." You shrugged. 

Bucky sighed in response, so lightly you didn't even notice. "What floor, sweetheart?"

You blew a raspberry to the phone. "A tile one. I don't know. It's the bar with that gigantic golden weiner on the wall—"

"You're at the Brass Rod?" Bucky got up immediately, searching his countertop for his keys, "Why the fuck would people abandon you there?!" He tried his best to keep his voice from raising.

The Brass Rod was a bar most frat boys loved, mostly because they could pay off the bouncers and get away with shit they shouldn't be able to. Which was a problem all in itself. 

"Well, Kate found a cowboy, Dot is—" Hiccup. "With Christian Bale," hiccup. "And Yelena perished in the masses trying to get me the magic cure for these tequila sodas."

"So she got lost in a sea of tall people trying to get you water?" You heard the jingle of his keychain and the sound of a door closing. 

"Precisely." You nodded enthusiastically, even though he couldn't see you, which made you groan at the sudden movement, your stomach complaining. "I don't feel so party rockin', Bucky."

His steps took him to the stairwell, and you heard his voice get echo-y. "I'm coming to get you, Barbie. Think you had enough for one night."

He walked out of the main lobby of his building, soft drops of rain falling onto him as it has just started to sprinkle, waving down a cab almost immediately, getting in after someone in a Batman costume stumbled past him with only one shoe.

"So," he said, keeping his voice light, "tell me what's happening around you."

You looked around, everyone was definitely taller when you're sitting on the floor in the corner. "People are drunk drunk. Someone's riding the mechanical bull." Hiccup. 

"Is anyone there with you?" He asked, pulling the phone away from his face slightly to tell the cab driver where to go. 

"A fairy is crying." You scanned the room more. "And someone dressed like a nun just threw up."

He snorted. "...Great."

"It was not holy."

Bucky laughed under his breath. "Stay near the wall."

"I am the wall." For some reason, just hearing his voice made the room stop spinning quite so violently.

"No, sweetheart. Stay beside the wall."

"Oh." You shifted slightly, crossing your legs so no one would step on your pants either. "There."

Bucky nodded. "Good girl." And looked at his watch, then up to the street. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

When he got to the Brass Rod, whose front entrance looked like every bad decision a twenty-one-year-old man had ever made had been condensed into one sticky doorway, Bucky immediately got annoyed at how many preppy douchebags were waiting to go in. 

So he cut the line. The bouncer immediately looked him up and down, hand on his chest. 

"No cutting."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "I'm not here to drink." And stepped forward again. 

"Everybody says that." The bouncer was still not having it. 

"I'm here to pick someone up." He put his hand up to signify your height. "Yea tall, cowgirl Barbie, probably sitting in a corner trying not to puke on your—" He looked inside the bar. "Prestigious floor."

The bouncer looked behind him to the bar, then back at Bucky. "You the boyfriend?"

Bucky huffed, getting more and more impatient by the second. "I'm—"

And was delightfully interrupted by your voice. "Buckyyyyyy!"

You moved past "not so party rockin'" to your very lovey dovey drunk self, lacing your arms around his neck and letting your weight hang onto him. 

His hands went instinctively to your waist to steady you.

The bouncer looked at both of you, and then proceeded to move a couple people inside the bar as you nuzzled your face into Bucky's neck. "You smell good."

Yelena met you both outside, out of breath from apparetnly running after you. "Oh good you're—" and she realized Bucky was there and not Joaquin. "What are you doing here?"

At the same time you said "I called." Bucky responded. "She called me."

"Oh." Yelena's eyes could've bugged out of her head. "Oh."

You pulled back just enough to look at him. Your cowboy hat gone, your hair had started the night styled perfectly and was now somewhere between tousled and actively rebelling pink glitter shimmered across your collarbones.

Your lipstick had mostly survived, and for that he was grateful. 

"Oh, you're hammered." Bucky snorted and looked over your head at her. "How much did she drink?"

Yelena began counting on her fingers. "I do not know."

"Helpful."

"She was drinking piña coladas, and then someone bought shots, and then Dot found finance men—"

Bucky groaned internally. "Finance men?" 

You lifted your head from his chest. "I had water."

"You had three sips," Yelena corrected.

You pointed at her. "Three more than zero."

Bucky looked down at you while you smiled proudly. "Okay, Barbie." His hand moved from your waist to your back, rubbing once between your shoulder blades. "Think we're done for the night."

Bucky can fix it.

Bucky will know.

Bucky always answers.

And now, watching you cling to him outside the worst bar in Manhattan while your perfectly nice boyfriend was somewhere across the city dressed as a slutty children's television character, Yelena finally understood.

The problem wasn't that you were in love with Bucky Barnes. The issue wasn't even that he very obviously returned those feelings.

The problem was that neither of you could see it. 

It took Dot approximately forty-five minutes to realize you were gone.

Which, considering she'd spent most of the evening disappearing herself, wasn't exactly surprising.

She resurfaced sometime after one in the morning, pushing her way through the crowd with her hair slightly less perfect than it had been when the night started and another drink in her hand that Yelena was almost certain she hadn't paid for. By then, whatever organization your bar crawl had begun with was completely gone. Pietro had been absorbed into a bachelor party, Joaquin had disappeared somewhere in the general direction of karaoke, and Kate's last known whereabouts involved a cowboy and a group of girls she apparently hadn't seen since middle school.

Yelena had given up.

She was standing near the bar, scrolling through her phone and seriously contemplating whether she was morally obligated to locate all of you before going home, when Dot appeared beside her.

"Where is everyone?"

Yelena glanced up. "Excellent question."

Dot laughed, looking around as if any of you might magically materialize from the crowd. "And where's Barbie?"

Yelena looked back down at her phone. "Bucky came to get her."

That caught Dot's attention. "Bucky?"

Yelena glanced at her again. "Yes."

"Like... Bucky Bucky?"

"How many Buckys do you know?"

Dot ignored that, her brows pulling together slightly as she processed the information. "I thought she'd leave with Joaquin."

"Her phone died, she could only remember Bucky's number, so we— well, she called him." Yelena chuckled, flagging the bartender down for another green tea shot. 

Yelena had been unofficially appointed photographer for most of the night, mostly because she was the only person capable of holding her phone straight after the third bar. 

"Can I borrow your phone? Need tonight's pics for my Stories." 

There were dozens of pictures scattered throughout her camera roll—group photos outside bars, blurry bathroom selfies, Kate dancing with her cowboy, you proudly posing in your Cowgirl Barbie costume, and at least six photos Yelena wanted permanently erased from existence.

"You have thirty seconds."

Dot grinned. "You're an angel."

"I know." Yelena turned back toward the bar, trying to get the bartender's attention while Dot opened the call log, and sent herself Bucky's number, promptly deleting the message from Yelena's phone before opening another chat and sending herself the pictures.

"All done." Dot gave the phone back with a smile, ordering another drink herself.

He peeled the Rangers jersey over his head and tossed it toward the laundry basket before disappearing into his bedroom to change.

The game was back on.

Bucky had managed to avoid the score on his phone, which meant he could pick up more or less where he'd left off, the television illuminating the living room with flashes of white and blue.

The volume was turned down, just low enough that the announcers wouldn't make your undoubtedly developing headache any worse.

He'd changed into gray sweatpants and an old black T-shirt, his damp hair pushed back from his forehead after he'd run a towel through it.

The smell of Chinese food graced your nostrils as soon as you got out of the bathroom, padding into the living room to see Bucky sitting on the couch with a beer and reheated lo mein. 

And on the coffee table, a plate of it for you, along with some much needed water. 

His white T-shirt practically swallowed you whole, the collar hanging loosely around your neck. The basketball shorts were tied as tightly as they could possibly go and still sat dangerously low on your hips, the fabric reaching nearly to your knees.

You felt more sober now that time passed and you scrubbed your face clean. 

You dropped down onto the couch beside him, close enough that your thigh pressed against his, Bucky handing you an egg roll without taking his eyes off of the TV. 

You smiled. "You know me so well."

"Unfortunately." He grumbled, with no real bite behind it. You bit into it happily and Bucky's eyes drifted toward you again.

Just briefly, long enough to watch the way your eyes closed when you took the first bite, but not too long that you caught him in the act.

You settled deeper into the couch, folding one leg beneath yourself while the other pressed comfortably against his. Bucky handed you one of the bottles of water, and you obediently took a sip before reaching immediately for his container of sesame chicken.

You'd look over when his attention was fixed on the television, watching the concentration settle across his features whenever the puck moved down the ice.

He'd glance at you whenever you were distracted by the food, his eyes lingering on the way his T-shirt slipped slightly off one shoulder before immediately forcing his attention elsewhere.

The game filled the silence for you, commentators speaking low through the television while rain continued to patter against the windows, and you couldn't bring yourself to pay much attention to the puck.

Your eyes kept drifting to Bucky; tracing his side profile, the furrow in his brow, the slope of his nose, the way he gritted his teeth and hissed when the players missed a goal. "What?" Bucky caught you this time. 

Your eyes immediately returned to the television, "Nothing." Faint blush spreading across your cheeks. 

He waited and you could feel him looking at you. "You keep staring at me."

You rolled your eyes, trying to play it off. "I do not."

"You do." He pressed.

"I'm watching the game." You gestured vaguely towards the TV. 

Bucky pointed. "The TV's over there."

"I'm using my peripheral vision." You motioned beside your eyes, turning your gaze back to him with an endeared smile. 

"You're staring directly at my face."

"Maybe you have a big head." Bucky's mouth dropped open. You immediately started laughing.

He mocked offense, "Wow."

"I'm kidding." You angled your body to fully face him. 

"No, no." He took the container of sesame chicken from your lap. "You insulted me in my own home."

"Give me my chicken."

"My chicken." You reached for it and Bucky lifted it away. "Buck."

"Apologize."

"Never." You reached farther. "You got a big ass head."

He moved it again.

You practically climbed over him trying to get it, one hand braced against his shoulder while the other reached uselessly toward the container he'd extended as far away from you as possible.

Somehow, you ended up straddling him as he held the container away from you. One second your laughs meshed together in the atmosphere, and in the next the room got smaller and smaller, until it narrowed down to just your gaze on his. 

Your index and pointer finger timidly touched the plush skin of his lips, tugging the lower lip down and releasing it, and Bucky felt his throat run dry, too mesmerized by you to do anything but watch you do it. Like if he moved too quickly, whatever spell had settled over the two of you might break.

It felt like light years, the amount of time you spent staring into his eyes, then to his lips, then to his eyes again.

You bit your lip, contemplating what you were gonna do next. If that was the thing that would ruin your friendship forever. 

You could always blame it on the tequila. 

Your hands were on his shoulders, and one of his on your waist while the other still held the food away from you, just out of reach. Your palms cradled his face, and just like that, you were eighteen and making out in his car. 

Bucky made a quiet sound of surprise against your mouth before kissing you back, his hand instinctively settling more securely at your waist after he let the container rest at the side table. 

Your fingers curled on the back of his neck as you let your lips roll against his softly, Bucky broke the kiss after a few seconds, delicately catching your wrist. "You're drunk."

You shook your head. "No, I'm not." Your stomach felt funny for reasons other than alcohol now. 

He looked at you almost pleading. 

Please, don't do this to me again. 

"You have a boyfriend." He reminded you weakily.

Your breath caught in your throat before the words spilled out of your mouth. "I know."

The second kiss was deeper, his hands coming to rest on either side of your jaw as he pulled you closer to him, your hips quickly settling into a rhytm all too familiar and at the same time much too foreign on top of him. 

The thin fabric of the shorts you wore did nothing to dampen the friction between your bodies, his bulge growing harder inside of the grey sweats that hung low on his hips. 

His tongue explored your mouth like it missed it, like he missed you. 

Your nails scraped gently at the nape of his neck before moving down his shoulders, and his arms; your right hand squeezing his bicep while your left rested on his chest.

Bucky's dropped to your waist and your thigh, squeezing the supple flesh under the pads of his fingers. Your fingers traced lower, until you found the skin of his abs under his cotton shirt, scratching lightly making his muscles tense under you. 

You pushed the fabric up and up, and up some more, until Bucky's hands left you momentarily to pull it over his head, exposing the plane of his chest to you fully, shifting his hair into messy strands.

His hands returned to you almost immediately, just as your lips did his. You breathed into his mouth like oxygen from him was the only type you'd ever need to keep on living. 

As Bucky's hands trailed up your back dragging heat up your spine along the way, you pulled his shirt over your head with shaky hands. The cool air hit your skin, making your nipples harden, and Bucky's previously ceil blue eyes were now dilated with lust.

The stare made you self conscious for a split second, arms crossing over your chest in an attempt to hide. 

"Don't." Was softly spoken from Bucky's mouth as his hands pulled your arms down, and he leaned forward to nuzzle your pulse point with his nose.

He kissed your neck where it met your chest, down your collarbone, the swell of your breast, until he tugged one nipple with his teeth, making you hiss lightly. 

"Bucky…"

Your voice was sweet and syrupy in a way that intoxicated him more than any tequila shot ever could. He groaned against you as his hand pushed past the waistband of his shorts you wore, keening at the feel of your slick onto his fingers.

You murmured something under your breath at the feel, like his touch was a balm to long suffering. 

Your hips stuttered into his hand, finding clumsy rhythm that had you grinding your clit over the pads of his fingers, blush creeping up your cheeks along with desire as he kept up his actions onto your chest. 

When he took his hand away you pouted, grinding down on him for more friction and feeling the length of him through your clothes. Your manicured fingers found the waistband of his sweats and pushed them down along with his boxers, freeing his leaking bulge from the men confines of fabric. 

Your hand wrapped around the shaft and Bucky stammered out a breath, hands gripping the couch cushins until his knuckles lost color as your found a slow lazy rhythm that had him grinding his teeth. 

Lips found his neck as you stroked him, sucking and biting at the skin light enough to not leave a mark but hard enough to have shivers run down his spine, goosebumps blooming all over his arms.

It took him an embarrasingly long time to realize your were making your way down his neck and sliding off his lap, aiming for the floor, between his legs. 

He stopped you with a hand on your arm and the other on your jaw, "Y-you don't have to—"

You shook your head, letting your eyes flutter closed as you kissed his palm, still continuing your path, "Want to." You voice was meek, barely above a whisper. "Can I?"

Bucky groaned, letting go of you and allowing you to pull his pants the rest of the way down, licking a thick stripe up his length before fully engulfing it in your mouth.

His right hand found your hair, pushing it out of your face as you found a rhythm that felt comfortable. 

The issue was, you always felt comfortable with Bucky.

Not a single second in your entire sentient life of knowing him had his presence made you feel anything but calm. Serene. Safe and confident in your own way that everything would be okay because he was there, no matter what. 

And in Bucky, you caused the same thing. Except his hands got clammy, his suave lines bled into teasing and playing off the fact that he would do anything for you.

The wet sucking noise pulled him from his trance, making his eyes relax and really look at you. 

Bad idea, since he felt the knot in his stomach tightening by the second, growing closer and closer to the edge.

His hips moved back and away from you, warm hands pulling you up once he pulled you off of him with a soft "pop", helping you back on top of him. 

Your hair fell around both your faces like a curtain, and Bucky brushed a strand behind your ear. "Wasn't done." You murmured, breath fanning across his lips. 

He huffed out a laugh. "Yeah, well," he shifted his hips, pulling you to kneel above his lap so he could pull your shorts down. "I was about to be."

You giggled softly and Bucky could've sworn his heart would've burst right there. Your mouth hovered over his as he lined himself up with your entrance, the weeping head of his cock making contact with the hot slick between your legs. 

"You're dripping." He shot you a side smile, dimple showing up briefly on the side of his mouth. 

You blushed, "Don't— fuck— don't tease."

"'M not…" As he pushed in, inch by inch, a mixture of moans and choked out breaths left both of you, until he was buried in you to the hilt, looking into your eyes, glazed over in pleasure, trying his hardest not to embarrass himself by coming too fast. "… so good, so good."

You gave tentative rolls of your hips above him, suddenly so aware of his presence everywhere, in and around you, that your skin felt too hot to be lived in any longer. 

He kissed you again, afraid of saying something that might make you change your mind, a whimper leaving your lips every time his tip pushed on your cervix, rubbing again and again against the spongy spot inside of you that made you feel fireworks going off in your lungs. 

You switched from moving your hips up and down to a more grinding pace, rolling your eyes when your clit rubbed onto his pelvis.

Bucky felt you flutter around him, and laced his left arm around your waist, pushing you to lay against the couch cushions without pulling out, your hair fanning out behind you.

"Bucky— Jesus!" You yelped in surprise, his hips snapping up to yours at newfound depth. "Oh, my God!"

Bucky groaned in satisfaction, squeezing your right thigh higher and tighter around his waist. "Fuck, that's it."

Your eyes rolled back with new waves of pleasure hitting you, feeling Bucky impossibly deep in you, little shocks up your nerves every time he ground his hips into yours. He moaned your name, face buried into your neck, "Need— need you to come, sweetheart." 

“Bucky, please, please, ah!”

His voice was strained, like it took everything inhim to not come inside of you right then and there. "Need you t'come, can't come in you, don't have a— fuck, fuck—"

"Feel so good, Buck, please—" You didn't even know what you were pleading. Pleading for him to make you come? For him to forget he's fucking you raw and just paint your insides white?

Bucky had that effect on you, to make you feel like you oculd fly if you so wished. 

His hips stuttered against yours, bringing your closer and closer to your climax, walls squeezing around him like you never wanted to let him go. 

And you didn't.

His mouth found yours again in a sloppy encounter one would barely classify as a kiss, neither of you in the right mind to do anything but moan into each other. His hand pushed your leg furhter up and his other thumb found your clit, rubbing fast circles on it.

Your moans got increasingly higher pitched as you tried to muffle them with a whimper, biting your own lip.

Bucky kissed the corner of your mouth and tugged the skin with his teeth.

“Good girl.” You came around him with a whine, and he gritted his teeth together to starve off his own release until he fucked you through yours. 

When he felt you stopped shaking in his arms and squeezing around him, he pulled out quickly, sitting up on his knees, hand wrapping around his slick shaft. 

He gave himself fast strokes until his eyes fluttered closed, coming with a groan of cuss words, spilling hot ropes of his release over your navel, catching the light from the TV faintly.

Both of you stayed in silence, catching your breaths, Bucky's vision finally coming back to normal from the tunnel vision a few minutes prior. 

He muttered something under his breath, grabbing his shirt from the floor and using it to clean you up.

Morning arrived quietly.

Dark blue that faded into gray light filtered through the gap in Bucky's curtains, turning the bedroom that muted blue-gray color Manhattan seemed to specialize in after a rainy night.

For a few seconds, Bucky didn't move, he wasn't entirely sure what had woken him.

The distant sound of traffic several floors below, the radiator clicking, the faint headache beginning behind his eyes despite the fact that he'd barely had anything to drink.

Then you shifted beside him.

Your back was partially turned toward him, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the sheets pulled up around you. You looked peaceful.

Bucky felt anything but. He turned his head slightly, looked at you, then immediately looked back at the ceiling.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Before he could spin too much into his own spiral, his phone buzzed against the nightstand.

+1 (843) 737-5388: hey!! it's Dot :) hope this isn't weird lol

His brows pulled together.

Dot?

He knew that name, it was one of your friends, the blonde one from South Carolina, he thought. He'd met her once, briefly, when you'd brought a few people over before going out.

+1 (843) 737-5388: i got your number and thought i should just text you 🙈

You gave her his number?

Before he could think of waking you up and asking, another message came through. 

+1 (843) 737-5388: I was gonna ask you for it myself but figured this was easier lol

Bucky's jaw tightened and suddenly the night before rearranged itself in his head. Something bitter settled in his chest.

He should've known better.

God, he should've known better.

You were drunk, emotional. Nostalgic. You weren't thinking straight and he felt like a fucking creep for taking advantage of you. Being exactly the type of guy he was trying to protect you from. 

It didn't mean what he'd wanted it to mean.

His phone buzzed again.

+1 (843) 737-5388: anyway i think you're really cute and if you're free sometime maybe we could grab coffee?

And in the kitchen, Bucky moved around wondering why you kept pushing him toward other people when, for one night, he'd thought maybe you'd finally chosen him.

You woke up feeling like the God of Thunder himself was banging a lightning bold against your head. Someone could've told you you were inside a church bell during mass and you'd believe them. 

However, the first thing you noticed is that you were alone. 

Alone, and very naked in Bucky Barnes' bed. 

Guilt twisted sharply in your stomach, like you swallowed a twelve-pack of razor blades.

Absolutely nothing to do with your tequila intake.

You sat up and called his name a couple of times with no answer, looking beside you at his alarm clock that marked 10:13am. 

You reached for your phone in the nightstand, seeing he had put it on the charger, and found a glass of water and two Ibuprofen. 

When you touched the screen, there was a text from him.

Had to go into work. Your clothes are in the dryer. Coffee and breakfast in the kitchen. :)

No "we should talk", no "about last night", just that. 

You stared at the text as though you could will another sentence to appear. What were you expecting? For him to wake you up with breakfast? For him to confess some decade-long secret? For one drunken night to suddenly change everything between you?

You were being ridiculous.

This was Bucky.

Your Bucky.

As you scrolled down you texts, you opened the groupchat to Dot sending a screenshot of your very Bucky, agreeing to grab coffee. With her. And you wondered why it suddenly made you feel like you'd made the worst mistake of your life.

a little bit of fran in your life: hey y'all.... how are we feeling.... I know, I know, don't quarter me on the town square over this please... my eye was twitching the entire time I had to write Dot. I promise I'll make them even dumber before they actually realize what's right in front of them......

[i reserve all the rights to this fic EXCEPT THE CHARACTERS bc this fic is my baby do nawt make it into a movie without asking me to direct it]

⤷ masterlist

💌 permanent freaks taglist: @chateaubarnes @houseofhyde @heldbybarnes @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @its-in-the-woods @wildflowersandvibranium @unificsation @flockoff-featherface @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @winterdecember18 @juniebjonesin @barnesonly @bckyslover @buckyfmd @starfire-irl @tw1sters @pinksplace @artficlly @daddysbitchybaby @globetrotter28 @epiphanyrogers @famoushoshi @avgdestitute @blobfishlol @buckysdecaflove @buckybsdoll @allthingswickedpodcast

Something tells you they’d find a way to invade your space anyway. It’s one of their traits.

Pissing you off.

You’ve studied them. The little pack—or maybe pride—of frat boys that  Barnes belongs to. It’s a good exercise. Field studying a microculture. You have a whole corner of your mind that’s devoted just to how they behave.

How Barnes behaves, with his pride. If his behavior changes. How it effects his values and actions.

You tell yourself that’s why you tolerate him. He interests you.

A very shiny fly.

You’d been in the same freshman orientation group. Barnes had been one of those boys that you’d long written off—since about middle school, when they’re started cropping up—with his styled hair, proud smile, and natural ease that flowed through the whole room. You don’t  remember much from the actual group—the leader had pissed you off by talking like you were a kindergartener, but most people pissed you off—but at the time, you thought you wouldn’t have to.

It hadn’t seemed unreasonable to think that you’d never see these people again. The girls who you were nice to, but didn’t have anything in common with. The lanky boy who’d tried hitting on all of you, and struck out every time. The… others.

And Barnes.

He’d been charm personified. A sweet cake made out of chivalry and smooth words. You’d walked into the room and thought he was pretty. You’d walked out and thought he was gorgeous.

But that had been fine. Because you’d thought you’d never see him again.

And he hasn’t stopped buzzing around you since.

You’re in separate majors, separate lives, but every single GenEd class you take, Barnes is there. Freshman semester it had been your philosophy class, and you’d had to give a presentation together. You’d done most of the work. Barnes had tried to help, but he was bad at it, so he’d mostly just sat there flirting with you and looking pretty.

“I think man is inherently evil.” He said, grinning at you from the library table.

You snorted. “Of course you do.”

“Yeah, that’s- Is that not what our presentation is about?”

Barnes leaned over you, peering at the computer. His body radiated warmth. You hadn’t touched anyone in a while. You’d almost leaned in him, and he never had to know that.

“Nature versus nurture.” He read from the screen. His tongue flicked over his lips. “Uh- I thought we were supposed to be talkin’ about good versus evil, doll.”

“This is good versus evil.” You muttered. “I’m arguing that all people are good until taught to be otherwise.”

“But- You don’t actually believe that-“

“Yes, I do.”

Barnes snorted. “Yeah. You think everyone is good.”

That made you look up. His attention—so close and heated—made you feel all strangely fuzzy.

You ignored it.

You were going to get very good at that.

“I do think everyone is good.” You snapped.

“You hate everyone-“

“I do not hate everyone. I-“ Your face burned, as he’d just kept staring at you “I don’t.”

Barnes smirked, looking you up and down like you were some kind of fuzzy bunny. “Alright.”

“You’re still looking at me-“

“I gotta look at you to talk to you-“

“Not like that-“

“Like what?”

“Like you- You don’t believe me.”

He shrugged, his smirk widening. You thought about punching him in his smug, beautiful face, but decided that wouldn’t help your case.

“Whatever.” You turned back to your computer with a scowl.

Barnes leaned forward, saying your name far too gently. “Hey, I was just joking-“

“Really? I hadn’t been able to tell.”

He sighed. “If this- If it’s important to you that I believe you-“

“It’s not.”

It had been. For some reason, Bucky thinking that you really hated everyone had itched. You slept poorly that night. Stared at the ceiling with thoughts that tumbled and ripped over each other like a river.

He got under your skin. He’s always gotten under your skin.

After philosophy was theology. He sat next to you in every class, bugging you and trying to invite you to study.

“We work well together-“

“No we don’t.”

“C’mon, doll, we got that A before-“

“I got that A.” You shot him glare. “You stood there like a pretty statue, and bumped us down to an A-.”

Barnes wasn’t been fazed. You remember thinking he’d gotten hotter over winter break. Something in his eyes had started to shine, and he might’ve gotten a new product for his hair. It had smelled like thick, spicy fruit. He still wore it today.

It made you want to throttle him more.

“You think I’m pretty?”

He leaned forward, and that smell had flooded your senses. It was like a second hand high.

Barnes licked his lips. He looked down to yours.

You had to rip your gaze away.

“Shut up.”

He laughed. It sounded more like a sigh.

When he turned back to his own notes, you took a deep breath through your nose. 

He always smelled so good.

And he was always so handsome. And charming. If you didn’t have your wits, you would’ve been dragged into his little den a long time ago. If you weren’t so careful with every place you stepped, you would’ve stumbled into his chest and let him sweep you off your feet like some damsel in distress.

He’s there for Spanish, both semesters of Sophomore year.

The first one, you saw a girl drop him off in class and watched them make out in the doorway. It was sloppy and loud. A few of Bucky’s little pride members had whooped when he walked inside, smirking and wiping his mouth.

You felt sick, and didn’t let yourself think about why.

The second one had been Spanish and arts. A painting class, where he’d made you a butterfly off of your spirit.  

“Look.” He showed it to you with a proud grin. “It’s got your eyes.”

You squinted at it. It did. In an almost shocking resemblance.

“I didn’t know you could paint.” You muttered.

Barnes shrugged. “My best friend is in art school. We’ve known each other forever, I picked up a few things. Nothing big.”

You nodded, looking down at your own—relatively shit—butterfly. It had been more of a bat. You’ll dump it in the trash and start over in hour later.

“Stevie,” you mumbled absentmindedly.

“I- Yeah. How’d you know that.”

“You told me.” You glared at him under your eyelashes. “I listen.”

Barnes stared at you as if you’d just told him he was destined to be a king. It made you a little dizzy.

“And it’s good.” You muttered, against your will.

When Bucky looked at you, a lot of  coherent thoughts tended to… Become lacking.

“Yeah.” He breathed, his ears turning red. “It- It is.”

You blinked. “Well, go turn it in, then.”

“What?”

“The butterfly.”

“The-“ He sat a little taller, his fingers curling on the paper. “Oh. Right.”

“Right.” You frowned. “What were you talking about-“

“Nothing. It’s- Nothing.” He stared at his butterfly with an odd expression, smoothing the edges with careful fingers.

Bucky always moved his fingers so carefully. Like everything he touched was glass. It makes you wonder how he’d touch a soft body below him, though he never gets to know that.

“You want this?”

“The-“

“I’m not turnin’ it in.” He held out the butterfly. “It’s for you.”

You stared at the butterfly. At Bucky.

An image of him wiping his mouth and laughing with his pride flashed through your head. It seared some kind of hole in your heart.

“I don’t think your girlfriend would like you giving drawings to other girls.” You muttered. The words had tasted bitter.

Barnes hadn’t seemed able to tell.

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” He said, giving you another strange look. “I’ve never had a girlfriend.”

You scoffed. “Please-“

“I have fun.” Barnes cut you off, lips twitching. “You know, doll. Fun?”

“I know fun.”

“Uh huh-“

“Stop doing that, I do-“

“Never seen you have it.”

“That’s- I don’t have it with you.”

You spat the words, and Bucky flinched back like you’d flung acid. He blinked, and you swallowed. You hadn’t meant for it to be so loud. To sound so harsh.

“James-“

“It’s fine.” He muttered, looking back to his paper. “I just- If you ever-“

He cut himself off, glaring down at nothing. He shook his head, nostrils flaring slightly.

You’d never seen him look like that before. You hadn’t liked it.

“Whatever.” He sighed. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

And you nodded weakly. To this day you’re not sure what happened.

But you know Bucky had left the butterfly out on the table, after class.

You know it’s still in your bag, folded neatly and tucked safely. You pull it out sometimes to stare at it.

It’s better, really. Not to think about why.

Junior year was the community internship. Again, you and Bucky were in the same class. He bothered you, same as always, but always seemed to have some girl sticking to his side. They barely even seemed to see you.

All you could ever see was them. Running their hands over his broad chest and kissing the stubble he’d been growing. One bit his nose and your hands curled into fists.

You wondered if he made any of them butterflies.

You decide that he doesn’t. He’s only known them a handful of weeks, and he knew you for years.

“We gotta go down the library tomorrow,” he told you. You shrugged.

“I can go myself.”

Barnes frowned. “It’s not in a good part of town, you shouldn’t go alone.”

“I carry pepper spray-“

“That’s not enough.”

You sighed, giving him an exasperated look. “Fine. I’ll bring Brock.”

Barnes stiffened. You’d never seen him stand so tall. “Who’s Brock.”

“He’s in our class? He has been, all semester-“

“You talkin’ about Rumlow?”

You nodded. Barnes worked his jaw, looking off the side and huffing a low laugh.

“What-“

“You’re not goin’ with Rumlow.”

Your mouth fell open. “You don’t get to tell me that-“

“I know.” Barnes crossed his arms. “But I am.”

That had made you feel all gooey, in a very low part of you tummy. You’d gotten good at making sure Bucky didn’t see it.

“Fuck you, James-“

“He’s a dick.” Barnes didn’t waver. “He got kicked out of the frat, you know how big a piece of shit you gotta be for that to happen?”

You paused.

Fuck, that was a good point.

You hated it when he made good points.

“Fine.” You grumble, looking down to your phone. “You got with Natasha.”

Natasha. She’d managed to stick to Bucky longer than the others. She was gorgeous, and smart. You wished she was a bitch, too. It would make her a lot easier to hate.

You thought Bucky would jump at the chance to get one on one with her. They could fuck in the car after, and before, and you could drink yourself to sleep imagining it.

“No. I’m goin’ with you.”

You stick out your tongue. “Well, I’m not going with you.”

“Huh. Guess no one’s going then.”

You’d looked up with a glower. Barnes had raised his brows in challenge. He knew you’d cave. Knew you wouldn’t just let something slip through the cracks because of a petty fight.

He knew you.

You hated him.

“Fuck you.”

“You said that already.” He muttered. “And I’m not holding my breath.”

You blinked. “Wha-“

“I’ll pick you up at noon tomorrow.”

He walked away. You didn’t remember how to move for five minutes.

He asked you about Brock the next day. Like he was checking on you. Like he cared.

You don’t let yourself think he does. You’ve reminded yourself of that over and over, since Freshman year.

Bucky doesn’t care about you, so you’re allowed not to care about him. It’s necessary. Important to survival.

Because you’ve studied his kind. You’ve studied him.

Frat boys. In their natural habitat—the college campus—they’re apex predators. They’re loud because they don’t have to worry about being quiet. Most of them are here on athletics scholarships, so they care about that more than their actual classes. The ones who aren’t are rich, and never learned to worry about anything.

They have a lot of sex. They get girlfriends, then cheat on them. Your roommate Wanda knows a lot of people—she’s in a lot of clubs—so you’ve heard all the stories. Seen a few firsthand, or overheard crying in bathrooms. Everyone keeps dating and fucking them because they’re hot and athletic and rich, and you’re all young and stupid.

“It’s fun to make bad choices.” Wanda’s told you. “While we’re still young enough that it doesn’t matter.”

But you don’t make bad choices.

Ever.

You don’t understand that philosophy at all. Why make a bad choice when you could make a good one. Why risk someone curb stomping your heart when you could just… not.

Second semester of junior year, you take a public speaking class with Bucky. He comes up to you in the cafeteria, his pride just as loud as always.

“Hey,” he says your name, standing at the other end of the table. You don’t look up from your computer.

“Hi.”

“You got the homework for public speaking?”

“Yes.”

Barnes clears his throat, drumming his fingers. “You gonna share it with me?”

“It’s online, James.”

He’s silent for a moment, and you look up.

He’s staring at you, the expression on his face unreadable. You almost ask if he’s okay.

“I know that.” He says, rubbing the back of his neck.

You cross your arms. “Did you.”

“Yeah.” He throws you that charming grin. You hate that it still makes you think he’s beautiful. “I was asking if you wanted help with it.”

“If I wanted… Help?”

Barnes didn’t read the quiet, bubbling fury in your tone. He never does.

“Yeah, I was thinking you could come over, practice on me, you know. I’m a very good audience.”

You narrowed your eyes. Barnes kept grinning, and you wonder if he actually thought this was going to work.

“I don’t need your help.”

He deflated slightly. But he didn’t give up.

You’ve never known him to before. You shouldn’t have expected that he would now.

“Maybe I need your help?”

“You always need my help.”

Bucky snorted. “Yeah, you got no idea.”

“What’s that supposed to mean-“

“You wanna come over Thursday?”

“No.”

“Alright, I’ll go to you-“

“I’m working Thursday.”

Bucky paused. “You got a job?”

You nodded. He frowned.

“Where?”

“Corner store.”

His frown deepened. “That’s not safe.”

You scoffed. “Okay, dad-“

“You’re working late, it’s not-“

“I’ve been fine.”

“But what about when you’re not-“

“But I am-“

“I know you are now, but-“ He ran a hand over his face, his voice dropping with frustration.

It always went right to your core, when that happened. You wished it didn’t.

“What about when you’re not?” He demanded. “We live in a city, what about when someone does a holdup and you’re the cashier-“

“Why do you care.”

Bucky went still. He opened his mouth closed it, and gave that tight shake of his head that you know means something, but can never figure out what.

“What corner store.” He grunts.

“Fifth and twenty, why-“

“We’re studying while you work.”

Your mouth fell open. “No-“

“Yeah. Or- I’m studying. There.”

“I can kick you out-“

“You won’t.”

He walked away. And you hate him. You hate that you know he’s sleeping with Natasha—and who knows who else—and that makes you want to sink your teeth into his neck like some kind of claim. You hate that you are going to let him. You hate that he knows you so well he starts fucking things in the homework up on purpose, just so you stop pretending not to pay attention and study with him.

You hate how warm he is sitting next to you.

You hate that you don’t shove him away, and you feel colder when he’s gone.

He came over to work every night for the rest of the semester. You’re sure he had better things to do, but he doesn’t do them.

Bucky sat its behind the counter with you, and does homework. He did funny voices while practicing his speeches, and brushed his hand over the back of your knee whenever he stood up.

You shivered every time. A smug look flashed over his face.

He made you giggle.

You hate him for that, too.

And Wanda’s told you to make the bad choice.

Everyone tells you to make the bad choice.

Wanda had became good friends with Natasha. You try not to feel any way about it—Natasha, who’s touched what you’ve never allowed yourself to reach for—but then Wanda asks if she can move in, and you get sick.

You say yes. You won’t be one of those girls who holds those kinds of grudges.

Natasha moves in when summer vacation starts. And she’s lovely. You hate that she’s lovely. She’s cool and interesting and has pretty hair.

You wonder if Bucky liked running his fingers through it. You lie on the floor of the bathroom and refuse to cry about it, just staring up at the ceiling.

For the first time, you don’t have a class with him. It’s making you choke on clean air, because there’s this spicy, intoxicating fruit smell that’s supposed to be there, and it’s not, and you’re detoxing on a drug you never even got to take.

“My boyfriends coming over tonight.” Natasha tells you and Wanda one night.

Black spots dance in front of your vision. Faraway, you hear yourself say that’s fine.

It is not fine.

Bucky’s going to be here, and he’s going to be kissing Natasha in front of you, and that shouldn’t matter but it does, it does, it does.

But when Natasha’s boyfriend comes over, it’s not Bucky.

It’s Sam.

You know Sam. He’s one of the nice members of Bucky’s pride. He and Bucky are close. He’s always lingering in the background, laughing while you verbally impale Bucky and clapping his friend on the back when he walks it off. He and Bucky shared a room sophomore year. They go to baseball games together and eat five hotdogs every time.

You can’t think of any facts about Sam that aren’t related to Bucky.

And Sam kissed Natasha. And you stood there stupidly, certain that you really must have missed something.

“Oh,” Sam said when he saw you. “You’re Bucky’s girl.”

You stammered. Said a lot of babbling words you don’t really remember, while Sam gave Natasha an amused look. Natasha shrugged, light dancing behind her eyes.

Neither of them feel like elaborating that. No one ever does. There are just passive comments that make you more confused, like Wanda casually mentioning how you really should try going after Barnes and Natasha telling you that Sam asked her out after she and Bucky fizzled.

“We never really got started, though.” She mused. “His heart wasn’t in it. He even told me that, but-“ She laughed breathily. “You know. You think you’re going to be the girl that makes them settle, then you wake up and realize that you’re better with someone who actually wants that. With you.”

You blinked at her. You did not know how it was. You’ve had… affections for one person your entire college career, and you’ve known that he’d never settle with you.

There’s no point in telling Natasha that. With the glint in her eyes, you’re sure she already knows.

“He talked about you all the time,” she told you casually on another day. “God, it was so annoying, but-“ She looked you up and down. It always made you flush. “I get it.”

And people had been doing that a lot, lately. Telling you how much Bucky talks about you. Making little comments you think you’re supposed to understand, but you don’t.

Sam invites Bucky to go out with you guys, because Nat invited him. No one asked for your approval. They probably knew you would never have given it.

“You look nice.” Bucky muttered in the car.

Your thighs were pressed together, your shoulder bumped whenever the car rattled, and you had to keep yourself locked up to not melt into him.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” He sighed. “It’s, uh- weird, right? Us not having a class together.”

You hummed. It was. It made the whole world tilt off it’s axis. Bucky didn’t get to know that.

“You know, I still got homework.”

You frowned up at him. “Okay.”

Bucky cleared his throat, and rubbed the back of his neck. “And, uh- I don’t have a study partner anymore.”

“You’ll find one.” You grumbled. There’s that acid again, stinging on your tongue.

He will. He’s Bucky. There will be a line of people clamoring to have his attention, because you’ve been stealing it for far too long and everyone wants a taste of that spicey, calming fruit-

“I’m still free most nights.” He said, looking straight ahead. “You still work at the corner store?”

You blinked.

Oh.

“Yeah. I do.”

Bucky nodded. His lips twitched. “Okay.”

And sure enough, he’s there on Monday. It’s strange talking about classes you’re not taking, but it makes you want to strangle him less.

Although you haven’t wanted to strangle him in a while. You’ve mostly wanted his hand around your throat, pinning you below him, touching you until everything is just floating light.

“You look tired.” He said. Something in his voice was too casual. Like he was weighing every word.

“I am tired.”

“You been eating enough?”

“I’m eating right now-“

“I brought you food.” He fixed you with a stern glare.

It made you feel all kinds of breathless and gooey.

That night you’ll lie in bed with your fingers between your legs. They’re not thick enough, slipping right in and out of your pussy with no relief. Bucky’s fingers would be bigger.

 “I would’ve eaten anyway.” You grumbled, watching some teenagers move around the drink aisle.

Bucky chuckled. “Sure, doll.”

Your cheeks heated. You went over when the teenagers started shouting about the store not having the right drinks, but you had to stand on wobbly knees.

Bucky hasn’t called you doll in years.

It felt different now. It felt like it matters. 

You’re not going to do the stupid thing. It didn’t matter how much Wanda pushed you into it, or how many comments Nat made about Bucky not sleeping around anymore. You’ve gotten this far. You graduate in the spring. And Bucky will just always be a warm memory you worship between your legs.

He left his folder at the store last night. You thought about giving it to him next time he dropped in, but then Natasha said she was going to his place for some party and you figured you could hitch a ride.

Not because you wanted to see him sooner. Nat made a comment about that, that teasing smirk over her lips.

You ignored her. You’re very good at it now.

The party is raging, when you arrive. It’s loud, so loud. You’ve stepped into the frat boy den, and it aligns with your every study. Hot, sweaty bodies grinding into each other, music you can feel in your ribs, drinks being poured and clicked open. So much noise. So many people.  

“Go find Bucky!” Nat whispers in your ear, and you swallow.

“Where do you think he is- Nat-“

She’s already gone. You have to go find Bucky alone.

You think it’s going to be an impossible quest. There are so many people you’re sure it’s a fire hazard, you don’t know anyone but Sam and Nat—who are sucking face in the corner and no fucking help at all—and if you ask someone random to help you find Bucky, you’re going to get mocked about it.

Weird girl was asking for you, Barnes. Knew you wouldn’t care.

You bite the inside of your cheek, spinning around for any possible direction that might take you to Bucky.

He finds you first.

“You’re here!” Bucky calls your name, and you almost jump out of your skin. “Thought you’d never be here!”

You stumble a little as he collapses over you. He’s heavy, his eyes glossy and unfocused, and you’ve never seen him smiling so wide. He stops you from falling with an arm around your waist, and your breath catches.

“I’m here.” You whisper. “I- I have your folder-“

“Shhh.” Bucky drops his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering shut. “Don’t talk ‘bout my school.”

“I-“

“You can talk about your school.” He presses further over you. Backing you against the counter, his fingers digging into your hips. “Love it when you talk about stuff. ‘S smart.”

“Thanks.” You look off to the side, trying to see if anyone is watching.

Bucky grabs your jaw and turns it back. You almost whimper at the intensity in his gaze. You’ve never seen it so great, and you’ve seen it a lot.

“You’re here.” He mumbles. “In m’ house.”

“I needed to drop something off.”

Your voice is soft, but Bucky’s whole face falls.

“You’re not stayin’?”

“I- I don’t-“ 

You stumble, and realize you’ve grabbed the collar of his shirt. You’re already trying to stop him from moving away, even thought you know you shouldn’t.

“There’s a lot people.” You breathe. “I don’t like crowds.”

Bucky blinks. You could swear his eyes clear slightly, even if his grip on you tightens.

“Alright.” He gives that strange little nod. “C’mon.”

“Come- James-“

You squeal as he picks you up. Scoops you into his arms like you weigh nothing. And you knew he was strong, but you’ve never felt it.

Feeling it is dangerous. It makes you want that strength everywhere. Pinning you down and slamming into you, making your head nice and empty as you feel him everywhere.

“You’re drunk, be careful-“

“’M not that drunk.”

“You’re slurring-“

“I’m buzzed.” He says the words more clearly. Like he wants you to hear that he can. “Not drunk. I won’t drop you.”

You grunt, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. He gives you a tiny smile.

“You’re here.”

He says it like he can’t believe it.  Like it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. He’s beaming like he adores you.

You can’t help yourself from smiling in return.

“Yeah. I am.”

Bucky’s grin gets impossibly wider. He kisses your cheek, messy and quick.

It’s like being shocked by lightning. Your heart does a flip in your chest, and you hold onto him a little tighter.

“James-“

“Y’know, you’re the only person I let call me James.” He reaches the top of the stairs, the music dulled by the distance.

The only drum left in your chest is your heartbeat. You wish he’d stop looking at you like that. It’s dangerous.

“You- You never told me you didn’t want me to.”

He hums. “You ever hear anyone else call me that?”

“I- Um-“

“One time a girl tried.” He pulls open a door. “Made me more into it, she got real excited.”

There it is. That toxic curl of jealousy in your gut.

“James-“

“Then I called your name with my dick inside her. Think that ruined it.”

Bucky says it lazily. Like it doesn’t change your whole life.

“What?” You squeak.

He just grins, slowly lowering you down his body.

“I call your name when I have sex.”

“I- I- Why-“

“’Cause I love you.”

“James-“ Your voice cracks, and tears are burning at your eyes.

You’re confused. So confused. You came over with a folder and a mission to be in and out. Your walls had been just as spiked and guarded as always, and maybe Bucky’s been able to slip through a few times, but you’ve learned how to not let that matter. Because it didn’t matter to him.

But now he’s saying this.

And you’re in what has to be his room, sitting on his mattress. If you weren’t so drunk on whatever’s happening, you’d be scanning around. You’d be studying how Bucky keeps his own space, because it’s another thing you’d get to have about him.

Instead, all you can see it Bucky kneeling in front of you. The impossible softness on his face. The lips that he’s licking again. The thick arms, keeping you sitting on the edge of his bed.

You say the only thing you can think of. The only thing that gets you out of here with your heart intact.

“You don’t mean it.”

Bucky doesn’t even flinch.

“I do.”

“You’re drunk-“

“I’m uninhibited.” His eyes shine. “You taught me that word.”

“James-“

“Hmm.”

He leans forward, tilting his head slightly. Your breath catches. You can feel the heat of his breath over your face. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world.

“Freshman year.” He murmurs. He won’t stop staring at you, that soft smile on his lips. “You were so bossy and mean to me.”

You flush deeper. “You- You were annoying-“

“I liked workin’ you up.”

“That’s mean.”

“Got me your attention.” He mumbles. “Otherwise you woulda just ignored me.”

You swallow. “I still tried to ignore you.”

“I know.” He shrugs. “But you didn’t. You’re not as mean as you wanna be. ‘S why I love you.”

Tears burn behind your eyes. “Please stop saying that-“

“But I mean it.”

“You can’t mean it.” Your voice cracks slightly. “It- It’s not fair if you mean it now.”

He frowns again. It’s adorable. Like he’s really worried about you. “What’d you mean, now?”

“I- I mean you won’t mean it in the morning.” You whisper. “And that won’t be fair.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

It’s all you can say. You haven’t even been able to tell yourself the reason, you’re certainly not telling Bucky first.

“’Cause why?” Bucky’s lips twitch. He leans forward until your noses bump. “Why do you care?”

You blink. And you can see it in his eyes.

The challenge.

Why do you care.

Of course you fucking care. You always care. It’s Bucky, it doesn’t matter how hard you tried, you’ve never been able to not care, and now you’re in his room, on his bed, and he’s saying things and looking at you like- Looking at you like-

Your brain short circuits, and it sparks in your core.

Your body moves.

Bucky grunts when you grab his face and drag him into a kiss. It’s quick and rough. A sudden slam of mouths together with no plan or real fire. He doesn’t kiss you back.

When you pull back, you’re sure you’re going to cry. You’re panting, your lips wobbling, and Bucky’s just staring at you.

“I- I’m sorry.” You shrink back. He can’t see you cry. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have- I’ll go-“

Bucky almost lurches. He dives over you like an animal, and before you know what’s happening, you’re kissing again.

Really kissing.

The way you’d always pictured it, in the greatest privacy of your mind and room. Hidden under the covers so no one could see the shame of how deeply you imagined it.

Bucky’s lips moving against yours. That tongue flicking over your lips before he nips on your lower lip, and grins at your moan.

This is that, and better. Because he’s really here. He tastes a little like liquor, but mostly like mint and something that’s purely Bucky. You’re being pressed backwards into the mattress, Bucky moving up until he’s caging you to the mattress. His knees braced over your waist, his chest pushed against yours, his hands wandering and grabbing every bit of you that he can reach.

Rough fingers slip under your shirt, teasing your sides. You gasp into his mouth, and Bucky groans.

“Ja- James-“

“I know.” He mumbles. “Wanna take care of you, doll.”

“Mhmm.” You whine in a half protest. It’s hard to think with one massive hand mapping every curve of your body, and the other sliding up to grab your neck.

Bucky tips your head back, and hums in satisfaction, when you willingly open your mouth to deepen the kiss.

“Please lemme take care of you.” He rasps. He sounds like a man wrecked.

And who are you to tell him no?

“Oh- Okay- Oh!”

Bucky doesn’t waste time. He pulls back with something like clarity in his eyes, licks his lips, and runs a large hand fully up your side. You arch into the touch with a soft gasp, eyes fluttering shut. He wraps around your breast, groaning as his thumb flicks over your perked nipple.

“No bra, hm?”

“Didn’t- Didn’t think I’d be here for more than five minutes-“

“Or you were hopin’ you’d be here.” He teases, smirking down at you. “Right here.”

He pinches your nipple, rolling it between expert fingers. You toss your head back with a moan. Bucky chuckles.

“Yeah, that’s right. This is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it doll.”

“N- No-“

Your words fall off into a whine as Bucky yanks his hand away. You grab his wrist, trying to drag it back, but he’s too strong.

“Wha- What’re you doing-“

“If you’re gonna tell me you don’t want this.” He shrugs, soothing the edge of your shirt like it’s a blanket. “I’m not gonna do it.”

“But- But I do want it.” You squeeze his wrist, pouting as tears start to gather in your eyes.

Bucky clicks his tongue. He’s moved on to soothing out your hair.

“Bucky, please-“

“Please what?”

He grabs your cheek, forcing your gaze onto his. Heat floods your core at the possessive motion, and your legs fall open. Bucky’s attention flicks down, but he doesn’t waver.

“You gonna spend the whole time pretending you don’t want me?” He demands, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “Or are you going to be a good girl and let me have you how I want?”

And you realize what that glint in his eyes means. He’s giving you a choice, for how you want this to go. Soft and sweet, or what he wants to do.

What you want him to do.

You might be drooling. Your grip on his wrist tightens, and you feel a little faint. Every fantasy you’ve ever had is above you. You just have to grab it.

“I didn’t come here tonight for this.” You breathe out, testing the waters.

Bucky’s nostrils flare. His plants a hand on your hip, pinning you down to the mattress.

“You didn’t, huh.”

You shake your head. Bucky’s tongue flicks over his lips.

“You need me to show you what you want?” He’s using a low tone that rushes right to your pussy.

You nod, slowly trying to press your thighs back together. There’s too much pressure, you need a way to relieve it.

Bucky grabs your knee and shoves it back open, and you squeak in elated surprise.

“I’ll be good to you, doll.” He mutters, rubbing the inside of your thigh. His knuckles brush near your pussy, and you clench around nothing. “Show you exactly what you need.”

“You- You don’t know what I need-“

Bucky crashes back down, kissing you into the mattress with brutal, unrelenting force. Your arms fly around his neck and he groans, dropping his hips down over yours.

“Yeah, I do.” He says against your lips, rutting down. Forcing you to feel the push of his bulge against your clothed core. “And you fuckin’ know it.”

God, you do. You don’t have a single question of it.

Bucky pulls away, and you grumble in protest, trying to reach up and drag him back far another kiss. Just that is enough for you to feel like you’re in Heaven.

But Bucky swats your hands away, giving you a stern look.

“No touching.”

He starts to pull you shirt over your head, and you scowl.

“You’re touching-“

“I,” Bucky leans down to kiss over the valley of your breasts, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Can do whatever the hell I want to you. Isn’t that right, babydoll.”

He must be putting a spell over you. You nod dazedly, and Bucky laughs. His lips wrap around your nipple, sucking and flicking the little bud like it’s candy. The sensation makes you restlessly needy, the heat between your legs only building and building.

“Buh- Bucky- Oooh-“

There’s an extra, strong little flick that only makes you think of what his mouth is going to be able to down where you need him.

“Fuck- James-“

Bucky groans, biting down softly. Your hips buck with delight, and your whine when he shoves them back down.

“C’mon.” He mutters, slowly kissing back to the other breast. “Keep still.”

You make an incoherent noise, but you try. You really do try.

Bucky wiggles down your pants and underwear without taking his mouth from your breasts, and you force yourself to keep still. Cold air doesn’t even hit your cunt, because he’s so folded over you. Trapping all the frictionless heat between your bodies, letting his covered cock drag against your core whenever he moans and ruts, but never offering anything else.

“More.” You breathe, eyes squeezed shut in frustration. “James, I- I need more-“

You moan as Bucky bites your breast again. He kisses over the hurt, humming lazily.

“Thought you didn’t know what you need.”

You shake your head, legs falling further open. “I- I need you- Bucky I need you-“

“Where’d you need me.” He kisses just under your breast. “’Cause I’m here. Touchin’ you.”

He grabs your thigh, rubbing it slowly back and forth. You try to arch off the bed, but you can’t get an inch out from under him.

“Touch- Touch me more.” You gasp out. “I need you to touch me more, I- I don’t care how, just- Touch me-“

You cry out, as Bucky brushes his thumb over your clit. He repeats the featherlight motion once more, then twice. It’s too much and not nearly enough. Your pussy is weeping, but Bucky just grazes you clit like he’s wiping something off your cheek.

“What a needy girl.” He coos against your skin, kissing along the side of your breast. Up to your neck. “You’re even more reactive than I thought you’d be, sweetheart. And I thought,” he presses his thumb down hard, and you scream.“You’d be plenty reactive.”

Tears push at your eyes, from frustration and humiliation. You’re being pathetic, you’ve dogwalked him the whole time you’ve known him and suddenly you’re a flushed, begging disaster below him.

Bucky sucks a dark spot on your neck, and you moan. His thumb drags between the lips of your pussy and teases over your hole. It’s gone as soon as it gets there, and the sound you make is downright undignified.

“You want to swallow me, don’t you.” Bucky nips at your ear. “Dirty fuckin’ slut.”

Oh, no. That shouldn’t turn you on so much.

“I- I’m not-“

“Yes, you are.” Bucky kisses along your jaw. “Say it, doll.”

You shake your head. Bucky repeats the slow drag, this time swapping for his middle finger, and pushing slightly into your cunt.

“Bucky- Fuck-“

Your arms fly up to grab him. Bucky leans up and fixes you with a stern glare.

“No touching.”

You whimper, but pull back away. You fist the sheets, splaying your body out in the hope it’ll make him you faster.

And it almost works. Bucky’s brow works and he slowly traces up the curve of your waist. Your breathing shutters, as he traces the outline of a love bite on your breast. His finger twists, and the pad of it presses right into the entrance of your pussy.

Bucky meets your glossy eyes, and his jaw clenches. There are big, fat tears welling up.

His voice drops to something soft. “Are you still-“

“Yes.” You push your chest up, trying to give him a better view of your breasts. “Please.”

Bucky nods to himself. He leans fully over you, searching your gaze, and slowly starts to push his finger into your pussy.

Your breath catches. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky grabs your cheeks.

“Eyes stay on me.”

He’s not asking. You don’t want him to. You moan and nod weakly, watching him under tear stained lashes. He slowly pulls his finger out, then drives it back in a little faster. He’s a lot bigger than your own hand is. Everything about him is bigger. You’re worried you’re going to die on his cock.

“You like that,” Bucky coos, squeezing your cheeks slightly. “Look at you, gettin’ so worked up over just a finger.”

You give him a pleading look, and he chuckles, leaning down to kiss your puckered lips.

“You get two when you tell me you’re my dirty little slut.”

You clench down around him, and Bucky groans, pushing in a little deeper.

He finds the spongey spot that makes your vision go all blurry. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, and bucky raises his brows.

“There it is. That’s what a wanna see.”

He pushes harder against it. You squeeze around him again, breath coming in pants.

“Who’s owning this pussy, baby, huh?” Bucky’s eyes bore into yours, and the hot shame pricks more and more over your skin.

You think a waterfall might be coming out of your cunt. The wet sounds as Bucky finger fucks you certainly seem like proof.

You can’t form a full answer. You gape at him, rolling your hips in tiny movements to try and chase a little bit more.

Buckly yanks his finger out of your pussy, lands a harsh smack on your clit, then shoves them right back in. It’s an overwhelming, electric feeling. The tears burst from your eyes, and you almost reach for him.

“That’s a girl.” He kisses your cheek so sweetly, pumping his finger deep into your soaked cunt. “Keep cryin’ for me, babydoll. Let it out.”

You pull at the sheets, a low hum of pleasure building in your lower stomach. Your head tries to roll to the side, but Bucky keeps it up. His staring just makes everything worse and better.

The deep affection in his eyes as he watches you right on the edge. Trying to claw your way to an orgasm while he keeps you from letting go. There’s no attention being given to your clit, only his finger bumping your g-spot. It’s throbbing from his spanking. You want him to do it again.

“Buh- Bucky-“

“Ah.” He pauses, and you almost scream. “Try again.”

“James.” You whimper, giving him your most pleading eyes.

A smile curves on his lips. “Yeah, babydoll?”

“Do it again.”

It’s less than a whisper. Part of you doesn’t even want him to hear it.

But he does. Of course he does. Surprise flashes over his face for the briefest second, and you think about running away. You shouldn’t have asked. He’s going to say no, it’s going to humiliate you more, and then that’s going to make you cum on his hand and he’ll never look at you again-

“What?” His voice dropped. You’re screwed. “This?”

Bucky pulls back and spanks your pussy again. You sob, nodding as the shock rushing through you again. Bucky licks his lips, leaning back to watch you. He does it again, and you seize up.

“Jesus, you’re spilling everywhere.” He traces two fingers through your pussy, and you clench around nothing. “Messy girl, bet you’re going to fucking squirt on my cock.”

You whimper, and Bucky chuckles.

“I know, sweetheart. But you’re gonna love it, aren’t you.”

He spanks your pussy again. Any thought to protest is drained from your head.

“Ye- Yes.” You cry out.

Bucky smirks, prowling back over your body.

“And?”

You blink at him through the tears. “And?”

“What are you?”

Your breath hitches. Bucky holds up his shiny hand, making a gun motion.

“Two fingers.” He reminds you.

And just like that, you cave.

“I- I’m your dirty-“ You hiccup a little, the tears starting to free flow again. “I’m-“

“Look at me.” He reminds sternly. “Come on, be good-“

“I’m your dirty slut.” You push out, grinding your hips up into Bucky’s knee. “James, I’m yours, I’m your cockslut, please-“

Bucky makes a feral sound from his chest, and you sob in relief when he shoves those two fingers into you cunt. You shudder, eyes rolling back and hips grinding down. Bucky doesn’t try to stop you this time, just groaning as he finger fucks you into oblivion.

“That’s it, that’s my fuckin’ girl.” He scissors his fingers, and you writhe in the sheets. “So pretty on my fingers, bet you’ll look even better when I’m fuckin’ you stupid on my cock.”

You moan. “Yes, oh-  Oh my god- “

Bucky twists his wrist and starts to pummel your g-spot, right as his thumb finds your clit. He rubs it tight circles in time with his thrusts, and presses his lips back over yours. You almost can’t breathe, between the pleasure he’s pulling from you and the demand of his mouth. Your body starts to twitch and go all tight.

“I- I’m gonna- James, I think-“

“I know.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your upper lip. “Show me what you’ve got, baby, come on.”

Your orgasm rushes through you, staring in your tummy and leaking down Bucky’s fingers and through your whole system. He pulls out immediately, landing a few more spanks on your weeping cunt. In the post-orgasm sensitivity, it’s almost too much to take.

You spread your legs and beg for it anyway.

“Demanding, aren’t you.” Bucky mocks. “Want to feel me tomorrow, when you walk around all cool and collected, pretending you weren’t callin’ yourself my cockslut a few hours ago.”

You shake your head, shivering as Bucky rubs your pussy back and forth. “I- I won’t-“

“Won’t what? Keep it a dirty little secret. You want me to spell my fucking name on your face, so everyone knows who this tight little pussy belongs to?”

“Nuh- No-“

“You think you won’t feel me? Doll,” Bucky takes his hand away, and you almost start to cry again before he pushes two thick fingers between your lips.

“Mmmm-“

“That’s right.” He mutters to himself, and you can feel his attention as you clean your own release off his fingers. “Gonna ruin you for everyone else, doll, you won’t be able to fuck anyone without wishin’ it was me.”

You pull him away by his wrist, risking the punishment to give him your best, sexiest doe-eyes.

“Don’t want anyone else.” You say, and Bucky blinks. “Won’t pretend I wasn’t with you. Want everyone to know.”

Bucky’s nostrils flare. He stares, shoulders heaving, and you think he’s going to do the thing again. The one where he pounces over you and makes you beg.

Instead he grabs your hips like he’s steadying himself, and stares at you like you’re the moon.

“Flip over.” He grunts.

You frown. “Wha-“

“Over. Just-“

Bucky flips you onto your stomach like you weight nothing, then drags your ass high in the air. You squeal, grabbing at the sheets and trying to look at him over your shoulder.

A massive hand presses you back into the sheets by your shoulder blades. Probably for the best. Your knees were shaking too much to be steady.

“Stay there.” There’s a clink of metal behind you. He’s taking off his belt. “Need to be inside you. Now.”

“James-“

“Please.”

His voice cracks.

You’re far, far past trying to tell him no.

You flop obediently, and it earns you a soothing stoke over the curve of your ass.

“So pretty.” He says it so soft, you’re not actually sure you’re supposed to hear. “Wanted this for so fuckin’ long, ‘s even better than I imagined.”

Bucky rubs his cock between your pussy lips and you moan, melting into the sheets. Your knees almost drop down. Bucky wraps an arms around your waist and drags you back up.

“I’ve gotcha. There we go.”

He keeps rubbing it, gathering your arousal to make the entrance easier. There’s plenty of it. Even more when his fat head presses against your clit, and you wiggle.

“Done so good for me, babydoll.” His praise shoots straight to your already burning pussy. You try to push yourself higher with a whine. “Already nice and stupid for me, just gotta- Fuuuuck-“

Bucky pushes himself in slowly, and you cry out. 

“Oh- Oh my god-“

It’s good he didn’t let you see him before. He’s big. Stupidly big. You can feel every thick vein, every pulse as you squeeze around him, every inch of Bucky dragging through your tight channel. You sob into the sheets, pushing back to try and take more. You have to take more. You need to take all of him, so when he fucks you he can drive every single fucking thought from your head.

“That’s it.” Bucky groans, pressing his face into the curve of your neck as he bottoms out.

He’s folded over you, fully buried in your pussy, breath hot and heavy. You whimper, trying to adjust to the size of him. Bucky’s arm snakes around you, rubbing your clit lightly. Trying to help you relax.

“You’re so tight, baby.” He rasps, kissing behind your ear. “Best pussy I’ve ever fuckin’ felt.”

“Mmmm.” You tip your head, pressing your cheek into the mattress. “You’re so big.”

“I know. But you’re gonna take it, aren’t you?”

You whimper, and Bucky chuckles. The sound vibrates between your legs, not helping anyone at all.

“Yeah. You are.”

And if Bucky says you are, you are.

He starts by pulling almost fully out, then rolling slowly back in. It goes easier than the first time, but still knocks the air from your lungs. Your eyes roll back. A strangled sound leaves your throat, and Bucky laughs.

“Look at you, silly girl. We’ve barely even started.”

“’S- ‘S a lot-“

“But it’s your my fuckin’ cockslut.” Bucky slams his hips forward, and you scream in pleasure. “You’re the one who said it, remember. My. Fucking. Cockslut.”

He emphasizes each word with another thrust, and soft, caring Bucky is gone. The hot, demanding version is back, and he brought your tears with him.

Bucky fucks into your like an animal, pushing you down into the mattress and forcing an impossibly deep angle. You’re sensitive. So sensitive it almost hurts in the best fucking way.

“Can see your pussy taking me, doll.” Bucky groans, his fingers digging into your hips. “Fucking gorgeous, greedy little thing swallowing this cock whole. Pussy made for me to fuck it.”

You keen, and Bucky laughs.

“Jesus, might tie you up and keep you just like this for me. Crying like a brat when you begged for it, can’t ever figure out what you want without my help, huh?”

You can’t form a strong enough thought to respond. Bucky’s drilling into you, and rubbing over your g-spot with every thrust and filling you up until there’s no space for things like words.

“No mouthy little comebacks?” He mocks. “My smart doll can’t even tell me to go fuck myself?”

“I- Jaaames-“

“Yeah, that’s right.” Bucky almost growls. “I own this pussy now, sweetheart. Gonna cum inside and make you walk around with it dripping out of your cunt, make you scream my name so loud everyone hears.”

You babble, clenching down on his cock. Bucky’s hips stutter slightly.

“Oh you love that. Love the idea of everyone knowing that I just made you my stupid little cockdrunk slut. Fuck-“

Bucky wraps an arm around your waist, hauling you back against his chest. You toss your head onto his shoulder, writhing in his arms as he keeps thrusting up into your pussy. God, you hope the music downstairs is loud enough that they can’t hear, but you also don’t know how they could hear anything else. The whole room is filled with Bucky’s groans and your open sobs.

“Still crying, babydoll?” He kisses over your neck, and you whimper, grabbing at his forearms.

“Can’t- Can’t take it-“

“Yeah, you can.”

You shake your head, tears streaming down your face. “Mh- I’m gonna cum-“

Bucky spanks your clit, and you shriek, arching into his hand.

“Fuckin’ cum, dirty girl, soak this dick like a good girl-“

You scream with this orgasm, thrashing in Bucky’s arms as it completely overtakes your senses. There’s a familiar wet feeling coming out of your pussy and slicking over your ass and thighs. Bucky groans, bending over to kiss you as he keeps your impaled on his cock. He thrusting sharply, chasing his own release. You try to grind down to help him, and he moans right into your ear.

“Wh- Where-“

“In.” You whimper. “In, James, wanna feel you, fuck-“

Bucky groans shamelessly as his cock starts to spurt hot cum over your gooey walls. The sound as he keeps fucking up into you is obscene, his lips over glued over yours as you both ride it out.

You’ve never been so ruined before. You think you might smell of cum and sweat for the rest of your life, and you can’t even bring yourself to mind.

And part of you worries that Bucky’s going to vanish. Kick you out of his room now that he got what he wanted, and break the heart you’d just offered him with shaking hands.

Instead, he kisses you before he pulls out, mumbling that he’ll be right back. He draws a bath and cleans you up, gets you water and wipes the dried tears on your cheeks.

“Too much?” He asks softly, and you can see the real worry in his eyes.

 You shake your head, and offer him a tiny smile.

“Perfect.”

His eyes light up. “Really?”

You giggle. “Yeah.”

Bucky kisses your nose, and you hum happily.

“You’re were perfect too.”

“Thanks.” You breathe.

He pulls back, running a hand through your hair. His eyes soften.

“You still want me to take it back?”

And you almost laugh. Why would you ever possibly want to go back.

“No, thank you.”

Bucky chuckles. “So polite. Think I fucked some manners into you-“

“I had manners-“

“Yeah, but you’re gonna be nice to me now-“

“Don’t hold your breath-“

He shuts you up with a deep kiss. You could get used to it.

“Let me take you out.” He breathes when he’s done, looking at you with unending hope in his eyes. “For real.”

And you wonder.

If it had really been there, the whole time.

“Okay.”

✦End note: i love being so self indulgent with my horniness.✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

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