alice

The room is quiet, the only sound being the gentle hum of the air conditioner running. The room smells like sea salt and cinnamon from the candle kept on the bedside table. Bucky is sat on the bed, holding a book in his hands.

But his attention is not on the book, it's on you and how adorable you look right now.

You're running all over the place, grabbing all sorts of products and your towels for your everything shower. Your hands are so full that you can't even lock the door of the en suite bathroom. You don't lock the door around him anyway. Because Bucky is extra paranoid when it comes to you. He wants to be able reach you as quickly as he can just in case something happens to you without anything in his way.

Bucky still doesn't quite understand what you even do in those everything showers, but he knows you look forward to them every weekend so he doesn't want to ruin your fun by asking stupid questions.

He smiles when he hears the water running and your soft, slightly off key hums with it. It calms him down. Bucky had trained himself to focus on you early on in the relationship and it really helped him shut off the voices in his head. Now, it's almost like second nature. His enhanced hearing is almost always focused on you and your sweet little sounds.

He opens his book, opening the page he'd last bookmarked by the bookmark you'd made for him last month. Even though it's only a simple piece of paper, he still cherishes it dearly because you've made it for him. You love making crafts and he's the one privileged enough who gets to keep all of them, whether it's a photo carousel or a simple bookmark.

Bucky is at peace. His eyes scan over the words on the page as he waits for you to get out.

But he immediately stiffens up when he hears a sound that's awfully a lot like you throwing up. His heart drops to his stomach at the thought of you being in any kind of danger. He immediately abandons the book and knocks on the door of the bathroom.

"Sweetie? You okay in there?"

When you don't answer, Bucky's concern increases even more. He pushes the door open, running towards the shower as fast as he can.

There, he finds you, sitting right there on the shower floor, slumped against the wall with your head lolled to the side. You're panting. There's drool dripping from the corner of your mouth as the shower sprays down water on you. He frowns at the sight and slides the shower door open.

When Bucky is inside, he shuts the water off and crouches down in front of you. He cups your face and his frown deepens. Your eyes are unfocused and dazed but at least you're concious.

"Talk to me, angel, tell me what's wrong," he coos, his thumbs running over your cheek. He hates seeing you like this. Usually, you're so energetic and cheerful, but right now, you can barely even manage to keep your eyes open.

"Don't know, Jamie, feel all dizzy, I can't stand. I also threw up," you feebly manage to stutter out, voice groggy from the acid in your throat. Your hands grasp his shoulders as he picks you up and you fully lean against him. There's still shampoo in your hair, suds of soap all over your arms and legs.

Bucky holds you against him as he grabs the showerhead with his vibranium arm, gently rinsing the soap off your body. You lean against him, pliant and trusting as he washes you. He presses a kiss to your forehead, which is burning up, your whole body is.

He doesn't understand. You were fine just thirty minutes ago before you went to shower and now you're looking so sick.

"Oh, babydoll, you're burnin' up," he mutters, holding you tighter. His clothes are getting wet, but he doesn't care about that. The only thing on his mind is that you're sick and he has to take care of you.

"Head hurts so bad, Buck," you mumble against his chest, your hands wrapping around his waist to keep yourself upright.

Once you're properly rinsed, Bucky carries you out of the shower. He presses kisses along your hairline, setting you down on the counter in the bathroom. He grabs a towel and wraps it around your frame.

"You'll be okay, doll, I'll take care of you, yeah?" he says as he stands in between your legs, patting your hair dry. Even in your sickness, you're still the prettiest thing he's ever seen.

"Bucky—" you try to warn him, but before you can complete your sentence, warm, yellow liquid spews out of your mouth, missing him by just an inch. You bend over to vomit properly and he places a hand on your back, running it up and down. Every lurch of your throat makes his heart squeeze with worry but he still stands there, patient and doting.

"It's okay, sugar, it's not your fault. I'll clean it up, don't worry," he coos at you and turns the tap in the sink on. He rinses your mouth with the water while mumbling soft reassurances to you. You can only look up at him with an apologetic frown, feeling guilty for making his job even harder.

Bucky discards his shirt, cursing under his breath as the wet fabric clings to his skin. You can't lie, the sight of his bare torso does make you feel a little better. He lets go of you and grabs a rag for the dirty floor.

You can't help but focus on his movements. Your eyes travel all over his body, dazedly studying the flex of his arm as he works. He looks up at you and heat rushes to your cheeks as your eyes meet his. He grins at your embarrassment before he focuses back on wiping the floor clean.

As he's done, he stands up, keeping the dirty rag to the side. He walks over to you, picking you up in his arms. Your hands rest on his shoulder as he wraps his arms around you. Your eyes stay fixed on him, soft and tired, following every movement of his. Bucky smiles down at you and presses a gentle peck to your lips.

"Jamie, no! I have vomit breath!" you whine, giving him a half-hearted shove. He doesn't relent, instead, cups your face and connects your lips to his in a gentle kiss. You can't stay mad at him for longer after that.

"You think I care, angel?" he muses as he pulls away from your lips, connecting your forehead to his. Just to emphasise his point further, he pecks your lips again. Bucky wraps your legs around your waist, making sure you were secure in his arms.

He carries you out of the bathroom, keeping his grip on you tight the whole way. He sits down on the bed with you in his lap. You slump against his chest, the cool air of the room making you shiver. He mumbles and apology in your hair and turns the air conditioner off.

Bucky lets go of you with a kiss to your forehead, laying your back against the headboard. He takes medicine box out of the bedside drawer and rummages through it for a paracetamol.

Your heart warms at the sight of him being so attentive. With a brave attempt, you lean towards him laying your head on his shoulder. Your head is still violently spinning but you try your best to keep it upright.

A surprised smile spreads across Bucky's lips and he wraps an arm around your waist. You nuzzle into his side, the coolness of his cybernetic arm feeling oddly pleasant against your damp skin. The notes of cedar and oak from his aftershave swim around your nostrils, calming you down greatly.

"Be careful, angel," he says, trying not to jostle you too much.

When he finally finds the medicine, he pops a pill out on his hand. Reaching for the bottle of water, Bucky puts the pill in your mouth. You scrunch your nose at the bitter taste of the pill and he snickers.

"You're so cute, baby, y'know that?" he teases, pouring water inside your mouth. You swallow the pill, leaning against him. His eyes travel over the goosebumps on your skin and he gently pulls himself away from you. You whine at the loss of his body heat, looking up at him with a frown.

"Stay here, yeah? I'll be back in just a second," Bucky says, running towards the closet. He opens the door and pulls out one of his warmer henleys.

He rushes back to you with the shirt in his arms, sitting down on the bed. He pulls you in his lap and puts the shirt over your frame. Your body is practically swimming in the henley. You always look so adorable in his clothes, it makes his heart feel so full. He still finds it so hard to believe that he gets to experience this domesticity with you.

He lays down on the bed, still holding you. Your mouth opens into a yawn and tears collect at the corner of your eyes. Bucky wipes them away, pressing kisses along your hairline to comfort you.

"Wanna sleep," you mumble, snuggling yourself into his chest. He smiles and pulls the blanket over your tangled bodies. He lays your head on his human arm while the vibranium one runs over yours to warm you up.

You sigh in contentment, eyes fluttering shut. Your index finger draws little hearts on his abdomen, a gesture that always relaxes both you.

"Goodnight, babydoll," he coos, his hand going up to stroke your hair.

"Night, Buck. I love you."

"Love you too, sugar,"

And just like that, you're pulled into a deep, content slumber. While it is drug induced but part of it also has to do with the safety of being in Bucky's arms.

Bucky looks down at you adoringly, a smile spreading across his lips. You look so peaceful, so trusting. He still can't believe that he's the one at the receiving end of your affection, of your trust. He never thought that he'll ever be worthy of the life he has with you.

But now that he's experienced it, he can't ever think of going back.

"You're everythin' to me, angel."

i hope you liked reading ts one <3. also tysm for a hundred followers and all the love y'all have been showering on my blog. ydk how much it means to me :3 ilysmm ill try my best to write absolute bangers for you cuties 𐔌՞꜆. ̫.꜀՞𐦯

To Dex, the physical topography of another human being had always been a calculus of vulnerability. His mind was a machine, capable of mapping the dimensions of an enclosed space within milliseconds and identifying the precise trajectory required to sever an artery. He understood the mechanics of the anatomy; he knew exactly how much pressure it took to snap a collarbone or drop a grown man to his knees. But touch and affection? Affection was a foreign, deeply distressing dialect. It was a sensory input that rendered his internal programming entirely mute. He knew every ligament in the body, where to assault to cause torment but God forbid he uses his hands for softness.

There was a profound, quiet irony in a man of his age and lethal competence being so utterly paralyzed by the simple proximity of soft skin. Hell, he almost pitied himself for it. For decades, the concept of a romantic relationship hadn’t been relegated in his mind. It had been buried beneath layers of institutional survival, psychological trauma, and the crushing weight of an existence spent entirely on the defensive. Dex was not a lover and he had never been, affection and care was unnatural to him.

He could still recall the sharp, sterile scent of the office belonging to his first therapist, the singular human anchor he had at the fragile age of sixteen. He had cared for her, though his developing mind lacked the emotional framework to define what care actually meant. To Dex, care was synonymous with structure. It was the methodical way she re-aligned his straying thoughts, the unnatural patience she extended far beyond the boundaries of her hourly compensation. That was the closest Dex ever got to care. And when death claimed her, his internal architecture had shattered into something feral and defensive. Standing beside her hospital bed, looking down at her failing form, he had chosen to weaponize his grief, hissing that he hated her. He didn’t hate her for who she was, but for the betrayal of leaving him entirely alone in a world without parameters. After that care became just another word without meaning to him.

Then came Julie.

Julie had been an exercise in aesthetic symmetry. She was safe, correct, and perfectly aligned with the script he desperately tried to perform. Dex had cared for her in the same detached, appreciative manner you might have for a beautiful painting in a museum. Admired from a calculated, safe distance, entirely devoid of genuine visceral heat or want. He never wanted Julie, despite how it might have looked, Dex wanted to be her. How easily life came to her was just so fascinating to a man like him. He remembered the exact moment she had offered him a farewell hug at the Suicide Hotline Center, just before he transitioned into the stark world of the Bureau.

The physical contact had been an absolute shock to his nervous system. And he remembers it even now years later. First came the ice, a sudden, freezing sensation that trickled down his spine the precise millisecond her palms pressed against his biceps, his body mistaking the gesture for an ambush. His muscles had coiled instantly like overwound springs, his vertebrae stiffening in a violent protest against the proximity. But then, right before he could pull away, the ice had thawed into an invasive, confusing warmth. Before his mind could categorize or fixate on the sensation, she had already retreated, leaving him standing in the corridor, thoroughly deregulated by a three-second interaction.

That brief, fleeting embrace had been the absolute zenith of his experience with physical intimacy. Dex didn't do hugs, or anything else for that matter… His subsequent, half-hearted attempts at dating in his early twenties had been a disastrous blur, locked away like radioactive material in the darker corridors of his subconscious. The entire experience had felt extremely uncomfortable, unfulfilling, and complicated in ways that insulted his intelligence.

The sheer volume of unwritten variables was maddening. He had to speak enough to demonstrate engagement, but not so much to appear self-absorbed. Connection required vulnerability, but a fraction too much was classified as forward or desperate. He couldn't request another date too quickly or too frequently without crossing into the territory of predatory. Touch was a minefield; it was deemed acceptable only if initiated by the woman, yet society dictated that a man should assert dominance and assume leadership. Hold her hand, the script said, but don't apply too much pressure to suggest control. Open the door for her, but don't infantilize her or imply incompetence.

By his third official date, Dex had quietly withdrawn from the field entirely. The sheer unpredictability of the social ritual was entirely too volatile for his psychology to parse. He vividly recalled sitting across a woman in a dimly lit restaurant, completely incapable of processing a single syllable falling from her lips because his entire focus had been hijacked by a fork. Her elbow had accidentally nudged the cutlery, leaving it misaligned by less than half an inch from the knife. The asymmetry had screamed in his mind like a siren, drowning out her voice, preventing him from formulating the carefully curated, charming responses necessary to foster romantic banter. He had stared at the silver, suffocated by the lack of order, and realized he was entirely unfit for the performance.

So, he surrendered the idea. He locked his focus onto the FBI, dedicating his life to a rigid, bureaucratic institution that allowed him to believe he was doing good for society while keeping his demons safely behind bars. Years had dissolved into the background of that singular pursuit, and the concept of dating became an obsolete idea of a past life.

Even more now that his world had been violently upended; he had broken out of the prisons meant to contain him, shed the skin of a government puppet, and stripped away the illusions of the system. He was older now, his features hardened by violence, but he was entirely free from the invisible snares that had once dictated his value. Standing in his late thirties, Dex felt a strange sense of selfhood that had completely eluded him in his twenties.

His daily routine remained his mandatory sanctuary, waking up exactly the same hour, executing a flawless military tuck on his bedsheets, consuming a balanced breakfast before physical regimen, and then work. But the internal shift was tectonic. He no longer walked through the streets of New York like a fraudulent actor trying to mimic human behavior and integrate himself into civilization. He knew the truth now: there was no grand order to life. There was only the winding, bloody path he had been carved out to walk. He no longer craved the external validation of a badge or a supervisor’s praise to consider himself a whole entity. He was fucking Bullseye.

And the concept of a "North Star", the desperate need for a perfect, external moral anchor to keep him sane, had been forcibly buried deep within a vault next to his most violent, unpacked trauma. Though sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, a phantom tension would ripple through his chest, an instinctual tug toward the comfort of connection, but he would quickly dismiss it as mere human biology. He didn't need a North Star. His life was already perfectly illuminated by his own design. Or so he continuously told himself.

Until he walked into your boutique.

The shop was situated a short distance down the asphalt stretch of Hell’s Kitchen, a stark, hyper-feminine building in an otherwise gritty neighborhood. The interior was an absolute assault of pastel pinks, a visual sensory overload that normally would have triggered his defense mechanisms, but the hand-painted sign outside promised custom tailoring services. And Dex needed his belongings fixed the moment he noticed imperfections.

He carried two specific items across the threshold that afternoon. His utilitarian jacket that had suffered a tear against a rusty fire escape during the previous night's "hero work," and a pair of heavy tactical gloves that needed the seams to be adjusted for a better grip.

You'd been seated behind the polished wooden counter, a needle held between your hand, your hair slightly disheveled as you worked. When you looked up and saw the tall, broad-shouldered man standing in your doorway, your face had broken into a smile so massive, so genuinely warm, that Dex had felt an involuntary, almost evolutionary impulse to mimic the expression. He stood perfectly rigid as your small, incredibly nimble hands took the damaged fabric from his grip, your fingers tracing the torn nylon of the jacket with a professional, practiced ease.

When you looked up and informed him that the repairs would only take sixty minutes, his sharp brows had risen in mild intrigue at your efficiency.

"I work fast," you had offered, your voice bright and entirely unbothered by his silent, imposing intensity.

Dex returned to the shop precisely the sixty-minute mark, not a second early, not a second late. You were already waiting for him at the counter, the jacket neatly pressed and the jagged tear now entirely imperceptible, executed with a level of craftsmanship that deeply satisfied his need for perfection. Then he slid his large hands into the resized tactical gloves, flexing his fingers to test the tension of the thread.

Whether you had recognized the subtle Bullseye emblem stamped into the leather, you made no verbal indication. Instead, you merely bit your lower lip, your gaze tracking the movement of his hands before you boldly, without an ounce of hesitation, reached out and gripped his gloved hand. Your fingers guide his, pointing down to the specific cross-stitch where you had loosened the seams to accommodate his knuckles.

The ice returned instantly. It danced down the length of his spine, a freezing jolt that made his chest tighten. But as your warm skin remained pressed against the heavy material of his glove, the sensation mutated into something remarkably pleasant. Dex let out an involuntary exhale from your touch as your index finger trailed a slow, deliberate line down the length of his hand. Was this flirting? No, this was her job….

"If you need it bigger I can make that possible," you offered softly, your eyes lifting to lock onto his with a quiet, grounded confidence. And Dex paused, taking in the intimacy of your closeness. Okay…. Yeah, this was flirting. He deduced at its baseline before he found himself engaging.

Dex couldn't understand the sequence of events that followed, birthed from that moment alone. His memory, usually so linear and mathematical, became a blur of transitions. And normally the haze would eat away at him till he lost his mind, if it weren't for the fact that the stages that followed were extremely enjoyable. All he knew was that the rigid wall of his isolation had suddenly breached, and he was taking you on a first date. Then a second. A third. A fourth. The unwritten variables that had paralyzed him in his youth seemed to dissolve in your presence; you didn't demand a script, and your effortless need to keep talking filled the awkward silences he usually created. Dex was thankful for it. He was thankful for all of you.

By the time the fifth date happened, you were both standing inside the threshold of your private home. And Dex was fucking ecstatic. The realizations hit him in waves during his nightly routines: life was simply greater, sharper, and infinitely better with your existence woven into it. Within the calculated grid of his mind, he had rapidly come to view you as an essential, non-negotiable component of his daily structure. A connection he needed desperately to maintain that he was fully prepared to execute any measure necessary to ensure you stayed. You were kind, sweet, and giving in a way that defied his understanding of human nature. How were you so willing to offer the world everything you had without demanding anything in return?

Because he couldn't comprehend it, he studied you. He watched you with a hyper-attentive, microscopic focus that would have terrified a normal civilian, tracking the micro-expressions of your face, the cadence of your breaths, and the specific pitch of your laughter. And you let him. To you, that intense, unblinking gaze didn't feel like surveillance; it made you feel entirely seen and warm.

Dex had learned you. He played every single card in his hand with absolute precision to ensure he kept your favor, but you made the act remarkably easy. He found himself wanting to give the world to you, a new directive that lingered constantly. While on missions, he's doing this to make the city better for you. He had to come home safe because you'd be so devastated if anything happened to him. You needed him in your life so he had to make sure no wounds took over his body. These thoughts progressed over time, though they were already brewing the minute he stepped out of your boutique. Dex brought you a perfectly curated bouquet of flowers on your very first date, quickly logging the fact that you flourished when things were done for you. From that moment on, his chivalry became non-negotiable. He opened doors before your hand could even approach the handle; he pulled out chairs to the exact angle required for your comfort; he even leaned across the console of his vehicle to buckle your seatbelt for you, his large frame momentarily shielding you from the world. A thought that appears constantly in his mind at night.

And now, those correctly executed actions had granted him entry into your sanctuary.

Walking through the door of your brownstone, his analytical eyes immediately deduced that you and your work were a singular entity. The space was less a traditional home and more an active studio. A heavy, vintage treadle sewing machine sat prominently in the center of the room, positioned directly in front of the television, while two antique, velvet-upholstered couches framed it on either side. Dex made a silent, permanent mental note of that specific layout: the tool of your labor received absolute priority over comfort.

As he looked around Dex noticed your affinity for older things immediately, your eyes lingering on aged, well-maintained pieces of history. A part of him wondered if that was why you liked him so much and despite himself, the thought amused him. His gaze drifted to the expansive dining room, noting how every single high-backed chair had been pushed flush against the perimeter of the walls, completely away from the central table to maximize workspace. A deep, quiet part of his psychology deeply admired the dedication. He understood the obsession with craft, the way you spoke about fabrics and patterns with radiant love. He was identical to you in that regard, though he remained hyper-vigilant about never revealing the bloodier details of his own craft to you.

Dex paced silently behind you, his broad shoulders squared as his eyes continuously darted around the rooms, absorbing the atmosphere of your home while you led him toward the kitchen by the hand. His frame was tense, his muscles vibrating with a low-grade current of electricity. He still wasn't accustomed to the physical touching. He liked it, he liked it with a terrifying intensity that scared him, but his brain lacked the programming required to properly receive it.

And bless your heart, you were so unbelievably touchy.

You were a creature of constant physical contact. There was always a soft arm looping around his rigid bicep, a gentle palm resting against his. A constant, natural inclination to latch onto his massive frame and cling to him as if he were the only solid object in a moving world. He reciprocated in the only ways he knew how, squeezing your hand back with a carefully measured amount of pressure, standing perfectly still to accept your weight. But Dex still hadn't learned how to articulate or manifest his own physical desires. He didn't know how to be the one to close the distance. He didn't know how to reach out his large, scarred hands, wrap them around your waist, and pull you against his chest without an explicit invitation. The script hadn't given him those lines yet.

So instead, he simply allowed himself to be a passive monument of muscle and bone, letting you pull him toward the kitchen island for wine and cheese after your date. The night got more enjoyable, but then again, every moment was enjoyable with you. But this is even more so. You trusted him enough to let him into your space, liked him so much that you paid attention whenever his glass was empty.

"I have a secret," you admitted suddenly, your face flushing a deep, radiant pink after you drained the remainder of your second glass.

Dex raised a single, sharp brow, holding his own glass perfectly steady as he waited for the disclosure. He ignored the sudden, rhythmic thumping of his own blood pumping violently in his ears. He couldn't quite determine if the sudden spike in his heart rate was the result of the alcohol or a sudden surge of anxiety. Given his high tolerance, it was likely the latter.

"I hate wine," you hiccuped, a small, breathless sound. You didn't feel that inebriated but Dex had a skill for making you feel drunk.

Dex’s cold eyes widened slightly in genuine surprise. Without a word, his large hand reached out and gently but firmly took the crystal glass directly from your fingers, a low, rumbling chuckle vibrating in his chest as the absurdity of the situation caused a bright laugh to break from your lips.

"Why didn't you say anything," he asked, his gravelly voice dropping an octave as he placed the glass down on the exact center of a stone coaster.

"Because it was a nice gift and also because I wanted to be with you longer," you reasoned smoothly.

You stepped away from the counter, your short frame moving into his immediate personal space. Slipping effortlessly between his extended legs as he sat perched on the high barstool, your body completely filling the void between his knees. Before he could process the proximity, your arms looped entirely around his broad shoulders, your hands resting against the nape of his neck.

Dex sat up just a fraction straighter, his entire spine locking into a protective line. A hesitant, unpracticed hand rose from his side, his large palm resting against the fabric of your dress to support your lower back, his fingers trembling slightly against your skin.

"I like having you around..." you admitted softly, your voice heavily laced with an intoxicated, sleepy haze as you looked up at him.

"I like being around," Dex nodded, his gaze boring into yours with an unblinking, absolute intensity.

It was the most fundamental truth his mouth had ever uttered. He liked being around you so much that the mere concept of physical separation had become an agonizing friction in his daily life. There were moments during his long, solitary hours on a rooftop or following a lethal assignment where the craving to see you grew so violent, so overwhelming, that he had seriously contemplated abandoning his operation just to stand outside your window. But the rational, highly defensive side of his mind, the piece of him that vividly remembered the trembling panic in Julie's face, always managed to reassert control. He wouldn't risk breaking what you two had.

"Will you be around forever?" you asked, your voice dropping into a soft, vulnerable register that sounded almost like a plea.

Dex felt a sudden, blinding flash behind his eyes, a sensation so sharp and radiant it felt as though stars had detonated within his skull. A terrifying wave of duty and existential purpose crashed through his mind, rewriting his internal directives in an instant. This was his calling. This was his permanent assignment.

"I'll be here forever," he nodded, his voice carrying the heavy, unyielding finality of a death warrant.

He barely had a single microsecond to process the violent rush of devotion flooding his veins before you leaned in, and your soft lips met his.

Dex froze.

He froze in a way he had never experienced in the heat of lethal gunfire. He hesitated with a sudden, paralyzing vulnerability that his mind was completely unequipped to handle. Bullseye did not hesitate; Bullseye was a creature of pure, instantaneous reaction. But Dex, Dex was entirely lost here in the quiet of your kitchen, his lips pressed flat against yours, his breath catching in the back of his throat as the delicate warmth of your mouth completely shattered his being.

His mind scrambled for data, for a past memory or a set of instructions to tell him what to do with his hands, how to move with you, how to breathe. The sheer sensation of your mouth against his was too vast, too unaligned with any grid he had ever mapped. He wanted to deepen the pressure, wanted to sink his fingers into your hips and drag you so close that the space between you ceased to exist, but the terrifying lack of instructions kept his body entirely locked in stone. He was a starving man paralyzed by the sudden appearance of a feast, terrified that a single incorrect movement would cause the illusion to vanish.

It was only a brief, agonizing second of contact. It was over far too quickly for his liking before you were gently pulling back, your eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks.

"You never got much love huh?" you hummed out, your voice dipping into a sad, incredibly tender melody.

Your small hands didn't retreat; instead, they began to preen over his tense shoulders, your fingers sliding upward until your nails began to slowly, methodically comb through the short hairs at the base of his scalp.

An involuntary, deeply guttural groan tore itself from the very bottom of Dex’s throat, the sound surprising even himself. His eyes rolled back, his lids fluttering shut as a wave of intense pleasure rippled through his nervous system. He liked that. He liked that with a feral, addictive desperation. Whatever you were doing with your hands, it was dismantling the static in his brain.

"No," he admitted, his voice a broken, raspy whisper in the quiet room, his head naturally sinking into the guiding pressure of your palms as you continued to adore him.

Your lips moved forward again, finding the hard, unyielding line of his cheekbone. You pressed a soft, lingering kiss directly over the jagged scar near his cheek, the exact spot you always claimed when you were saying goodbye, and Dex felt his entire body shudder under the impact. Then, your kisses migrated downward, tracing the sharp angle of his jaw before your mouth found the sensitive, hot skin of his neck.

Dex’s hands lost their hesitation, his fingers curling tightly into the fabric of your dress as he decided, with absolute certainty, that he liked this even more.

"Don't worry. I'll fix it," you murmured against his skin, your breath hot and reassuring even in your heavily tipsy state.

“Pretty girl like you gonna fix a man like me,” Dex mused out, exhaling in amusement as he welcomed your kisses by granting you more of his neck. You hummed in delight and he noted that was the correct response.

“I'd do everything for you, Dex,” you admitted into his neck and that seemed to do it. Every rigid order he told himself to act like a gentleman broke as he pulled you into his chest, turning his face as if begging for you to grant him another kiss.

And you do.

This time he reciprocated the contact eagerly, fuck it, thoughts can be damned, Dex let his body lead now. His kisses were harsh and demanding, desperate in its undercurrent but you enjoyed it. You tasted faintly like wine and something minty and he finds himself deepening the kiss. His large calloused hand found the thin straps of your bias-cut dress, hastily pushing it down the slope of your shoulder before he froze. He was being too forward, too much, too–

Before he could spiral, you whined into his mouth at the lack of movement. A harmonious plea that he's never had the privilege of hearing before. And Dex's eyes fluttered, that sound went straight to his straining cock evoking a groan against your skin. Emboldened hands pushing the dress down only to pull back momentarily, breaking the kiss despite not wanting to. He'd rather shoot himself than stop kissing you, but he needed to know that what he was doing was okay. And by the blissful state of your eyes, you were more than okay with this, with him. And so he allowed his gaze to wander, darting down to the exposed skin of your soft breast.

His gaze locked onto your hardened nipple before his hand slowly moved, not giving himself time to overthink. His thumb grazed the sensitive peak in experimentation, irises watching as your chest stuttered, his gaze darting up to meet yours in calculation on how to proceed. You were waiting for him, letting him take the lead and explore, and God did he want to map out every shape of you. He wanted to know what made you arch and squirm, what made you sing his name in praise. But Dex was a man rendered stupid in the unfamiliar vastness of your body, so hands stayed motionless as they had done nothing but take and punish all his life. He'd do it slow, he decided, after all, his hands were not meant for this. For worship and caress.

But his mouth would be.

Not breaking eye contact with you, his lips found home on your skin, latching onto your nipple. Humming as you arched your back, your pliant body gravitating into him. You liked that, he learned, so he did it harder. Teeth grazing the sensitive peak before sucking it into his mouth hard.

His free hand wanders to your other breast, thumb circling the clothed nipple there while he devotes himself to the first with his tongue. It’s messy, uncoordinated, Dex isn’t a gentle lover, he learned as the need progresses. His brave hand slips under your dress, pushing fabric up further to expose more of your body as his kisses migrated down your sternum.

“D-Dex.”

The breathy sound made him freeze and he recoiled immediately as if burned. He waits for the storm only for you to eagerly pat him on his shoulder, signaling you wanted him up.

“Room, please…. I-i don't want it here…” you say almost shy and he obeys immediately, standing up and holding you dear.

“Yeah? Sweet girl,” the term endearment escaping his lips catches him by surprise just as much as him kissing your forehead does. But he doesn't dwell on it long as he grabs hold of your hand and leads you upstairs where he already knows where your room is.

The silence of the space was only intensified once you both entered your bedroom. Dex pauses, taking a moment to appreciate the image of you standing there, waiting with earnest eyes and swollen lips. You looked so vulnerable, your dress wrinkled and breathing heavy as you let him assess. He welcomes your softness and realizes that he owes it to you to be vulnerable as well.

With a firm, certain, grip, he turns your body around, your stomach flutters in expectation as lust filled eyes land on the made bed. Only the inevitable force never came, you weren't shoved face down into the mattress in pure heat, instead Dex is moving your hair aside to fall on one shoulder. And that impacted your core more than any barge ever could. So you remained standing there, ignoring the heat in your stomach as the brooding man you'd come to know gently unzipped the back of your dress. Pushing the fabric down your hips, a hum escapes the claimant as he turns you back around with even kinder hands and you melted.

Sure in your intentions, you begin to unbutton his shirt and he watches you in the moment. Sometimes you often wonder what goes on in Dex's mind, but here you're certain that whatever thoughts that hammered in his head were anything but pure. When the fabric of his shirt meets your dress on the floor, a barely suppressed smile threatens to take over your face and his features silently requested for context, amused in your glow.

“You're so big,” appreciation dripped from your words, reinforced by your hands steady on his chest. Pride and something smug consumes Dex’s internal framework as he reaches for your bare waist, pulling you into him. Fuck. He liked how that felt, loved the feeling of you two skin to skin.

“That why you're always so touchy,” he huffed. It was a poor attempt to regulate himself from these overwhelming emotions. Still riding the dopamine high from your appraisal.

“Yes,” you nodded shamelessly.

At that a raw exhale breaks free from his mouth, falling in ardor before he's guiding you down to the bed. Dex’s gaze is locked on yours, at your body barely covered in cotton underwear as he prowls towards you on the duvet. Your presence was the single grounding planet in the uncharted stars of his nebula, an innate need to keep his focus on you and solely you to avoid getting lost in the orbit of his thoughts. Waiting patiently as exploratory hands trailed over your body, thumbs brushed over your nipples just once, before migrating down to your torso, eventually finding home on your hips.

Lips parted but nothing fell from them as words failed him. Instead his gaze darted up to meet yours as his fingers deliberately tugged your underwear, not fully, not even an inch down, just enough to get your attention and silently ask for permission.

Your body moved on its own, hastily squirming under his broad stature and pushing the thin fabric down your legs. The man over you had been the only thing plaguing the recesses of your brain for the past few weeks, consuming you with such unbidden thoughts. Anything would be done for him at this point. You barely got to kick the drenched cotton off before Dex's palm landed flat on one thigh, pushing it down hard against the bed and spreading you open for him. With a fluttering stomach so intense, your body fell back as you took in his state. Half dressed and tightly coiled, muscles pulling in restrain as he remained pinning your thigh down. His attention was locked onto you, or more so, your dripping cunt and an involuntary need to shut your legs was met with even more resistance from him.

He didn't appreciate you trying to hide from him, evident in his warning gaze. Without a word, his palm trailed up, the desire and craving to touch you won out in him. And suddenly hands that had only known violence was caressing you so softly and attentively, figuring out the definition of what it meant to be a lover.

God you were so wet and warm and soft and all the good things in the world…

Dex noticed your breathing growing more labored beneath him and instinctively he leaned back to watch you more, away from the disadvantage of being tucked into your neck. Your pupils were blown out, starry eyed as your brows creased and a pout settled on your lips. His fingers moved on their own as he watched, a new desire to pull more of those darling expressions from you forming. And as he sunk two cruel digits into your slopping wet heat, satisfaction invaded his senses as he took in your reaction. Your mouth parts in ecstasy, a sound Dex immediately knew he loved fell from your lips as your body arched up into him. And then that begging pout graced your features again, looking down at where his fingers fucked you.

So perhaps intimacy was everything people made it out to be, and so much more when it's with you. Dex was beginning to understand it now, the insatiable need to constantly be touching your person. Fuck, he doesn’t think he could ever go back to the way he was before. So fucking hesitant, unsure with anxiety that dibilitated him. He refused to be so rigid again, not when the sounds of your desire and need were music to his ears. He loved this, loved it in a way that was beginning to align with his new idea of normal. He could get used to this, to touching you, to fucking you.

Whining in protest as his fingers pulled away, your hands gripped at his chest in agony. Complains at the tip of your tongue before halting completely as you hear him begin to take his jeans off. Humming in delight as he strips. And fucking hell…. You were well aware of Dex’s large frame, it was one of the first things you noticed about him, second to the attractive scar on his cheek. But seeing him like this was something different entirely and you couldn't help yourself as you preened over his naked form again. Palms gliding the expansive plains of his back, brushing down his abs and strong chest as you sucked on his neck. Though judging by the expression on Dex's face, he didn't mind you playing. He let you have your fun until eventually pulling your lips off of him with a gentle hand at the back of your neck. A protest happened beneath him as you tried to chase after his body before stopping, noticing his hand on his member. And that shut you up real good.

Dex gently guides his hardened cock onto your dripping core. Rubbing his swollen head up and down your drenched skin before slowly sinking into you. A gasp falls from your lips followed by a desperate cry of want. His breath comes in rough bursts through his nose, focused entirely on you beneath him. How you take it, how you sound, how tight you feel with every drag out and push back in. The plains of his anatomy strained with tension as he exhaled in contentment. Dex thought he had come to know comfort, in the way you'd lean onto him during walks, how you raked your nails through his hair earlier. But this exceeded that in every capacity, comfort was a juvenile word to express how this felt like home. He's barely halfway through and already has to stop and compose himself. He let out a hiss, halting all movements as you clenched around him.

The sudden, full stretch makes you mewl out a sharp, startled sound And Dex freezes instantly, his entire body locking up. Has he hurt you? Was something wrong? He’s buried to the hilt now. It’s a lot. Too much all at once. A wave of something almost like guilt hits him, he hadn’t meant to scare you, but the sensation is… God.

"Shhh," he soothes automatically, instinctively brushing your cheek with his thumb despite how wrecked he feels right now.

You leaned into his touch, seeking for more and he's relieved. Needy palms finding a place on his biceps as you squirmed, looking down at where you both meet. Dex follows your gaze, watching his hardened cock buried deep in you. Yeah… that’s a lot.

"Tell me what you need," he murmurs, thumb brushing away another stray tear. "We can stop. Or go stupid slow.”

You let out a laugh that bled dangerously too close to a moan and Dex makes the decision of the latter for you. The first thrust is deliberate, deep and controlled, testing your reaction. The second follows, then a third, each one creating a filthy rhythm that fills the quiet room. He slowly fucks into you in a sedate, gentle manner. But gentleness is short-lived. His movements quickly grow faster till he was fucking you in a steady eager pace. Skin slaps against skin, joining the song of moans that you sing. The bed creaks under the weight, every movement is amplified in the hushed space. Rapture floods through you as any other thoughts that weren't Dex quickly subsides, giving way for your focal. Everything felt right in the world as he molded your body to his.

It was almost too much, his body caging yours in as his hips moved relentlessly. You knew you wouldn't last much longer if he kept going like this. But Dex was a man of intention, he took you like it was the only thing worth doing in his life.

The press of your hand against his pelvis, pushing, cunt trying to get him closer yet you were pulling away at the same time, sends conflicting signals straight to his dick. Your thighs around him squirmed, a telltale sign you're overwhelmed. Dex groans but doesn’t let up; if anything, he presses down harder on you with his hips, pinning yours in place.

"Take it," he rasps no room for argument. His skilled thumb lands on your clit, relentless despite the overstimulation threatening both of your bodies. The sound that left you was obscene and filthy as your head lulls back and Dex is quick to grab hold of your thigh and pull you closer towards him.

The new angle hits perfectly, your entire body jerks, a broken moan escaping as you tense around Dex’s hips. He learned you almost immediately from the very first second his fingers were inside you, he found where to target instantly. And now he abused that information.

He feels it, the way you clenched around him, and his own control wavers. But he holds on, focused solely on your pleasure, chasing every twitch and whimper with relentless precision. His lips find yours again in a messy, open-mouthed kiss as he pounded into you with controlled hits. A sound so similar to bullets in the air echoed at the impact, the wet sound, obscene, unfiltered, hitting him like a lightning bolt. Every thrust is accompanied by that slick, squelching noise: your arousal mixing with his movements. Dex learns that he loved that sound, it satisfied a part of his brain in a notion he couldn't understand but he knew that it fueled him even more. Dex's hips stutter for half a second at the realization of just how drenched you are for him.

A groan rumbles from his chest as he picks up speed, fucking you till you saw stars. A melody of moans and gasps filled the room with a symphony of skin heard with it. The walls welcome the sound with open arms as the atmosphere feels too hot and too heavy. You try to grab at the bed sheets despite Dex's tight grip on one of your wrists, you need something to ground you as you neared. Too much. It was all too much. Seamlessly, he laced his fingers with yours, still holding you down onto the bed but his grip softened.

You reciprocate the touch, tightly squeezing his hand as you feel the pressure capsize and your thighs shake in hot waves. You cry his name out, your back arching off the bed from the pleasure. His cock still sliding in and out of your dripping cunt, desperate to join you in your release, ignoring the coil of his muscles. He loves the way you say his name, so breathy and blinded by ecstasy. Dex breathes into your neck, the sensations becoming too much before a loud groan breaks his focus and he spills ropes of his cum into you. Immediately you primp under him, satiated and spoiled but your accord for touch remains ever present as you gently brush your nails up and down his back. And that sends him collapsing down onto you. Not that you seemed to mind as he heard a loud gleeful laugh beneath his large frame.

Dex exhales, long and slow, moving to stare at you. He’s not used to aftercare. Not with anyone. But here he is gently moving off you and tucking a throw blanket around your shoulders like you're something fragile. A calloused finger brushes a stray hair from your forehead, an absurdly tender gesture for someone who just fucked you into oblivion but you welcomed it.

He learned an entirely new vocabulary that night, and the education continued to expand exponentially in the weeks that followed.

He discovered, through application and obsessive cataloging, that he liked touch. He liked it an immeasurable, terrifying amount. He grew to absolutely love the specific jolt that occurred when you wake him up in the morning by lazily raking your nails across the broad, scarred expanse of his bare back. He loved the domestic weight of you playing with his hair while he sat on the living room floor, or the frantic, heavy way you would cling onto him when the city noise rattled the brownstone windows.

Methodically, his analytical mind began to solve the puzzle of how to return the same favor. He'd mapped your body with the same precision he applied to his targets, but with an entirely different objective.

He learned how to execute a kiss without needing an explicit verbal invitation, his large hands learning the exact amount of pressure required to tilt your chin upward to meet his mouth. He figured out how to use the immense, terrifying strength in his palms to gently massage the deep knots out of your shoulders after you spent a twelve-hour day hunched over the antique sewing machine. He studied the micro-movements of your muscles, tracking the specific shivers that rippled through your frame when his thumbs traced your collarbones, logging every sigh and hitch in your breath as data.

He figured out, with a profound, quiet sense of internal victory, that you loved every single form of physical touch imaginable, so long as it came entirely from him.

And he decided then, he loved intimacy.

The compound was a strange kind of empty, the kind that felt less like a building and more like a held breath, the usual thrum of life and bickering and the heavy tread of almost super-soldier feet replaced by a profound, almost sacred silence. Everyone had gone, scattered to the winds for a night. A mandatory team bonding exercise that Tony had cynically disguised as a strategic morale-boosting initiative, which basically meant he'd herded them all into a swanky new bar downtown that he probably owned a stake in.

You'd begged off with a headache that wasn't entirely a lie, the familiar, comfortable ache of a long week settling behind your eyes, and no one had argued too strenuously, Steve giving you a worried look that you'd waved away with a promise to hydrate and text if you needed a kidney. So now it was just you, the humming fluorescent lights of the common room kitchen, and the promise of sweetened condensed milk and evaporated milk and heavy cream that you'd been craving all week, a quiet rebellion against the world-saving chaos that usually defined your existence.

You were up to your elbows in a promising, airy batter, the scent of vanilla and butter already starting to perfume the air, a grounding, domestic magic that felt miles away from the tactical gear and mission briefs that littered the rest of your life. The recipe was for a pastel de tres leches, a ridiculously indulgent sponge cake soaked in three kinds of milk that your grandma used to make for every birthday and holiday, a project you'd been saving for a night just like this, one that demanded focus and patience and the kind of repetitive, soothing motion that let your mind drift. You were so absorbed in the rhythmic whisk and fold of the egg whites into the golden batter that you didn't hear the soft, almost silent footfall in the hallway, the sound of someone who had been trained to move like a ghost long before he'd ever been turned into a weapon. It was the slight shift of air, the faintest whisper of fabric, that made you look up, your hands still buried in the light, fluffy mixture.

And there he was, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, a study in soft grays and blues. Bucky is the type of man who could kill you in twelve different ways with a paperclip and now was just standing there in a worn henley and sweatpants, his long hair loose around his face and his metal arm glinting dully under the warm lights. He looked so disarmingly human, so young, with a faint crease between his brows as he watched you work. “Didn't think I was the only one avoiding the circus,” he said, his voice a low rasp, and there was a slight, almost imperceptible curl to his lips that you had come to recognize as his version of a smile. “Thought you were in bed.”

You snorted, wiping a stray smudge of batter from your cheek with the back of your hand, probably succeeding only in making it worse. “And miss my one chance to have the kitchen to myself without Clint trying to sneak a taste of raw batter every two seconds? Not a chance. What's your excuse? Thought you'd be the one holding court in the corner, looking intimidating.”

He pushed off from the doorframe, his movements fluid and unhurried as he crossed the tiled floor, the contrast between his lethal grace and the homely setting striking you anew. He came to a stop a few feet away, peering at the bowl of batter on the counter with a kind of scholarly curiosity that made you want to laugh. “Nah. Not my scene,” he mumbled, his gaze sliding from the batter to your face, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Too loud. Too many people. And Stark keeps trying to get me to dance.”

The image of Bucky Barnes, the former Winter Soldier, being cajoled onto a dance floor by a manic Tony Stark was so absurdly, perfectly delightful that a genuine laugh bubbled out of you, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet kitchen. “I would have paid good money to see that,” you said, your grin wide and genuine. “Seriously, I would have faked a broken leg. You could have used it as blackmail material for years.”

He huffed a quiet sound that might have been a laugh, a soft, rusty thing, and then his eyes dropped back to the bowl. “What is that, anyway? Looks like… a lot of work.” He gestured vaguely with his flesh hand, his tone careful, but there was an underlying curiosity that you couldn't miss.

“It's a tres leches cake,” you explained, your hands instinctively finding their way back to the whisk, the familiar rhythm a comfort. “It's a sponge cake, really light and airy, and then you poke holes all over it and soak it in a mixture of three kinds of milk—sweetened condensed, evaporated, and heavy cream. Then you top it with whipped cream and sometimes fruit. It's a process, but it's worth it. Therapeutic, you know? You just… whisk and fold and bake, and by the end, you have something beautiful and delicious. My abuela used to make it for every special occasion.”

He was silent for a long moment, watching your hands work with an intensity that would have been unnerving if it were anyone else. But with Bucky, it was just… him. He always watched things with that same focused attention, like he was cataloguing a potential threat or a point of interest, but this time, there was something softer in the set of his shoulders. “My Ma used to make something like that,” he said finally, his voice so quiet you almost missed it. He wasn't looking at you anymore, but at the batter, a distant, introspective look settling on his face. “Not with three kinds of milk, though. That sounds fancy. She made this simple sponge cake, just flour and eggs and sugar, and she'd soak it in warm milk with cinnamon and a little honey. Called it a milk cake. Made it when I was sick, or when it was raining, or just because. She said it was good for the soul.”

You paused, the whisk momentarily forgotten, your heart giving a little lurch. It was such a rare, precious gift, a tiny fragment of his past, of the person he was before the war and the ice and Hydra. You didn't want to spook him, to make him retreat back into his shell, so you just hummed, a soft, encouraging sound, and kept whisking. “That sounds lovely,” you said, keeping your tone light. “What did it taste like?”

He shifted his weight, his metal hand coming up to rub the back of his neck in a gesture that was so endearingly human, a universal sign of discomfort. “I don't really remember the taste,” he admitted, his brow furrowing. “I remember the smell, though. Warm milk and cinnamon and something sweet. And I remember…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening for a second. “I remember standing on a chair next to her, helping her pour the milk over the cake. She'd let me hold the little pitcher, her hands over mine so I wouldn't spill. And she'd tell me stories while we waited for it to soak in. Stories about her own mother, about growing up in a little apartment in Brooklyn.”

A wave of something hot and achingly tender washed over you, a feeling you were trying very, very hard not to examine too closely. The image was so vivid, so heartbreakingly human: a tiny, dark-haired Bucky, his face probably smudged with flour, standing on a chair in a warm kitchen, his mother's patient hands guiding his as they poured warm milk over a simple cake. You blinked, a sudden sting behind your eyes that you ruthlessly suppressed. “That's a really good memory,” you said softly, your own voice a little thick. “I bet that cake was the best thing in the world. Not because it was fancy, but because she made it with you.”

He finally looked at you, and the look in his eyes was raw, almost vulnerable, a crack in the carefully constructed armor he wore. “Yeah,” he breathed, and the single word carried the weight of a century. “It was.” For a moment, the air between you felt heavy, charged with a shared history you had no part in but that you had just been allowed to witness. Then, he cleared his throat, looking away, and the spell was broken. “You need a hand with that?” he asked, his voice back to its usual low, measured tone, but with a thread of something tentative underneath. “I'm bored. And… I remember how to separate eggs. Mostly.”

The offer was so unexpected, so sweetly awkward, that you couldn't stop the wide, delighted smile that spread across your face. “Bucky Barnes, are you volunteering to be my kitchen assistant?” you teased, but there was no malice in it, only a warm, welcoming happiness. “I'd be honored. But you have to wash your hands first, soldier.”

A ghost of a smile, a real one this time, flickered across his lips. “Yes, ma'am,” he said, with a mock salute that was so incongruous with his usual grim demeanor that it made you laugh again. He turned to the sink, and you watched him as he rolled up the sleeves of his henley, revealing the beautiful, terrifying, and yet somehow elegant lines of his metal arm, and the strong, scarred flesh of his right. He scrubbed his hands with a meticulousness that spoke of a lifetime of ingrained habits, and when he turned back, he looked almost boyish, his hair falling into his face, a faint glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Alright,” he said, positioning himself across the counter from you. “Show me what to do. But I'm warning you, the vibranium's not great for delicate work. It's too smooth. I'm better with the heavy stuff.”

And so you did. You guided him through the process, your hands hovering near his but never quite touching, as you showed him how to separate the eggs but realized he actually knows how to do it, his flesh hand working with a surprising delicacy while his metal arm hung awkwardly at his side, a silent testament to his frustration. He was a quick learner, his body attuned to patterns and movement, and soon he was folding the stiff egg whites into the batter with a focused, quiet intensity, the mixture coming together under his gentle hand. “Like this?” he asked, his brow furrowed in concentration, and you couldn't help the warm affection that bloomed in your chest at the sight of him, this lethal, haunted man, treating your cake batter like it was the most important mission of his life.

“Perfect,” you said softly, and you meant it for more than just the batter. “You're a natural.”

He snorted, but there was a pleased flush creeping up his neck, visible even in the warm kitchen light. “Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain,” he mumbled, but his lips were twitching with the ghost of a smile. He helped you pour the batter into the pan, his large hand steadying the bowl as you scraped every last bit of the golden mixture into the waiting dish, and then he was the one to slide it into the preheated oven, his movements careful, almost reverent.

“Now we wait,” you announced, wiping your hands on a towel and leaning against the counter. “It has to bake for about thirty-five minutes. Then we let it cool, poke holes in it, and drown it in milk.”

He settled onto a stool, his eyes fixed on the oven door as if he could will the cake to bake faster through sheer force of will. “You said your abuela taught you?” he asked, his voice casual, but you could hear the genuine curiosity underneath. “What was she like?”

And so you told him. You told him about your grandma’s tiny kitchen in that warm and lovely home, about the way she'd hum old songs while she cooked, about how she never used measuring cups and somehow everything came out perfect anyway. You told him about the summers you'd spent learning at her side, about the way she'd pinch your cheek and call you her little cocinera, when your grandpa bought some fruit as well, giving you both, about the ache in your chest every time you made one of her recipes and remembered her laugh. About how much you miss both of them every single day and he listened with that same focused intensity, asking questions in that low, careful voice, drawing stories out of you that you hadn't told anyone in years.

By the time the timer went off, you felt like you'd shared something precious, a piece of yourself that you usually kept tucked away. He watched as you pulled the golden cake from the oven, his eyes tracking your every movement, and when you set it on the counter to cool, he was right there, his shoulder brushing against yours.

“Now the fun part,” you said, your voice a little breathless from his proximity. You'd made the milk mixture earlier, three kinds of milk whisked together with a splash of vanilla and a pinch of cinnamon, and you brought it over, a small pitcher in your hand. “You take a fork or a skewer, and you poke holes all over the cake. Everywhere. Then you pour the milk mixture over it, and let it soak in.”

You demonstrated, the tines of the fork sinking into the warm, golden crumb, and then you handed him the fork. “Your turn. Go wild.”

He took the fork with a seriousness that made you want to laugh, and he began poking holes with the kind of methodical precision that spoke of years of training. But there was something else in his movements too, a gentleness that surprised you. “My Ma,” he said, not looking up from his work, “she always said the best part of making the milk cake was the pouring. Said it was like giving the cake a hug.” He paused, his hand stilling over the cake. “I never understood that until now, standing here, doing this with you.”

The admission hit you like a physical blow, warm and overwhelming, and you had to blink back another wave of tears. “Bucky,” you breathed, and your voice cracked on his name. “That's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me.”

He finally looked up, his eyes meeting yours, and there was something raw and open in them, a vulnerability that made your heart ache. “It's true,” he said simply. “I haven't done this in decades. Haven't even thought about it. But standing here with you, making something that reminds me of her… it feels like I'm getting a piece of myself back.” He set the fork down, his hand reaching out to brush against yours, a tentative, questioning touch. “You're giving me that, just by being here. By letting me help.”

You turned your hand over, interlacing your fingers with his, the warmth of his flesh hand a grounding presence. “I'm not giving you anything,” you said softly. “You're giving yourself permission to remember. I'm just lucky enough to be here for it.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his gaze searching, and then he leaned in, so slowly that you had time to pull away if you wanted to, his eyes flickering down to your lips and then back to your eyes, a silent, agonizing question. And you answered it by tilting your face up, your eyes fluttering closed. The first touch of his lips was soft, almost hesitant, a question more than a statement. He tasted faintly of the coffee you knew he'd had hours ago, and something else, something that was just him. It was a chaste kiss, at first, a gentle press of warmth, but it deepened as a shudder went through him, his flesh hand coming up to cup your jaw with a tenderness that was breathtakingly at odds with his lethal reputation.

When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against yours, his breath was coming in short, uneven pants. “I've wanted to do that for a while,” he admitted, his voice low and rough, his eyes still closed as if he were savoring the memory of the kiss. “Sorry. I shouldn't have—”

You cut him off, your hand coming up to cover his on your cheek. “Don't you dare apologize,” you whispered. “I've wanted you to do that for a while, too.”

A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, a smile that transformed him, erasing the years of pain and weariness and leaving only the man he might have been, the boy who used to help his mother make her simple milk cake. It was a smile that lit up his whole face, that reached his eyes and made them sparkle. “Yeah?” he asked, and he sounded young, hopeful, like he couldn't quite believe it.

“Yeah,” you confirmed, and you leaned in to kiss him again, a quick, reassuring peck.

And that was when it started. The first kiss had been a question, a tentative exploration, but now that he had his answer, something in him seemed to unlock, a dam breaking after decades of deprivation. He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his eyes soft and wondering, and then he was leaning in again, pressing another kiss to your lips, this one longer, sweeter, like he was memorizing the shape of you. When he pulled away, he didn't go far, his forehead still resting against yours, and then he was pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the spot just below your eye where a single tear had escaped without your permission.

“Sorry,” he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. “I can't seem to stop. It's like… now that I know I can, I don't want to ever stop.” And to prove his point, he pressed another kiss to your other cheek, then the tip of your nose, then back to your lips, soft and reverent. His flesh hand was still cupping your jaw, his thumb stroking gentle circles along your cheekbone, and his metal arm had come up to rest at your waist, a cool, steady weight that anchored you to him.

You laughed, a breathless, happy sound, and reached up to tangle your fingers in the soft strands of his hair, tugging him closer. “I'm not complaining,” you said against his lips. “Not even a little bit.”

He hummed, a low, satisfied sound, and kissed you again, deeper this time, his tongue tracing along the seam of your lips in a question you were more than happy to answer. When you parted, he chased your mouth, pressing a series of smaller kisses along your lower lip, your chin, the column of your throat, each one a promise, a declaration, a desperate need to feel you, to taste you, to remind himself that this was real.

“It's been so long,” he breathed against the sensitive skin of your neck, and there was something raw in his voice, a vulnerability that made your heart clench. “Since I've had this. Since I've had someone who looked at me like I was worth looking at. Since I've been allowed to touch someone without hurting them.” He pulled back to look at you, his eyes bright with unshed tears, and pressed another kiss to your forehead, lingering there. “I forgot what it felt like. To be wanted. To be touched like this. Softly.”

Your throat tightened, a wave of fierce protectiveness washing over you. “Bucky,” you said, your voice barely a whisper, and you pulled him into a tight embrace, your arms wrapping around his neck. He went willingly, his face burying in your hair, his arms coming around you like he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go. You held him, stroking his back in slow, soothing circles, and he pressed a kiss to the side of your head, then your temple, then your ear, a constant stream of affection that spoke of a man starving for connection.

“I'm not going anywhere,” you promised, your voice muffled against his shoulder. “You can have as many kisses as you want. I'm not going to run out.”

He made a sound that was half laugh, half sob, and pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes shining. “You might regret saying that,” he said, but there was a tentative hope in his voice, a fragile optimism that made you want to protect him from the entire world.

“I don't think I will,” you said, and you leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then the bridge of his nose, mirroring the attention he'd given you. His skin was warm and slightly rough with stubble, and he shivered under your touch, his eyes fluttering closed. “I've got decades of missed kisses to make up for. You better be prepared.”

He laughed then, a real laugh, rusty and surprised, like he'd forgotten he was capable of it. “I think I can handle that,” he said, and he pulled you back into his arms, pressing another kiss to your lips, then another, then another, each one softer and sweeter than the last. He kept you there, wrapped in his embrace, his hands roaming gently across your back, your shoulders, the curve of your waist, not with any urgency, just with a desperate need to feel you, to confirm that you were real and solid and there.

“Thank you,” he said again, his voice muffled against your hair. “For not running. For staying. For letting me be this. Whatever this is.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands framing his face, your thumbs brushing away the tears that had finally escaped down his cheeks. “This is you,” you said softly. “This is exactly who you're supposed to be. And I'm not going anywhere.”

He kissed you again, slow and deep, and when he finally pulled back, he was smiling, that beautiful, genuine smile that transformed his whole face. He pressed one more kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, a final, lingering seal on the promise you'd made to each other.

“So,” you said, your voice a little breathless, “you're going to help me pour this milk mixture over the cake, and then we're going to let it soak. And then we're going to make that cinnamon and honey milk cake of your mother's. From scratch. And you're going to tell me more about her while we do it. And you're going to kiss me every chance you get.”

He blinked, a flicker of surprise and something that looked like wonder in his eyes. “Now?” he asked, his voice a little dazed. “You want to make my Ma's cake? Tonight? After all that?”

You smiled, tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear, your fingers lingering on the soft skin of his temple. “I want to make all of your mother's recipes,” you said softly. “Every single one you can remember. I want to know her the way you do. I want to know all of you, Bucky. The little boy who stood on a chair and helped his ma pour milk over a cake. The man who's been through hell and still has the gentlest hands I've ever felt. All of it.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his expression a mixture of awe and something that looked a lot like the beginning of love. Then, a slow, beautiful smile spread across his face, and he leaned in to press a soft, tender kiss to your lips. “Yeah,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Yeah, I'd like that. I'd like that a lot.” He cleared his throat, the old awkwardness resurfacing, and gestured with his chin towards the waiting pitcher of milk mixture. “So, you want me to do the honors? I haven't poured milk over a cake in about eighty years. Might be a little rusty.”

You handed him the pitcher, your fingers brushing against his, and watched as he lifted it with a reverence that made your heart clench. He poured slowly, carefully, the pale liquid seeping into the holes and spreading across the surface of the cake in rivulets of white, and for a moment, he looked like a different person entirely. He looked like that little boy, standing on a chair in a warm Brooklyn kitchen, his mother's hands hovering near his, just in case. When he finished, he set the pitcher down and immediately pulled you into his side, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

“There,” he said softly. “Now we wait a bit, waiting for the cake to absorb all this sweetness.”

You nodded, unable to find your voice, and you turned in his arms, wrapping your own around his waist. He held you close, his chin resting on top of your head, and you stood there in the quiet kitchen, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon and warm milk filling the air, and you watched the cake soak in the milk, watched it transform into something richer, deeper, more. Every few seconds, he would press a kiss to your hair, your temple, your forehead, a constant, soothing rhythm that made you feel cherished in a way you'd never experienced before. It wasn't teenage desperation or clumsy eagerness; it was the quiet, aching need of a man who had been starved of tenderness for decades, who was finally allowing himself to drink it in, slow and deep and grateful.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “For this. For all of it.”

“Thank you,” you replied, squeezing him tighter, “for trusting me enough to share it.”

And he pulled you impossibly closer, his arms wrapped around you like you were the most precious thing in the world, and pressed another kiss to the top of your head. “After this,” he murmured into your hair, “I'm going to teach you how to make my Ma's cake. And then… maybe we can figure out what our first day might be. I am not sure I know where to go, Honey.”

You smiled against his chest, your heart so full it ached. “I'd like that,” you said. “I'd like that a lot.”

And as the night stretched on, filled with the sweet scent of tres leches and the warmth of a man relearning how to love, you knew you were building something new, something precious, a future rooted in the past. He kept you close the entire time, his arm around your waist or his hand in yours, and every time you turned to look at him, he was already looking at you, his eyes soft and full of wonder, like he still couldn't quite believe you were real. And when you finally sat down to eat the cake, two generous slices topped with whipped cream and fresh strawberries, he pulled you onto his lap instead of letting you take the stool next to him, pressing kisses to your shoulder and neck as you both ate, a quiet, constant reminder of his presence.

“This is good,” he said, his voice thick with meaning, and you knew he wasn't just talking about the cake. “Really good. Better than I remember.”

And when he finally told you the whole story, the one about his mother and the warm kitchen and standing on a chair to pour milk over a cake, you held him close, your heart aching with a love so fierce and protective it took your breath away. He told you about her laugh, the way she sang off-key while she cooked, the way she'd ruffle his hair and call him her little helper, the way she made him feel like he was the most important person in the world. He told you about the day she died a couple months before going to the war, about the grief that had hollowed him out, about the decades of forgetting and being forgotten. And through it all, he kept kissing you, soft and reverent, like you were the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life.

Because the man with the weight of a world on his shoulders, had just given you the most precious gift he had. His past, his heart, and the promise of a future that smelled like warm milk and cinnamon and love. And you planned to spend every moment of that future reminding him that he was worthy of every single kiss, every single touch, every single moment of tenderness the world had ever denied him.

Two hours passed by like pushing a train with your bare hands, slow and fucking torturous. You sat at your regular seat, two rows from the front, just close enough to seem attentive, yet far enough to not seem as eager as you really are.

A chirpiness exuded from you as you entered the building, through the halls with your fists tight on the strap of your bag, carrying an excitement just to see Professor Barnes.

Or James as more close students and faculty would call him, or even Bucky as you would whisper against his skin whenever you both had a chance to be alone together, wether at his place or even in his office after hours.

You sat with a smile on your face, the vivacity of your happiness seemingly from the night before, all tangled in his bed sheets, pried open with an acclamation you only ever saw him provide to his work. Whispering a litany of praise akin to idolatry upon already slick skin, only made wetter with kisses trailed with his tongue, like passages he would assign as class reading, which would turn into your head tucked against his chest, his fingers trailing up and down your spine as he read for you, asking questions with a soft nudge to wake you from your hazy, cotton mind.

You could still feel it as your thighs pressed together under your desk, as you readied yourself for the lecture.

But Bucky, smart, yet cruel, and far too handsome for his own good, had other plans.

Sitting in the leather chair in his office, you slump forward with an elbow on the arm, fist to your cheek, and your eyes stay solemnly down. A fury laved behind your ribs like magma ready to spill from the edges of a volcano, what's worse is that it accumulated and burgeoned low in your stomach, and ached it's way into a different form of hot liquid.

It's a real shame for you that your professor loves how easy it is to pester you, to rile you up. Biting your cheek, you stare sourly through your eyebrows, at his wide smile.

"It's not funny," You murmur, only to make his chest thrum with another bout of laughter. Bucky's teeth latch to his bottom lip to suppress the wheezing, hand coming up to shield his eyes, elbow up on his desk chair to hide behind his palm.

You could cry. With how embarrassed you are, confidently reaching your hand up at every question he asked, only for him to skim right past and call up another person. Two hours of ignorance, only for him to twist the knife further when calling for students who were barely paying attention and never bothered to raise their hand.

Once he calmed with a husky sigh, swivelling in his chair with the last flurries of humour, he speaks.

"Sweetheart—"

"It's really not funny," You huff, crossing your arms over your chest, muttering immaturely under your breath. “At least, I don't know, say something, you were basically ignoring me! I felt like a kid or something, you know? Must be nice to those other people, getting all your attention…” You sigh again, scrunching your face in aggravation. "I mean, one question would've been nice!"

"Oh, mea dulcis puella," he pouts condescendingly, lengthening the words in a degrading pitch. Standing now, he wastes no time in walking towards you, and holding his arms out to pull you up and into a tight embrace. "Was it too mean? I'm so sorry, sweetheart, but, God, your face is so beautiful when you're irritated… you wanted to answer those questions so bad."

Despite your disinclination to move, he wraps his arms around you anyway. His chin resting on the top of your head with a prolonged sigh, leaving your cheek to press up on his chest.

"Bucky—"

"I really didn't mean to piss you off so bad," he starts, voice low easing upon your body, mixed with the heat and strong hold he has you in, he has you cornered in a comfort only he could bring. "Thought it would be funny. Y'know how when you get so frustrated you get turned on?"

"Oh, Bucky!" You whine.

The wobble in his chest comes back with a hum to your scalp, pressing his lips there. "What, you told me that a while ago one night. When you were studying, couldn't focus… pissed you off so bad you had to call me to see if I was free..."

You hide deeper into his chest, arms still encircled around your own, and he pulls you in with ease.

"Didn't need to make it a humiliation ritual." You sigh against his shirt.

"Hm, I'll do better next time."

"You better."

"I promise," silence encapsulates the room for a moment, letting the two of you sink into each other, before Bucky's hands find themselves comfortable on the globes of your ass, and he pipes up. "Wanna get up on my desk and let me make it up to you?"

The lift of your cheek, a smile he can feel, presses through his shirt. Humming humorously, matching the condescension he delivered. "Christ, for an old man you sure know how to keep up."

"That is why I humiliate you. That smart ass mouth of yours," he pats your ass twice with a dopey tilt of his lips. "Up you get princess, just lemme redeem myself."

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The commute from the building where your last lecture was held to your off-campus department was 25 minutes on a regular day using your bike. In Bucky’s case, he took 15 minutes due to his way of driving his restored car.

You knew that.

Your roommate knew that.

That knowledge made it easier to predict when the other would arrive at the apartment. It helped to avoid awkward encounters, like the time he had found you making out and half naked, with your classmate on the couch. Or when you saw him butt-naked as he got out of the shower because he had forgotten his towel in his room.

The only flaw in this?

Yelena.

Yelena, your classmate and best friend, had started seeing a girl who lived near you. This meant that she could drive you home on her way to meet with her new fling.

The day that changed everything had been one of those days. Your lecture would be cut short, and Yelena had been texting Kate as soon as the professor had announced that the class would wrap up early. Leaving at that hour meant less traffic, and to your luck, every traffic light had been green.

“Is this our lucky day? Should we buy a lottery ticket?” Yelena exclaimed after the third green light.

Inside your building, your luck continued because Mrs. Park held open the elevator for you the moment you crossed the front door.

You arrived at your door 10 minutes before your class usually ended. You had just opened your mouth to let out your usual “Hey, Buck” to announce your arrival when you heard it.

A moan coming from down the hall.

You widened your eyes; your keys slipped from your grip, landing on the rug with a dull noise. You knelt to pick them up, eyes scanning the living room frantically.

You noticed Bucky’s books were scattered over the dining table. His reading glasses were there, forgotten by his economics book. A single can of soda was near it.

There was no sign of any other person inside the apartment.

Another moan.

You should have turned around and left, given him the privacy he needed, and come back later. But you didn't. You stood up, and with your keys in hand, you padded silently down the hallway to your room.

The door of his room was slightly open as you passed.

More whimpering, followed by a curse.

You should have ignored it, continued your path, and hid in your room. Instead, you froze, turning to the source of the noise.

Spread over his bed, Bucky was lying down over his covers; his sweatpants and boxers were rolled down to his knees, and his shirt was forgotten on the floor. His fist was gliding up and down his cock, neck exposed as he pushed his head back. His eyes were closed, mouth open, letting every whimper out freely.

Heat pooled in your stomach, your breath turned shallow and rapid as you watched him jerk off.

This was wrong.

You shouldn't be standing there, watching him, and much less getting worked up because of it.

He was your roommate. Your friend. Bucky wasn't even your type for fucks sake — he wasn't an athlete, with a chiseled body comparable to a Greek statue; he wasn't the most confident man out there either, smugly flirting with every skirt with legs.

Bucky was a textbook nerd. Always with his nose buried in a book, a cute stuttering mess, he triggered your cute aggression, not the I want to climb you like a tree and bounce on your cock type of aggression.

“Please, please —ngh,” He begged, tearing up.

You didn't know why you did it, but hearing his pleas broke your control. Carefully, you crept into his room until you were standing a few feet away from the foot of the bed.

In bed, his phone went off with an alarm he had set up before he had fallen into his lust. He reached his hand blindly, turning the alarm off, lost in whatever fantasy he had conjured behind his closed eyes.

You’ll be home in 10 minutes.

“Fuck, I need to — ah, please.”

“Do you need help?” You said softly, in the same tone you always used with him. Warm. Open. Sweet.

His eyes snapped open, finding you standing near him. Your name left his lips, neediness laced with each letter.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't — You're here early, you were supposed to…” He stuttered, covering his dick with his hand and reaching behind him to take a cushion.

“I can help you.” Your tote bag, filled with books, landed on the rug next to your feet with a thud, and your keys followed. He froze. “You said you needed something.”

His throat bobbed.

“Bunny…”

He said your nickname, the one he had started using after he had met you at Yelena’s birthday party in your first semester. You had been wearing a last-minute costume — white bunny ears with a simple white short dress — because your original one had gotten ruined early that day. Bucky had been hiding out on the second floor, nursing a can of beer and hoping that his friends wouldn't find him after dragging him to the party already. Since he couldn't register your name over the loud music, he had called you Bunny the entire party. From there, it had stuck.

“Tell me, Bucky. What do you need?”

“I—” He shook his head.

You tutted. “House rules, remember? Hmm? Always be honest with each other. Tell me.”

“I need… I need to cum. So bad…”

“Thank you for telling me.” You placed a knee on the mattress between his legs, and slowly, you climbed the bed. “Now, let me help you.”

“Bunny.” He whimpered when you removed his hand from his crotch.

“Let me. That's what friends do, right? Help each other out. Always.” You said, tracing your fingers along his leg, getting higher and higher. “Can I?”

“Bunny…”

“Bucky.”

“Please.”

You smiled, and then moved your hand over his length; his cock twitched in respond of your touch, beads of pre cum leaked out of his reddish tip.

“Tell me if you want me to do anything different, okay?”

He nodded, but he was still tense.

“Hey, you can close your eyes and imagine I’m someone else; I don't mind. This is just to help you finish.”

Bucky took a deep breath and threw his head back, closing his eyes. You leaned in, taking his cock in your hands; you began peppering kisses on its tip. Bucky moaned in response.

You dragged your tongue along the vein on its underside, and then you guided it into your mouth.

Bucky cursed, digging his hands into the mattress.

You bobbed your head up and down, slowly taking him inch by inch until you could take most of him into your mouth comfortably.

Bucky was big, with a girth that made your pussy clench in wonder at how it would feel inside you, stretching you until you were a babbling mess.

“Shit, I’m close.”

You hummed with him still in your mouth, agreeing with him since you could feel him throbbing. His hips jerked up in search of the warmth of your mouth; you increased your movements, your hands giving attention to his balls and stroking the rest of his cock.

“Bunny, bunny, I’m…” He groaned, and for the first time, he reached his hand to tap your shoulder.

You removed your mouth with a pop, and kept stroking him as you said: “It’s okay, you can finish in my mouth.”

Before Bucky could reply, you took him into your mouth again and down your throat until your nose touched his pubic bone. Tears gathered in your eyes at the intrusion, but you didn't care; you kept bobbing your head until he spilled inside your mouth with your name on his lips.

You kept sucking him until you swallowed the last drop of his seed, and he was too overwhelmed after who knows how much time he had been working himself up. You took him out of your mouth, feeling him softening in your palm as his breath steadied.

Once you were on your feet, you knelt down to take your stuff up and took his shirt with your hand. When he opened his eyes, he saw you wiping the fabric of his shirt on your mouth, cleaning every remaining fluid from your face. Then you turned around and walked to the door.

“Bunny, wait!” He rushed to put his boxers and sweats back on.

You looked at him over your shoulder, “Yes?”

“You can't go.” You raised a brow.

“You needed to cum, and you did. I helped you out, didn't I?”

“Yes, you did. But, don't you want to… talk about it?”

Even if his skin was all flushed, his pupils still blown, and his clothes were poorly on him, he looked at you with pure worry.

You smiled fondly at him. “We are friends, Bucky. Nothing has to change.”

“You sure?”

“Positive, now… can I go?”

He exhaled in relief. “Yes, you can. Thank you, Bunny.”

“Any time.” You grabbed the door to close it. “It’s your turn to cook dinner, by the way.”

“Right! Uh, pasta? My mom’s recipe?”

“God, yes, please. I’ll take a shower in the meantime; see you in a bit.” You closed the door behind you after hearing his goodbye and then rushed to your room.

Luckily for you, your room had its own bathroom, away from the door that led to the hallway, which meant that while Bucky cooked dinner, he didn't hear you masturbating in your shower under the sound of the running water.

Even if you tried to push the memory into a box and forget it in the back of your mind, you couldn't avoid replaying the scene in his room, nor the way he had moaned your name as he came. And you definitely ignored the way you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from moaning his name as you fucked yourself with your fingers.

Once you were satisfied and clean, you left your room wearing your pajamas. During dinner, things were a little bit awkward, but it slowly got better as you fell into your familiar dynamic. He yapped about his next exam, and you ranted about your lecture that day. The conversation moved to the kitchen, as both cleaned before going back into your rooms.

You and Bucky just clicked together; you had done so since you met. Living together, even if it had been by pure luck — a month into your friendship, you had ranted that your landlord had raised your rent, and he had confessed he was looking for a place off campus; it had been a no-brainer to accept becoming roommates — had amped that. As the months and years progressed, you had gotten to a point where you understood each other and knew exactly what the other needed without the need for words.

He knew when you were stressed and needed silence, reassurance, or when you needed space. But he also knew when you were feeling homesick and needed a hug or a cuddle.

Two days after you gave him a blowjob, you learned that he also knew when you were needy and how to make you cum in record time.

You had been lying on the couch, reading a book on your e-reader after you had been stressing out over an exam. Bucky looked at you from his spot on the other end of the couch, where he had been playing a game on his phone.

“Everything okay there?” He asked, looking at you up and down.

You swallowed, shifting your legs again. “Yeah, why did you ask?”

“Bunny, house rules.” He rolled his eyes and put his phone on the coffee table.

“I'm not lying.” You scoffed.

“You are. You had been sitting there for the past five minutes, rubbing your legs together, and sighing like you're out of a romantic soap opera.” Bucky grinned. “Oh, my lovely Bunny, what are you reading? Is it one of those smutty books of yours?” he wiggled his eyebrows.

“Shut up.” You attempted to kick him with your leg, but he grabbed you by your ankle, stopping you from hitting him.

“You are.” His eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint. “Are you horny, Bunny?”

You shut up, locking eyes with him as he angled his body towards you.

“Do you need help with that?” He lowered his voice.

“With what?” You croaked, mouth dry.

“To get off. I can return the favor right now.” His fingers, that had been wrapped around your ankle, moved up, stroking your leg. “Besides, you know what happens when you orgasm. How the neurotransmitters that are released when you climax help you reduce your stress, sleep better, and help you relax — we share a wall, Bunny. I can hear you on the other side, still up in the middle of the night.” He called you out.

He continued moving his hand up your thigh until his fingertips grazed the hem of your shorts.

You didn't stop him.

“So, can I? You can imagine it's one of the characters of that book… You can keep reading it while I taste you.”

“You’re joking. Making fun of what I said and did that day.” You huffed and shifted your eyes away from him.

He shook his head. “It's just me. We're just friends, right? Helping each other out. I love helping you, you know that.”

You met his eyes again and then nodded, “Okay, make me cum.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” He joked and then positioned himself between your legs. “Go back to your book; you can even read it out loud. Guide me if you want to try something out.”

“Shut up.” You chuckled, and then returned your eyes to the screen.

Bucky grabbed the waistband of your shorts and pulled them down your thighs until they were dangling off your ankle. He leaned in and started kissing your now exposed skin until he was close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath and his nose bumping over your panties.

You kept reading, pressing your lips together to avoid making a sound. He kissed over your panties, and then he removed them. The first drag of his tongue made you open your mouth in a silent cry.

Bucky held you open; his hands were under your hip, in full control of the angle. You had been wet as you read your book, wondering if the main character in your book would be a whimpering mess like Bucky was as the female character rides him; now you were dripping, clenching around nothing, begging in your mind to be fucked on your couch.

No.

No.

It's the hormones talking. I'm just horny.

Having his dick inside you would be too much. If the line in your friendship had blurred, penetration would mean total erasure. But to be honest, it wasn't as if his dick wouldn't be doing something much different than what his tongue was doing right now.

Oh God, where had he learned to do that?

“Fuck, Bucky.” You groaned. Loudly. Throwing your head back.

Bucky removed his head from between your thighs to stare at you when he heard your e-reader hit the ground.

“Is something wrong? Want me to stop or change something?”

You looked at him as if he had grown another head out of his neck, and with your hands, you pushed back between your legs.

“Shut up. Keep doing that. Don't stop.” You panted, treading your fingers in his hair as your hips jerked against his mouth. He lapped his tongue over your sensitive clit, alternating with sucking it and shaking his head to add more depth to his attacks. “Oh fuck, mmm, yes, yes, Bucky, that's so good.”

He shifted, sinking his knees on the couch. Then he grabbed your legs and placed them over his shoulders; after that, he pulled your hips up, half-strengthening his back. He pressed your thighs together against his face, suffocating himself.

The new angle made you gasp; you braced yourself on the arm of the couch. You were now openly mewling. Your loud moans were barely overpowered by the obscene sound of his mouth on you.

You came not too long after that, panting and with your legs trembling over his shoulders. Before he let you down, he grazed his teeth with a playful bite and then kissed the spot.

Your breath was still ragged when you accepted his bottle of water that he had offered. You took a sip of water and then looked back at him.

“Why the fuck did Dot break up with you if you could do that?” You asked, stunned.

He had the decency of looking shy, scratching the back of his neck.

“She broke up with me because I wasn't very social, you know me; she wanted me out with her every single week to a party, and that drains me too much. I can only handle too much socialization.” He explained with a shrug.

“What an idiot, believe me, I’d have compromised my social life if my amazing boyfriend could make me cum as hard as you just made me do. And with only your tongue!” You exclaimed as you put back your underwear and shorts. You would have to run back to your room to take a shower and change in a minute because the stickiness between your legs would drive you crazy.

He took a thrown pillow and hit the side of your leg. “Shut up, Bunny!”

You snorted. “I’m serious. I already knew she had lost a great guy; this just adds more stupidity on her side.”

“Thank you, I suppose.” He blushed.

“Just take the compliment, Buck. It's house rules.” You returned the hit with the thrown pillow and ran to your room, squealing and dodging another hit from him.

The agreement was made that same week, officially getting added to the house rules. You would help him take the edge off, and he would help you, too. Easy. Efficient. Complete trust and free use in the apartment unless stated otherwise.

There was one catch, though: no penetration, no kissing. You were friends at the end of the day, and you didn't want to mess that up.

So you let him do everything else, except put his cock inside you.

He would fuck your tits after hitting a wall while doing an essay, eyes closed as he fought the urge to come on the spot at the sight of your glistening skin and your eyes looking up at him as you pushed your tits together. He had made the mistake of looking down the other day, and after batting your eyelashes to him in an oh-so-innocent way, you had put your tongue out just as he pushed in and took an experimental kitten lick over his tip. He had come in that moment, painting your face and tits with his seed. Laughing, you had continued stroking him until he was overstimulated.

One particular time that you had been stressing because your teammates were useless, you were ranting about it with him sitting next to you after you had finished eating dinner while watching a series.

“Do you wanna forget about it?” Bucky asked after you had finished ranting, and he had already tried to cheer you up, given you his advice, and even offered to help you with your project.

“Please.” You sighed.

“How do you need me?” He asked.

“Just stay still.” You said, climbing into his lap.

“I can do that.”

“And stay quiet.” You added, narrowing your eyes.

“Oh, I thought you liked it when I talk dirty. I felt you clench on my fingers when I talked like that and when I praised you.”

You slapped his chest. “Since when are you this smug? What did you do to my best friend?”

“Since you complimented my oral skills.” His grin widened.

You rolled your eyes.

“What? You had been trying since we met to boost my confidence; it's finally working.”He said, putting a strand of hair behind your ear. “Take the win, Bunny.”

“Fine, you can talk. Can I hump you now?”

“I’m all yours.”

You chuckled and braced your hands at each side of his head, grabbing the back of the couch.

You rolled your hips, feeling him getting hard under you.

“Fuck, Bunny, why do I feel this is helping me more than it's doing for you?”

“Believe me, it is helping.” You whimpered with eyes closed, leaning towards him. “So much.” Your voice cracked.

“You’re doing so well.” He praised.

“Thanks for the help, Bucky.” You huffed a laugh.

“I can help you even more, if you want.”

You straightened your back and stared down at him. “How?”

Bucky guided his hands and grabbed the hem of his your oversized shirt, taking it off and leaving you half naked, since your bra had been removed earlier that day.

“I can put my oral skills to use.” He cupped your breast and guided your nipple to his mouth, just brushing his lips against it. “I’ve been wanting to give them the attention they deserve since I noticed how… sensitive they are.”

With the tip of his tongue, he circled your nipple, keeping eye contact with you. You stared down at him, biting your lip to hide your smile, shaking your head slightly at his smug behavior.

You liked it.

Confidence suited him well.

He blew air over your wet skin. “Keep going, Bunny.”

You whined when he took your nipple into his mouth, sucking at it while playing with his tongue over it. You leaned into him and continued dry-humping him.

“Turn around.” He ordered after a few minutes.

“Huh?”

“You still have that frown on your face; you're still thinking about it. Let me help you.”

You sighed and then turned onto his lap, his hard cock snuggled under your ass.

“What now?”

He placed his hands on your waist and pulled you to him. “Lean back, Bunny.” You did so, until your back hit his chest, and your head could rest over his shoulder. “Now relax.” He kissed your naked shoulder.

He returned his attention to your breast, alternating to not leave any too long neglected. With his other hand, he traced lazy figures on your navel and, slowly, oh so painfully slowly, he guided his hand under your clothes.

Your hips jolted at the feeling of his fingers grazing your clit.

“Open your legs, let me touch you.” He mumbled in the shell of your ear, and you complied, spreading your legs over his, his knees under you, locking you in place. “That’s it, good Bunny.”

You whimpered, responding to each movement of his fingers with a roll of your hips, grinding on his cock. His ragged breath on your neck gave him away as to how worked up he was, so you decided to give him a hand. Literally.

You shifted forward to give enough space for your hand to sneak between your bodies, and began stroking him under his pants.

“Fuck, Bunny, this is about you.”

“I want you to feel good too.” You muttered.

He pushed two fingers inside you, matching each stroke you gave his cock with the pumping of his fingers. In. Out. In. Out. Each time you rubbed his tip, he curled his fingers, pressing them on your sweet spot.

“Oh, that feels good.” Your head lolled back, eyes fluttering shut as you got lost in the sensation.

“Yeah, bunny? That's good, you're doing so well.” He cooed.

Your free hand gripped the couch, as fireworks went off inside you; the lewd sound of his fingers inside you increased when you gushed around his fingers.

“That’s it, Bunny, let go.”

As you squirmed over his lap, your hold on his cock tightened; his hips jolted forward, fucking himself on your fist, and seconds later, he came.

Your breath was still uneven when you let out a soft chuckle, resting your head on his shoulder.

“You okay?” He asked, puzzled by your sudden laugh.

“Why was I even stressed about?”

He mirrored your chuckle. “I dunno.”

You turned, your nose slightly brushing his face. He did his best not to kiss you right there. To his surprise, you kissed his cheek.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

“The pleasure is mine, literally.”

You giggled and peeled yourself off him. You reached for the tissue box that you had placed on the coffee table since all this started, and cleaned your hands, as well as your inner thighs. When you were done, you passed the box to Bucky to clean himself.

“Shower and a movie in a few minutes?” You suggested, standing up and stretching, still topless.

“Of course.” He said, keeping his eyes down.

You narrowed your eyes at him, “Don't make it weird; you're acting as if you didn't have your mouth attached to my chest like 5 minutes ago.”

“If I look up, I’d want to do it again.”

You thought he was joking, so you slapped his arm playfully. “Of course, Buck, whatever you say.” Your shoulders were still shaking with laughter as you walked to your room, leaving him in the living room to contemplate if all of this had been a mistake.

It became a regular thing then.

You got better at it, reading each other and finding stolen moments to get each other off. Trouble, of course, appeared sooner rather than later — because obviously, none of you had told any of your friends.

Steve was the first to almost catch you, and it had been your fault. That day, on your way home, you had texted Bucky, asking him if he was home after a stressful day. You made the mistake of not reading his text, and when you got to your apartment, you had walked down the hallway straight to his room.

“I’m home,” you said, removing your jacket and throwing it to the floor. You began undoing the buttons of your shirt as you pushed his door open. “You won't believe the day I had. I’m gonna need you to— Steve! Hi!” You widened your eyes and quickly covered your already exposed bra when you found Steve sitting at Bucky’s desk.

Steve blushed and said your name, gesturing a hello. You thanked God that you hadn't entered his room without pants, as you two had begun to wander inside the apartment in your underwear with nothing more than an oversized shirt in your case or sweatpants and a shirt in his.

“Bucky didn't tell me you would be here.” You said under a fake smile.

Bucky got back into the room, finding you standing by the door.

“I guess you didn't get my text,” Bucky mumbled in equal shock to you.

“I did not.” You turned on your heels, giving your back to Steve. “I’ll be in my room.”

Bucky mouthed sorry to you, and you quickly scrambled out of the room. When you took out your phone, his text mocked at you, reading that Steve had come to the apartment by surprise since he needed some tutoring, and that he would be more than happy to help you out as soon as he walked out.

Another time, not as embarrassing as that one, had occurred on campus. You and Yelena were eating some ice cream that the student committee had been giving out when Bucky found you.

“Hi, Bunny.” He greeted you, standing right in front of you.

“Hi! Want some?” You offered your cone as you had done multiple times in the past. He nodded, but instead of taking the cone from your hands, he leaned in, covering your hand with his as he licked a strip of melted ice cream and then sucked some more, all while staring right at you.

“Mmm, my favorite.” The tip of his tongue peeked out of his lips, collecting any residue of the cold dessert, as he kept eye contact.

Fuck me.

You might as well have combusted in the spot; you were horny as fuck since you hadn't had any action since your period started, contrary to him, who had been on the receiving end of your blowjobs.

“I’ll be staying after class at the library. Text me what you want me to get to dinner, okay?”

You hummed, still staring at his mouth. He dared to smile.

“Good.” He finally turned to see Yelena, who had watched the whole exchange like a hawk. “Yelena.” He nodded at her. “Catch you later, Bunny, thank you for sharing.”

And then he was gone.

“The fuck was that?” Yelena exclaimed.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” You busied yourself back into finishing your ice cream, ignoring the way her eyes were burning the side of your head.

“Are you guys fucking in your apartment? Is that why we haven't done a sleepover recently?” Yelena accused, making you choke on your ice cream.

“What the fuck, Lena?” You coughed. “We haven't done any sleepovers because you have been sleeping at Kate’s since you started hooking up.”

“Hey, we sometimes stay at mine. And don't change the subject; you didn't answer.”

“We’re not. We’re roommates, and he's my best friend.”

“I’m your best friend too, but you don't look at me like that, do you?” She wiggled her eyebrows. “If that wasn't sexual tension, I don't know what it was.”

“Maybe you're projecting."

She slapped your arm. "Shut up. But you might be right; thankfully, my period is over, so..." she grinned, already thinking of her date night with Kate.

"Lucky girl."

"Going back to you and Bucky. Why the hell does he even keep calling you Bunny?" She scoffed. "It sounds so… sexual, you know?"

"I already told you, he has been calling me that since your birthday. He couldn't hear my name over the music, so he called me by my costume."

"I know that, but that was during the first semester, ages ago, before you two lived together. He knows your name by now."

"It's just a cute nickname. I like it." You shrugged, but you couldn't lie; the nickname had begun to sound more intimate the last couple of weeks, especially since each time he said it with a much more sultry voice than he did before, it took you back to not-so-innocent moments.

"Dot and every guy you had dated hated it, which reminds me — Do you want to go out on a double date with Kate and me? She has this friend that I'm sure is your type. Who knows, Bob might give you a hand and break your dry spell."

You scrunched your nose at her suggestion. Something about someone else touching you in a sexual context made you sick. "I'm fine, Lena. I'm good with my own hands and toys, thank you very much."

"Ugh, you're no fun." She groaned. "The offer is there. Bob is a great guy, but Bucky isn't a bad choice either, if you two decide to finally start dating."

You gave her a shoulder check and resumed your walk towards your next lecture.

If only she knew.

You two were just having fun, helping each other out. You reminded yourself frequently.

You made each other get the edge off… in the kitchen, in the dining room, in the living room, in the hallway, in his room, in the laundry room, in the hallway, in his car. While, after, and before studying or going to work.

His gaming sessions weren't an exception.

Usually, even before you started this, while he was playing video games in his room, you would find your way there and read on his bed or play one of your cozy games on your portable console. Sometimes you would grab popcorn and other snacks, sit next to him, and watch him play.

It stopped being innocent one time you were reading another smutty book that got you so worked up that you ended up touching yourself on his bed. Bucky had looked over his shoulder after you let out a whimper before covering your mouth. He muted himself and asked you to approach. Once you were next to him, he patted his thigh and asked you to sit facing his setup.

“Grind, Bunny. Make yourself feel good.” He muttered before he lowered his mic again and unmuted, going back to his game. You rolled your hips over his thigh, leaving a wet spot on his skin. You leaned on his desk and buried your head in your arms to muffle your cries.

Since both of his hands were occupied, he gave you his attention by kissing your shoulder from time to time. Whenever he was killed in-game and had to spectate his teammates, he took you by the hips and aided you in your movements — sometimes he would die on purpose early on the match so he could play with your clit with one hand and cover your mouth with the other.

When you were close to your climax, he muted his mic, and with his warm mouth in your ear, he praised you as you came, ignoring the trash talk from Sam and Steve about how shitty he was playing that day. In return for the favor, you had sunk to your knees under his desk and suck him off while the other match started, making him lose again and bark an excuse to his friends to disconnect, and then took you to his bed to make you sit on his face while you kept his cock deep in your throat.

The first night Bucky slept with you in your bed after this agreement started hadn't been planned. You had slept together before; naturally, after so much time knowing each other, you had taken naps on the living room couch, or in his bed if you fell asleep there, but your room had been the exception — until that night.

"Hey, are you still awake?" Bucky asked from the other side of your door.

"Come in." You replied with a yawn.

"Did I wake you up?" He peeked his head out, opening the door slightly.

"You didn't. What's up?"

He was standing by the door, visibly nervous.

"Bucky?"

"Can I lie down with you?" He sounded tired. You knew he hadn't been sleeping well, too stressed about his projects. He always pressured himself; you had called him out many times, but he had been raised this way, and old habits died hard.

"Of course you can."

He climbed into your bed and lay down under the covers behind you since you were on your side. His arms quickly wrapped around you, one tucked under your head and the other around your waist, pulling your back into his chest.

You stayed silent in that position, caressing his arm around you, feeling his warm breath on the back of your neck.

“They will still love you if you don't get straight A’s, you know?” His hold around you tightened.

“I'm not so sure about that.” He replied, his voice sounded so… small.

“Well, I do. Because I don't care if you get an A or a C. You're still you, and I love you for that.” You said. “You’re kind, gentle, and yeah, you're a little awkward, and sometimes you forget how to socialize properly—”

You smiled triumphantly when he chuckled.

“Shut up.”

“You are funny, smart, and the best human being that I know of — not because you are perfect, but because you get up every morning and just… try.”

“Bunny…”

“And if your parents don't see that, fuck them, seriously. You don't need to go back there during the break. You can stay here, or go with me to my hometown, or even better, we can both take that trip you always tell me about.”

You couldn't see him, but you felt him melting around you, embracing you close as his breath eased.

“I'm so lucky to have you as a friend.” He mumbles

“Of course you are. I'm amazing.” You chuckled.

“Yes, you are.” He kissed your shoulder over your pajama shirt. "I hope you know all those wonderful things also apply to you. In fact, let's add it to the house rules.”

“What do you suggest?”

“No more stressing over school; we are allowed to fail. How about that?”

You hummed, “I like that. Took us long enough, but it's a good rule now that it's our final year.”

“Let’s try to sleep, Bunny.” He said, closing his eyes.

“I'm trying, but a big nerd came into my room in the middle of the night and won't stop talking.”

“Shut up.” He kicked your leg.

You returned the kick. “You shut up.”

“Shh.”

Stillness lasted almost an hour; you both were already drifting in your sleep when you shifted your hips slightly, brushing against his front. You stayed like that until you fell asleep.

In his sleep, Bucky jerked his hips forward in a sloppy rhythm, which woke you up eventually. Your eyes adjusted to the dark of the room, unable to move since he had you trapped against him.

“Mmm, Bunny.” You heard him whine; his hips were thrusting against your ass, his cock hardening with each movement.

You blinked away sleep and turned over your shoulder; to your surprise, he was asleep, mouth slightly open and chest rising in a steady rhythm.

He moaned your name, and you wouldn't lie, having him basically humping you from behind and moaning in your ear was making your panties wet.

His hand, that had been resting heavily over the curve of your waist, moved down, resting lower, dangerously close to your pussy.

“Bucky, wake up.” You managed to say, biting back a whimper from your part. “Bucky.”

“Mmm?” He hummed, keeping his eyes closed.

“You’re…” You squeezed his arm, but he didn't let you finish. As soon as he regained consciousness, his throbbing cock called his attention; the need to cum ran hot all over his body.

He tensed when he realized what he had been doing.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry, Bunny.” His voice was thick with sleep. He moved his hips away from you, but yours followed. “Bunny?”

“Wait. Do you need help with that?” You whispered, wiggling your ass against him.

He choked a moan.

“Bunny…”

“I can help.”

“We said no penetration.” He sounded pained.

You bit your lip and then shifted, angling yourself so his cock was nuzzled right below your ass cheeks.

“You don't need to put it in. Just… use my thighs.” You offered.

He was speechless.

“Did you read that in one of those books?” He teased.

“Shut up. Do you want to try it or not?” You wiggled your ass again, making him jolt forward.

“Fuck, wait, don't we need lube or something?”

You looked over your shoulder. “Bottom drawer, behind you.” He looked at you. You rolled your eyes. “I use it with my sex toys, dumbass.”

He would definitely ask about it later, maybe even ask you to give him a demonstration.

Bucky peeled himself from you to reach the drawer. When he opened it, he saw some silky bags of different sizes, a bottle, and a small towel. His curiosity won over, and he took one of the smaller bags, as well as the bottle of lube and the towel.

You turned on your back when you heard the shuffling behind you; he had turned on the lamp on your bedside table.

“I told you to grab the lube.” You scolded him.

“Which one is this?” He held the silky bag high so you could see it.

Your eyes trailed from the bag to his eyes. “My vibrating bullet.”

You saw the devilish grin that appeared on his face. He could picture you perfectly, on your back in your bed late at night after he had fallen asleep next door, holding the vibrator under your panties, your mouth hanging open in a silent cry, brows knitted in the expression he had come to learn like the back of his hand.

His cock twitched.

“Can you use it while I fuck your thighs?” He asked, even if the warm soft light only lit one side of his face, you noticed his heavy-lidded dark eyes; the bright blue was only a slim ring around his blown pupils.

You sighed through your nose, but nodded. The idea sounded really, really good. You lifted your hand and gestured for him to give you the bag.

Bucky let out a happy noise and then proceeded to free his hard cock. He put some lube on his palm and then smeared it along his length. He positioned himself back into position and then slid his cock between your thighs.

You were looking down, watching as his wet tip peeked between your plush skin. You lowered your hand and teased his tip when it peeked out.

“Fuck, Bunny.” He groaned behind you, resting his forehead against your shoulder as he rolled his hips. “Use it, make yourself good, please.”

You complied, taking out the vibrator from the bag after he handed you the lube.

The moment the added stimulation registered in your body, your hips jolted back, meeting his thrust and making both of you moan in unison.

Bucky gripped your hips, keeping you steady as he fucked himself between your legs. With the angle you held your hips, the bottom side of the vibrator brushed his tip when he rutted in.

“Fuck, Bunny, you're taking me so well.”

You whimpered his name, turning your head slightly and kissing his arm that was still tucked under your head.

“Keep going, don't stop.” You encouraged him, tightening your hold around his cock by crossing your legs.

He cursed, digging his fingers into your hips.

“Oh God, I’m not gonna last.”

“It's okay, cum Bucky, cum for me.”

He came with a groan, his hips jerked in sloppy thrusts until every drop dripped between your thighs. With his hand, he turned your face, and keeping eye contact, you came undone, with hot pleasure ripping you apart and pulling you back together for his eyes only.

Mouth hanging open.

Lips trembling.

Brows knitted.

Bucky really wished he could've kissed you in that moment. Muffle your cries with his lips, drink up your moans, and your taste.

But he didn't.

He just stared at you in awe, and if he hadn't just come, he was sure he would've reached ecstasy the moment your eyes locked in his.

He held you in his arms until you came back into your body, and after a few minutes, he got up with the towel in his hand. He emerged from your bathroom after cleaning himself, with your towel now warm in his hand.

Bucky climbed the bed, and mumbling praises, he cleaned the residue of his spent and lube from between your thighs, then he removed your soaked panties, and cleaned the evidence of your arousal.

He discarded the towel, and after roaming in the drawer you pointed out, he took a new pair of panties and, to your surprise, he put them on you, leaving a kiss on your inner thigh when he was done.

Back in your bed, he took his place behind you and cuddled you, holding you in his arms as sleep took over.

Those nights repeated, especially once the semester got to that point where both of you lived and breathed projects and heavy assignments.

Sometimes he would find his way into your room, giving you an orgasm or two before falling asleep. Morning with him also meant waking up with his mouth on you, kissing down your body, or tongue deep in your pussy.

“I like to taste you first thing in the morning. Works better than caffeine.” He had said the first time you had woken up with him under the covers.

You returned the favor, of course, waking him up, stroking him, or with his cock deep in your throat.

The mornings in your room together led to a shower together — only when your shower routine allowed it — and then to the kitchen, where both worked on breakfast. It was easy, the domesticity of all; it made your heart gallop and stop at the same time.

You knew things had changed; god, they probably changed before this whole agreement, somewhere between doing groceries and movie nights with your roommate.

Of course, you weren't the only one who had noticed that change.

“Okay, spit it out, tell me what's going on?” Yelena asked, rolling the grocery cart.

Bucky’s birthday was the following day, and you had been working on his surprise party, which meant an express grocery visit to buy all the last-minute items.

“I don't know what you are talking about.” You muttered, taking several bags of chips and dumping them on top of the napkins.

“Oh, but you know. You had been glowing this past week, and I know you; I know when you're hiding something.”

“Lena, just drop it; nothing is going on.”

She hummed.

You thought she had, in fact, dropped it. She didn't.

“You know,” she said once everything was loaded in her car, and she got ready to drive out of the parking lot. “Jason asked about you.”

“Jason?”

“Tall guy, huge biceps, dreamy eyes. You hooked up with him during first year.” She detailed, keeping her eyes on the road.

Oh.

Jason.

The one Bucky had found you tongue deep in his throat.

That Jason.

“I remember.”

“Well, he is a friend of Kate. I met him at a reunion with her group of friends.”

“Sounds like you're finally going steady.”

“Stop deflecting.” She said, giving you side-eye. “He recognized me, asked about you, and I invited him to Bucky’s party, so you can reconnect.”

You widened your eyes. This was the last thing you needed.

“Yelena Belova.” You scolded.

“Wow, full government name.”

“Why the fuck did you invite him? He doesn't even know Bucky!”

“Kate also doesn't know him, and she's going.”

“That's different! She's your girlfriend.” You slapped her arm. “Uninvite him! I don't care! He's not coming.”

“Jesus, woman, I’m just trying to help you out! Exams had been stressful; maybe you need to fuck the stress out, you know.”

“Well, don't. I'm totally fine, I do not need more help.” The words spilled out of your mouth, blinded by the successful rage bait that your friend just did.

Yelena grinned.

“So you are getting help with that. I knew it. You looked extra chirpy these last months.” You widened your eyes in horror. “So who's the lucky guy?”

She glanced at you for a second, a quick read of your face, and then her jaw dropped.

“Oh, my God! Are you and Bucky finally together? Is this why I haven't been at your apartment? You don't want me to disrupt your love nest!”

You buried your face in your hands. “Shut up.”

She squealed.

“That’s not a no!”

“Lena, we are not together… we are just having fun.”

“You don't sound like you're having fun.” Her brows knitted with concern. “Babes, what’s the problem?”

“We are fuckbuddies. But I’m not sure if he wants more.”

“Have you asked him?”

“No. Well — I suggested some rules at the beginning; he agreed.”

“God, babes, for someone so smart, sometimes you do be an idiot.”

“Excuse me?”

“Haven’t you stopped to think that maybe he agreed and you put those rules, because both of you thought that was the only way the other would agree to be that close to actually being something real?”

You shook your head.

“Babes, that guy has been head over heels for you since that night you met. And you had been too!” You opened your mouth. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

You rolled your eyes and huffed a breath out of your nose. “I actually was about to agree with you.”

“That's a first. Continue.”

“I’m such an idiot, but how do I even start undoing it?”

Yelena parked her car right outside your building.

“Maybe start undoing all those rules of yours.” She shrugged.

And you took it literally.

Maybe it was a mistake, and you should have stopped to think about it more clearly, but you were desperate.

Yelena left after she helped you take all the groceries upstairs and hide everything out of Bucky’s sight — which, in retrospect, wasn't necessary since Bucky knew you always threw a party for him. The only surprise was the theme.

And this year, the last birthday being a college student, the theme was costumes.

Just like the day you met.

Bucky arrived at the apartment a few hours later, coming back from hanging out with Steve, who, as every birthday week of his, was tasked with keeping him busy and out of the apartment if needed.

“Bunny! I’m home!” Bucky exclaimed, peeling off his jacket.

“In my room!” You shouted without peeking out.

You heard him padding around the apartment, and just as you predicted, he opened your door seconds later.

“Bunny…” Bucky mumbled, flabbergasted.

You were standing just outside of your bathroom, resting with one hand extended towards the wall. You were wearing a white lacy set of lingerie, paired with an open silky translucent robe that framed your body. On top of your head, like a crown of a queen, were the same bunny ears that you had been wearing the night you met.

“Happy early birthday, Buck.” You said with a smirk.

“Angel…” He said, mouth dry.

“Wasn't I your Bunny?” You pouted.

“You look like an angel.” You chuckled, walking barefoot towards him. “I have died, and I’m in heaven.”

“Easy, you're not dead yet.” You stopped in front of him, standing on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek. His hands shot to hold your naked waist to keep you steady; he didn't remove them even when your heels touched the floor. “This ain't your birthday gift, though; this is a sneak peek at your party tomorrow. You have to pick a costume.”

His eyes widened. “You’ll be wearing this tomorrow?”

“The bunny ears. But this will be under the dress.” You winked at him.

And he whimpered.

He actually whimpered.

“That's torture. Do you know how hard it would be to keep my hands away from you, knowing that?”

Maybe you don't need to. You wanted to say.

“Someone will have to restrain me so I don't end up giving a show out there.” He added.

You laughed.

“Yeah, maybe you should keep that for the bedroom.”

“Or at least until we are alone.”

“Smart.”

“Is that why you're showing me now?” He asked, his hands pulling you closer to him, forcing you to look up to meet his eyes. “To taunt me.”

You nodded. “That, and because I wanted to try out something.”

“What?” He scanned your face, stopping for several seconds at your lips.

You took it as a green light.

You stood again on your tiptoes, resting your hands over his shoulder and the nape of his neck.

And then you kissed him.

He gasped in your mouth, but then he melted in the kiss, cupping your head to control the angle, deepening the kiss.

Heat spread all over your body, overheating you to the point you felt like you were on fire. Without leaving his lips, you removed your robe and then pulled him from his collar, guiding him to your bed until he was lying over you.

“Bunny… the rules.” He said, pulling himself away from your lips, a pained look on his face.

“Forget them.” You guided him back to you, and he surrendered.

Your hands traveled around his body, touching whenever they could reach, pulling at his clothes to remove them.

“I want to feel you.” You whimpered.

“Okay.” He nodded, kissing your neck. He removed his shirt; his jeans followed shortly after, landing near his shoes and socks.

“Boxers too.” You mumbled against the crook of his neck.

Kissing and nipping the tender skin and making him groan.

He lay naked over you, your legs parted and hugging his hips, pulling him close until he could feel the growing wetness in your panties. Bucky moaned in your mouth, as you bucked your hips; the friction over his erection made him see stars.

This was new.

You knew it. He knew it.

Even when he fucked your thighs, he was never that close to your pussy. And when you were in a similar position, there were always at least two layers of clothes between you.

His hips rutted against you, and then you guided your hand between your bodies, pulling your panties to the side.

He gave you a puzzled look.

“Are you sure?” He asked.

“More than anything. I want to feel you.”

He whimpered, and after a nod, he resumed his grinding. You mewled as his heavy cock glided between your folds, kissing your clit with each dive.

“More, I need more.” You moaned. “Please, Bucky, give it to me.”

Bucky sat on his heels, looking down at your squirming figure, but you followed him up, meeting his lips in a passionate kiss. He got distracted, lost in your lips, to the point that when you pulled apart to lie back down, your panties and bra were gone, your glistening pussy exposed, weeping to have him inside.

The groan that left him was borderline animalistic. Knelt before you, he grabbed his cock with his fist and began rocking his hips, the tip of his cock hitting your clit with more pressure and precision. You spread yourself open for him, with your hands hooked behind your knees and holding your legs up.

“Bucky, please.” You groaned.

“What do you need, Bunny?”

“You, please, inside.”

He whined, “Bunny, no…”

“Why not?” You cried out.

“The rules.” He said simply.

“Fuck the rules.” You groaned. “I want you, all of you. Please, Bucky.” You begged.

He stilled his hips, needing to focus and think with his brain and not his other head. Because he wanted to feel you, too, bury himself in your heat.

“What if you regret it?” He searched your eyes, his concern only confirming what you already knew.

“I won't.” You worked to steady your breath. “Because I’ve been wanting these since I met you. Especially once I realized how much I love you.”

He shifted, too lost in his mind to realize he had done it, making his cock nuzzle between your folds and kiss your clit. You swallowed your moan.

“You love me?” His blue eyes, obscured by his desire, were bright with unshed tears.

You nodded frantically, and a chuckle escaped you, letting go of the strain of your legs but keeping yourself open. “So much it made me scared to lose you and stop myself from saying it out loud.” You confessed.

“Bunny —” He looked at you with a bright smile. “You don't have any idea of how much I love you.”

“I think I might have.” You smiled. “And I’m pretty sure that anyone who has met both of us knows how much we love each other.”

“Do you think that me gifting you flowers, any chance that I had, was too on the nose?” He scrunched his nose, leaning in and placing a hand next to your head.

You laughed, throwing your head back, making the bunny ears — that until that moment were forgotten — shift, and dig into your skull. Bucky noticed the discomfort in your face and reached out to place the bunny ears back in place.

“Yeah, probably. But me throwing myself in your arms right after might have contributed.” You said, lost in the tender way he looked at you.

“So we are both idiots, keeping each other away from what makes us happy.”

“Pretty much.”

“What now?” He looked at you.

“Well, right now we can continue what we were doing.” You bucked your hips, feeling the delicious drag of his cock against you. “After that, we can talk more about it, but let me tell you, I’m tired of the rules, tired of being a dirty secret, tired of loving you in the shadows.”

“I agree.”

“Do you want to be—” You clamped your hand over his mouth.

“Don't you dare ask me to be your girlfriend when we are about to have sex.” You threatened, and then you removed your hand.

“Later then.” He smiled. “Where were we?” He knitted his brows, feigning ignorance.

“I don't know, where do you think we were?” You teased.

“I think, Bunny.” He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours with each word he said. “I was about to fuck you.” His smug smile was bright when he pulled back enough to see your reaction. “Am I right?”

“Mhm.”

“Tell me if you need me to stop or change anything.” He instructed, lining himself with your entrance.

“Wait.” You gasped when you felt his tip tease your opening. He stopped, pulling back away from you. “Slow, please… You are big.”

He nodded, and then he pushed inside. Your mouth gaped, feeling your walls fluttering around him to accommodate his girth inside you.

“More.” You whined after a few shallow thrusts with only his tip inside you.

He sank deeper, your slick adding to the intrusion. Your hand shot to grip his forearm next to your head.

“You’re taking me so well, Bunny.” He praised. “My pretty Bunny, so wet and tight for me. Breathe, baby, you can do it.”

You mewled, feeling him reach deeper until he was buried to the hilt.

“That's it, so good, such a good bunny.” His voice cracked, pleasure ripping down his spine after a few thrusts.

Your legs returned to the initial position. Spread open, legs up. You felt him reach deeper, each drag adding pressure to your sweet spot.

“Oh fuck, right there.” You whined.

His pace fastened, tightening the coil in your belly with each drill of his hips. He rocked your entire body, making your breasts jiggle with each movement that made your ass hit his thighs, to the point that if he hadn't been holding you in place, he would've already pushed you out of bed.

You were creaming around him, mixing with his precum, forming a ring of slick at the bottom of his cock. The wet clap of skin against skin was loud, mixing with your moans and cries.

“Oh, Bunny, you feel so good. You're gripping me so tight, you don't want to let go, don't you? You want me to stay right there, nuzzled inside you.”

“Yes, ah, yes!” You cried out, wrapping your legs around him with a leglock, heels pressing his butt.

“Bunny, baby, I need to pull out,” Bucky said, groaning.

“Cum inside me, please, breed me.”

“Oh, Bunny.” He whimpered, his self-control snapping like a twig. “Is this why you said no penetration before — mmm, because you knew how much you'll want my cum inside you.”

You nodded.

“Please, I need it.”

His pace grew more erratic; he leaned in, arms braced so he could piston harder. Your arms wrapped around him, nails digging in his skin.

He knew very well that you were on the pill since long before you met him; still, the fantasy of getting you pregnant, marking you as his for the world to see, was making him dizzy in pleasure.

You were babbling now, too cockdrunk to even speak without slurring words that weren't yes, please, Bucky, fill me.

“Such a needy, Bunny.” He taunted you. “Come for me, baby, let me feel you.”

He felt you coming around him first, then he saw your pretty face contorted with pleasure.

Mouth hanging open.

Lips trembling.

Brows knitted.

Your legs trembled as you came, gushing around his cock. Your back arched.

And finally, he achieved what he had only been dreaming of. He kissed you, swallowing your moans.

Your climax triggered his, milking him as he spilled his seed inside you, filling you to the brim. His hips jerked; shallow thrusts made to pump his cum inside you and make it stay there.

“That’s it, Bunny. Take every drop.” He groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” You slurred, still on the peak of your climax that had prolonged with the joy of being bred.

You came down slowly, falling back into his arms as he cooed praises. He stayed buried inside you, just shifting enough to make you moan, and making sure not a single drop was wasted.

“That was…”

“Intense.” Bucky completed.

“Very much. When can we repeat?” You joked, making him laugh over you.

“My bunny and her jokes, I swear.” He kissed your lips. “I love you, baby.”

“I love you more.” You giggled when he kept peppering kisses all over your face and neck.

He pulled back slightly so he could see your whole face. “Are you okay?” he asked, straightening the bunny ears again.

“Never have been better, but I think my legs are cramped now.”

“Shit, Bunny!”

Bucky quickly straightened his back, bringing you up with him until you were sitting in his lap; the shift made some cum drip around his cock and down to the sheets.

“Better?” He kissed your shoulder, and as you got comfortable with your arms around him, he placed one hand on the curve of your ass, and the other caressed down your spine with lazy strokes.

You nodded, feeling sleepy and satisfied.

“Happy early birthday, Bucky.” You mumbled, reciprocating the caresses on his broad back.

“Thank you, Bunny. Best birthday present.” You nuzzled into his neck. “We are gonna have to explain a lot tomorrow.”

You considered lying, but you knew it would eventually come out.

“Yelena already knows.” You confessed. “She rage-baited me today until I spilled it out. I didn't tell her all the details — but she inferred we were sleeping together. She also helped me see how stupid I was not to tell you how I feel.”

He hummed.

“Why do you look so calm about it?” You narrowed your eyes at him, meeting his eyes and watching him blush. “Barnes?”

“Sam and Steve also know, superficially, nothing in detail. They've been nudging me to confess how much I love you for the past year, but I didn't want to risk our friendship.”

“Oh God, I can't believe our brain cells canceled each other.” You whined, mortified.

“If it helps, you're way smarter than I am; you at least made us progress — I was about to take my feelings to my grave.”

You slapped his arm. “Dumbass.”

He laughed.

“Ready to move?” You nodded against his shoulder. “What do you think about a bubble bath, soaking there until we look like raisins, and then we watch that movie you told me last time? I bought that ice cream you love.”

“Fuck me, you know me so well.”

“Of course I do, I’m your best friend.” He kissed your temple. “And your future boyfriend.”

“Yes, you are.” You smiled at him, and before he helped you stand up, you kissed him.

You were getting addicted to his kisses, you realized, which in part was great because you had so much time to make up for that you would be surprised if you ever were more than a few minutes without feeling his lips on you.

Time for new house rules.

taglist: @satelluna @houseofhyde @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @justwantsomeplums @thearchivistshaven @swimmingnightcolor @w1nter-fairy @sassandscribbles @opheliabbarnes @54nboo @buckyfmd @slutforsr @umbreoni @devililithh @colettebarnes @barnesandashes @metal-armed-muse @heldbybarnes @sheriff-bodecker @bckyslover @demiebarnes @amoremarveloustime @kqtholins @spidermanluvr444 @mathcat345 @singulartoast @erina00 @goldiegirl0312 @buckysdecaflove @ghost-of-barnes @onyx8514 @imtoooldforthis82 @l0singctrl @eilish007 @apenny4thots (+ comment on this post to be added to the taglist)

Having friends had never been something you'd taken for granted.

You'd never been one of those people who seemed to be getting along with everyone without even trying, managing to have a place in all different kinds of friend groups or waking up to a load of notifications from friends who wanted to include you without having to think about it.

In high school, when you'd been at the age where teenagers saw every single thing about their looks and their character as a flaw that had to be fixed, you'd tried so desperately to fit in, there hadn't been much left of you when you'd finally accepted that this kind of world was never something you would be a part of.

And the older you got, the more you learned that it might not be as much of an issue as you always thought it was.

You had your friends, after all.

Sure, you didn't have a dozen of people in your close circe, but if there was one thing that adulthood had taught you, itt was that with all the responsibilities it brought, you actually didn't have that much time to spend with your friends either way.

By now, you'd accepted that you could count the amount of people that were actually your friends off on one hand, that your plans always included the same few people and that Bucky knew all of them by now because there hadn't exactly been a lot to introduce him to.

You'd come to peace with it, mostly.

Still, you couldn't deny that there was still this part of you, the one that had developed when you’d been twelve years old and crying about everyone in your class going to a party you weren't invited to, which told you that your worth depended on what others might think of you.

Because if nobody liked you, what even was the point?

And even though you weren't that kid anymore, the desire to be liked had never really left.

It wasn't as intense anymore, sure, but deep down, you knew that it was as much a part of you as the heart beating in your chest, so you accepted it with the kind of resignation that people developed when their doubts took over and fighting them felt like a task too hard to manage.

When you had first started to receive even less messages than you usually did, you'd just thought your friends were busy. You knew damn well that with how hectic life could get, social contacts were hard to manage sometimes.

It was fine. Surely, it was just a phase that would pass again soon.

Except it didn't pass, not really. That's what made it so bad.

Whenever you reached out to your friends, whether it was texting them individually or sending the location of a new café into the group chat, the reactions were… sparse, to put it lightly.

At first, you'd thought that you had done something wrong and they were mad at you, but when you'd asked them about it, the only answer they gave you was that they were busy.

And they weren't lying.

That much you could see in their Instagram stories, the ones you went through more often than you would ever admit.

Pictures from a party on one account, a vacation dump on the other.

They were living their lives and you loved that your them, you really did, but you still couldn't help but notice that all the plans they made were with people you didn't know.

Friends they had, ones that had nothing to do with you because their social circle wasn't even close to as small as yours was.

You figured that with all the friends they had, having one person more or less in their life didn't really make a difference to them.

And all you could do was obsess over how them leaving was your fault.

Maybe, if you would've just managed to step out of your comfort zone a little more, this wouldn't have happened.

After all, interesting people were never the ones that got abandoned, right? That just happened to the ones who weren't entertaining enough to leave an impression.

Maybe, if you would've talked less and laughed at their jokes a little more, you would've been more likeable.

Maybe then you would still have friends.

Honestly, it probably wouldn't hurt so much if you hadn't tried so hard.

You had, though.

You'd tried so hard to be exactly the kind of friend they might want you to be, the one that was always available, the one that answered texts quickly and gave the right kind of advice no matter the situation.

But apparently, that still hadn't been enough.

You'd tried to hide how much this had been affecting you over the last weeks, but you could only do so much.

And with a boyfriend as perceptive as Bucky, you knew that it would only be a matter of time until he would pick up on your change of mood.

The two of you were currently sitting on the couch in his living room, eating dinner together whilst the soft thud if rain hitting the windows provided some comfortable background noise.

Honestly, the scenario would've been comforting in any other situation.

Bucky had spent the last two hours in the kitchen, cooking a warm and comforting meal that made up for the stormy weather outside perfectly, especially because you could enjoy it from the warm living room with the man you loved sitting right next to you.

He'd been so proud of dinner when he'd plated it up for the two of you, you couldn't help but feel guilty for the way you were just absentmindedly pushing it around on your plate.

It tasted good, that wasn't the issue. Bucky's cooking skills had improved so much since you'd first started to teach him how to navigate the kitchen again after he'd admitted that he didn't actually know how to do something so domestic anymore.

You really wanted to just enjoy it with him, to have a nice and cozy evening without letting your stupid insecurities destroy it.

But you couldn't.

The heaviness in your heart was even worse today than it usually was, not because anything in particular had happened but because you knew that it was only a matter of time until you wouldn't have anyone anymore.

It wouldn't take much longer until Bucky would realize that he could do so much better than what you had to offer, and then he would leave.

And with him, the Avengers would be gone too, which would leave you completely and utterly alone and there was nothing you could do about it.

You could try, sure, but there was nothing you could do to stop the inevitable.

You were so deeply lost in thought, you didn't even notice that Bucky had been staring at you for the last few minutes already.

"Do you not like it?"

Your head snapped towards your boyfriend, who was looking at you with an expression that usually meant he was trying to understand something he couldn't exactly figure out yet.

"What?"

"The food," Bucky clarified, gesturing to your full plate. "You barely ate anything. I figured there might not be enough salt in it for you but-"

"Buck, no. It's perfect. I'm just… not hungry, that's all."

The fact that he was now thinking that you didn't like his cooking only made you feel worse, because that wasn't it at all.

The knot in your stomach was just too tight for you to have any kind of appetite.

Unable to look at him any longer, you lowered your gaze to your plate again, forcing yourself to take a bite just for the sake of it.

Bucky really wasn't having it, though.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see how he put his plate down on the table before he got up from where he was sitting, moving so he was kneeling in front of you, gently taking your plate away from you aswell.

"C'mon sweetheart, talk to me. What's going on?"

Sometimes, his attentiveness really was a curse more than it was a blessing. And with him sitting in front of you like that, his beautiful eyes so full of worry and concern, you couldn't keep this from him any longer.

"I just… I'm not really much of an interesting person, am I?"

Bucky's brows pulled together in confusion, his expression turning a little disbelieving now. "Of course you are, doll. Where is this coming from?"

You could already feel your throat tighten uncomfortably, the way he said it so convinced and certain, like he didn't even have to think about his answer twice whilst it was all you've been thinking about over the last few weeks.

"Well, I'm not exactly the person with the biggest amount of friends, am I? And the few friends I do have don't really hang out with me anymore, so there has to be something I'm doing wrong, right? I wouldn't be this unlikeable otherwise."

The words were all but tumbling out of your mouth now, the dam that had been holding every single one of your doubts and insecurities back finally breaking. 

"Everyone's leaving, Bucky, and I really don't know what the hell I am supposed to do to stop it and-"

You couldn't help the way your voice broke, the hitch in your breath dangerously close to a sob as Bucky pulled you into his arms, properly sitting down on the floor so he could put you down in his lap, completely wrapping his arms around you like that was enough to top you from falling apart.

Unfortunately, it really wasn't.

Tears were streaming down your face now, shoulders shaking with the sobs that were ripping from your throat, your boyfriend's embrace giving you exactly the kind of comfort you needed.

And Bucky didn't try to stop you from crying, neither did he try to fix anything right now.

He just… held you. He gave you the oppurtunity to just let go for a moment, to share those ugly and raw thoughts with him and show you that he was there for you anyway.

The two of you just stayed like that for a very long time, how long exactly you couldn't tell, though. It was always like that with Bucky, like his embrace was more than enough to stop the concept of time from making sense anymore.

And Bucky didn't rush you. He just gently rocked you back and forth, his metal arm soothingly moving up and down your back as his other hand cradled your head to his chest.

When the tears finally slowed and you pulled back just enough to look at him again, he carefully brushed some hair out of your face, eyes running over your features like it would help him understand what exactly was going through your head right now. "I need you to listen to me now, alright sweetheart?"

Only when you nodded did he go on, his voice serious in a way you've never heard before.

It wasn't the kind of seriousness that you knew from when he talked about missions.

This felt more personal, like he was talking about something that meant way more too him than anything work related ever could.

"There is nothing wrong with you, and it kills me that you think there is. You are one of the most amazing and interesting people I know, and I love you. If your friends can't appreciate that, that's on them. But I won't let you make yourself small because other people can't see how much of a special person you are."

You knew that Bucky meant what he was saying, you really did, but words somehow still meant so little when words had failed you so often already.

"You're biased, though. Also, I'm your girlfriend. You have to say that kind of stuff."

That made him laugh a little now, a soft smile carefully pulling at his lips.

It wasn't the kind of laugh that was mocking or invalidating your feelings, though. Just the kind which showed that he meant what he said, and that the mere idea of it being a lie a little amusing to him.

"Pretty sure I don't have to do or say anything anymore, love. I'm telling you this because it's true. If you think that my love for you makes me unqualified too answer that question, though, I'm sure that the others would tell you the exact same thing."

You knew that he meant the Avengers by that, but honestly, you weren't sure if that was necessarily true.

"They are your friends, though, not mine."

It wasn't really much of a reasonable explanation, but it made sense to you. To them, you had to feel like an extension of Bucky, which meant that they couldn't exactly say anything bad about you.

Bucky didn't seem to think that at all, though. "Sam told me last week that he would personally kick my ass off the team if I ever managed to mess things up with you. I think it's safe to say that they like you more than they like me by now, sweetheart, and I can't even blame them."

He seemed to notice that you weren't entirely convinced yet, so he just kept going. "I get the feeling of thinking that you aren't enough for people to stay. Trust me, I do. But I also have a very smart and wonderful woman in my life who once told me that my worth doesn't depend on the amount of validation I get from others, because that would never manage to make me feel like I’m enough. And I feel like the things that count for me count for you too, don't they?"

Bucky wasn't wrong- you had told him that, but telling other people things like that was always easier than to believe them yourself. "Well, saying stuff is always easy, isn't it?"

"It is," he agreed. "But you got me and you got the others, doll, and i think it's safe to say that all of us would be more than happy to remind you of how much you mean to all of us as much as you need- especially me. Okay?"

Honestly, it wasn't really okay yet, but after what Bucky'd just said, maybe it was going to be. Sure, there were still going to be days where the feeling of not being enough swallowed you whole and the loneliness felt like a burden too heavy to carry.

But now you knew that you didn't have to carry it alone anymore.

Losing friends was never going to be easy, and honestly? You didn't even want it to be.

Friends were people that you carried close to your heart, which was exactly the reason why it hurt so much when the left.

But you weren't just going to stop caring to avoid the consequences, not when it was such a big part of you- a part that others appreciated, even though you couldn't always see it that way.

And losing yourself over other people leaving? 

That sure as hell wasn't going to happen.

Especially not with your boyfriend still looking at you like that, convincing you that maybe, everything was going to work out just fine.

just friends - @herejustforbuckybarnes

pairing: Nerd Bucky Barnes x Roommate!Reader summary: After finding your roommate in a compromising situation, you volunteer to give him a hand… and a mouth, kickstarting the most tumultuous semester in your friendship with a sexual benefits deal; wisely, some rules were established. But would those rules be enough to keep you just friends?

Not so sudden - @buckysdecaflove

pairing: Prof!Bucky Barnes x Student F!Reader summary: You learn you're pregnant after having something not that casual with your professor, and he then shows you how ready he is to take care of you and your baby.

Academic Probation - @/w1nter-fairy

pairing: Dean Bucky Barnes x grad student!Reader summary: James Buchanan Barnes has spent his entire career believing discipline solves everything. Then a brilliant, chronically late graduate student walks into his office, challenges every opinion he has and somehow turns his carefully ordered life upside down.

salt and pepper - @/herejustforbuckybarnes

pairing: Dean Bucky Barnes x Professor!Reader summary: Dean Barnes had gone into hiding mode weeks after magical weeks together. Curiosity and resentment led you to confront him — nonetheless, you weren't expecting that he was hiding his salt-and-pepper hair. Time to show him you love him no matter what.

The one who calls you baby - @/buckysdecaflove

pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader summary: After a fling before summer’s vacation, Bucky decides you’re the one to settle down with, but your doubts grow bigger until he makes it clear you’re the only one he wants.

Tipsy Truth - @w1nter-fairy

pairing: Tutor!Bucky Barnes x Reader summary: Your phone is at eleven percent, your roommate isn't answering, and going back to your dorm isn't an option. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Unfortunately for you, these desperate measures involve waking Bucky Barnes in the middle of the night.

────────── MORE FICS TO BE ADDED SOON. ──────────

YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN CONTENT CONSUMPTIONS.

He chuckles, low and warm, and doesn’t break his stride as he leans down to press a kiss to your temple. “Common name.”

“There’s like, a whole movie about how bad of an idea this name is to use with our current status.”

“What movie?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Smith?”

“Sounds pretty on the nose.”

“See, you do this. I genuinely can’t tell if you’re fucking with me sometimes.”

You look up, and he smirks. Raises an eyebrow.

“That face isn’t helping.”

“You think I’m being funny?”

“Now I do.”

“You’re in a mood.”

“And you’re laughing at me about it. I can see it in your eyebrows.”

His smile grows, and he leans down to press a kiss to your nose. You scrunch it up, and your frown deepens.

He does laugh now, seemingly delighted by your grumpiness, and catches your chin to turn your face toward his. He leans down again, pressing his lips to your cheek. Your nose again. Your other cheek. Your jaw. Over and over until you’re losing the fight with a smile of your own. You don’t have much of a problem with PDA, but Dex seems to genuinely enjoy it. Even before, before he became Bullseye and went to prison and lost the rest of his fucking mind, he was never averse to sliding an arm around you when you waited in line for coffee, or pressing a kiss to the side of your head as you walked down the street together.

Now, crazier and bolder and so much less worried about how the world sees him, the asshole pulls back with a squeeze to your ass that has you squeaking in surprise.

“Sleep on the plane.” He hums, hiking your bag up a little higher over his shoulder.

You do your best to puff your protest, to roll your eyes, but you’re still blushing.

“I don’t need sleep.”

“You’re only mad at me when you’re tired.” He looks down, raises an eyebrow. “Are you mad at me?”

“I’m irritated with you. Stop doing the eyebrow thing.”

His low chuckle, despite your irritation, settles itself in your bones like a warm embrace. Fuck, you love him. It would be so much easier to be pissy with him if you didn’t love him so much.

“You’re still laughing at me.” You try, in a final weak attempt to to a grump.

He squeezes your side, unbothered as can be. “Sleep on the plane, baby.”

-

You fall asleep before the plane even takes off, and wake up when you land.

And, true to his word and his obsessive knowledge of every mood you’ve ever been in, you’re happier than ever when you depart from the airport and begin the long, winding drive to your new temporary home.

When the two of you decided on where to go, you picked somewhere warm. Somewhere by the water. Somewhere, obviously, as secluded as possible from the outside world. And, thanks to your skills and a bit of Dex’s input, you managed to secure a small cabin on the beach in a tropical country right smack-dab in the middle of nowhere.

It’s night when you finally pull into the overgrown driveway, the hum of the jungle foreign and heavy around you.

Dex brings the bags inside, and you sit in the car for an extra few moments despite the ache in your bones from all of the travel. One more wire transfer, one more sweep of everything to make sure the two of you are completely off the grid, and a full shut down of your portable WiFi, and…

As if by some second instinct, Dex pulls the car door open just as you’re closing your computer.

“Home sweet home.” He hums, already reaching for you like the ten minutes of separation was a personal offense. You smile, hopping out of the passenger seat and sliding your fingers up through his cropped hair. He leans into your touch, like always, and looks down at you through like you’re the only other person in the world. Like always.

“Perimeter swept? No giant spiders?”

His smile widens, and he rests his forehead comfortably against your own. “None I couldn’t handle.”

“Sounds promising.”

And, with that, you let him lead you into your new home.

To your surprise, candles are strewn about the room, casting a steady glow on the simple bed in the center. You can hear the ocean. Hell, you can see it through the curtains, reflecting moonlight off the waves.

You suppose being on the lam isn’t so bad, after all.

“What, no rose petals?” You joke, turning to Dex only to find the spot behind you completely empty.

Your brow furrows, and you call his name into the silence of the little cabin. Nothing.

Immediately, your mind goes to the worst case scenario. He’s been taken. Snatched away from you in the span of a second and now he’s bleeding out again somewhere you’ll never find and-

You feel something whiz past your arm. One of the candles snuffs out, plunging one corner of the room into darkness.

You blink, and narrow your eyes a little. “Dex?”

Another candle goes out, the soft whoosh of whatever is being thrown sputtering out the flame. This time, as realization dawns on you, you feel a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

Another candle. Another. Two more in quick succession.

The room is cast in a low, hazy glow. One candle remains standing, flickering in the now too-low light of the room.

Your eyes scan the room again, finding nothing but shadow, and the last candle snuffs out and plunges the room into darkness.

You can feel his presence nearby, but you still can’t see him. A predator hunting prey. It sends a thrill through you, and you smile a little wider.

Carefully, you turn, trying to find his silhouette in the moonlight. You still see nothing, and wonder just how far he’s planning to take this little game, when you suddenly feel the prickle of warm breath against the column of your throat.

His hand slides down over your arm. His lips brush your neck, and you lean back against him as he slides his fingers over yours and turns you towards him.

“What was that about?” You murmur, distracted by the warm kisses trailing over your skin, the calloused fingers curling through your own.

“Romance.” He murmurs, and you laugh.

“Usually, the candles stay lit for romance.”

“Can’t throw fire, baby. I can just put ‘em out.”

“What other skills are you planning to show off tonight, Bullseye?”

His chuckle is low and warm, and in a second you’re lifted off of your feet and tossed through the air, bouncing on what you can only assume is the dead center of the mattress. You land with a delighted laugh, and feel his presence at the edge of the bed, large hands sliding reverently up over your thighs until he reaches the button of your jeans. He undoes them in one smooth twitch of his fingers, and then pulls the hem of your shirt up so he can press a slow, warm kiss to your stomach at the same time he slides them down over your legs.

He always undresses you like he hasn’t a thousand times before. Like it’s the first time, every time. You hear his breath catch as he pulls your shirt over your head, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, and his mouth trails over every inch of skin he can reach until you’re tangling your fingers in his hair to drag him up to kiss you.

“All mine.” He whispers against your lips, large body enveloping yours. “North Star.”

You arch into him, every molecule in your body begging to be closer to his. You pull at his t-shirt until he removes it, then his pants, until you’re both completely bare, nothing between you but the barest whisper of warm tropical air and the sound of the waves crashing on the beach.

This doesn’t feel like running. This feels like finally being home. Like you’re the only two people in the entire world, and everything that nearly ripped you away from each other before will never be able to find you again.

He has your leg hooked over his shoulder, large fingers digging into the skin of your thigh as he trails his mouth down over your calf, bites at the inside of your knee so sharply you yelp, and chuckles when you huff and squirm in irritation.

“Stay still, baby.” He chastises gently, grinning wide as he nuzzles his nose against the inside of your thigh. You’re about to make some kind of comment, when the distant shriek of a tropical bird outside cuts you off.

“That was loud.” You observe, curious. You’re used to the white noise of the city. To traffic honking at three in the morning and shouting from the street. This new environment might just take some getting used to.

Dex seems completely unfazed, barely bothering to remove his mouth from your skin. “You’ll be louder.”

You roll your eyes, and try to fight a smile as his lips finally reach their intended destination. “Someone’s feeling cocky toni- oh my God.”

He hums, raising an eyebrow up at you, and his smirk would make you roll your eyes again if you still had the ability to form a coherent thought.

He takes you apart like the act his his personal favorite pastime, blue eyes falling closed like he’s in fucking heaven. You tangle your fingers in his hair, head rolling back against the pillows as your free hand flies up to instinctively cover your mouth.

His own hand shoots out, catching it with perfect accuracy and pressing it firmly down into the sheets beside you.

“Louder.” He growls, doubling his efforts, and it takes no time at all for you fall apart with a cry of his name, thighs squeezing either side of his head so tightly that his groan of approval vibrates through your entire body.

As you fall back to earth, he crawls atop you, a mountain of a silhouette in the darkness of the room, and when you reach up to cradle his face in your hands he turns to press a kiss to the heel of your palm.

“That’s one.” He murmurs, and you can feel the curve of his smile against your skin.

You smile back, and hook your leg around his hip, flipping him onto his back and straddling his hips between your still-shaky legs.

“Fuck.” He breathes, dropping his head back and sliding rough palms up over your thighs, gripping your hips tightly enough that you hope he leaves bruises. “You’re an angel.”

“I definitely don’t fit that description.” You hum, leaning down to brush your lips over his. He chases your kiss, and you pull back, leaning down instead to nip playfully at the underside of his jaw. “Totally your fault, by the way.”

“Corruption looks good on you, baby.” He rasps, fingers trailing up your sides and making you shiver. “You gonna cuff me again?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You see the glint of his teeth, pearly white in the moonlight as he grins up at you. His hands grip your hips a little more tightly, lifting you up as effortlessly as if you weigh nothing, and you gasp as he sinks you back down onto him with that same downright inhuman precision.

“Fuck.” It’s your turn to breathe the word, fingers curling against his biceps as he starts to move you against him, guiding your body atop his in a way that already has him hitting that perfect spot with every slow movement. 

“Not an angel,” he murmurs, voice already rough and strained, “but you feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

You whimper, leaning down to capture his lips with your own, and he growls into your mouth before he flips you onto your back, sliding one hand into your hair as the other hooks your leg around his waist.

“Mine.” He growls, low, and you fucking love when he gets like this. When he makes every movement a challenge to himself to see how good he can make you feel. When he looks at you like you’re the only other person in the world. “All mine.”

You nod your agreement, and you’re already so far gone it’s almost ridiculous. You grasp at his biceps, nails digging into his skin before you drag them up to his hair and yank him down to kiss him so desperately you can’t remember how to breathe right.

He angles his hips just right, speeding up his movements until your entire body is trembling with need. He doesn’t look away from your face, not for a second, and as you feel the edge approaching fast as you lean up to gasp into his mouth, nails digging deep into whatever part of him you can reach.

“Mine.” Another rough thrust has you choking on air, but you stil grip him closer. “You’re mine.”

He groans, and grabs your hands to slam them into the mattress above your head.

“Give it to me.” He whispers, burying his face in your neck as your eyes flutter closed. “Let me feel it.”

You fall to fucking pieces, crying out his name and digging your heel into his back as you try to remember how to breathe. 

He moans, low and wrecked and downright starved, and digs his teeth into your shoulder. His movements slow, just a bit, but he doesn’t stop. You gasp, and squirm beneath him, and he angles himself to hit that perfect spot again until it’s too overwhelming. Too much.

“Oh God,” you whimper, and he pulls back just enough to grin at you, dropping down to catch your lip between his teeth as he starts to move faster. You gasp again, and you might even try to push him off at the overstimulation if he didn’t still have you pinned beneath him.

“Dex.” It’s a plea, a desperate gasp, and he nods as his fingers lock even more tightly around your wrists.

“Again.” It’s a command, but it’s still too fast. Too much too quickly. You don’t know if you fucking can.

“P-please.” You breathe, and he bites harder at your skin, possessive.

“Again. You can. I know you can.”

“I…I’m- oh, fuck. Please.”

One hand releases your wrists, dragging down your body until you feel his fingers working between you in time with his thrusts and you can’t think you can’t breathe you need-

“That’s right.” His mouth moves up, and he bites at the shell of your ear, and your toes curl as your heart threatens to beat its way out of your chest. “Scream for me.”

And you do.

It takes you both a good while to come back to yourselves, with you trying to catch your breath and ease the shaking in your legs and Dex trailing slow, mindless kisses over your marked skin.

“I’m yours.” He murmurs, so quiet you almost don’t even hear it, and you smile as you nudge the top of his head with your nose until he leans up to kiss you again.

Your fingers trail through his hair, the blond strands soft between your fingers, and you smile.

“You’re mine.” You confirm, and he makes a noise like a helpless whimper against your lips, like his love is so overwhelming that it might break him. “And I’m yours.”

-

When you wake, it’s to early morning sunlight and the trills of tropical birds. Waves crashing on the beach nearby. Dex’s arms wrapped tightly around you, and the warm skin of his bare chest against your cheek.

You move to snuggle closer, but when you lift your hand to wrap your arm around him something glints in the quiet light of dawn.

There’s a ring on your finger. A simple, beautiful diamond ring. When you look closer, you see that it’s tinted blue.

“Dex?” Your voice is hoarse with sleep, and his eyes are still closed, but you see his lips twitch upwards in a small smile. He’s pretending to be asleep. He does that, sometimes, as odd as it is. You don’t know if he thinks it’s funny, or if he’s trying to find an excuse to watch you sleep that he doesn’t need, but you’ve always found that particular quirk to be one of his strangest.

“I know you’re awake, psycho.” You accuse, and his smile grows as he tugs you closer and buries his nose in the hollow of your throat, sliding his knee between yours and rolling atop you. You wiggle beneath the mountain of muscle, and he just holds you tighter as he lets out a loud, exaggerated snore that vibrates from his chest into yours.

“Dex.” You pat at his broad back, the ring catching the light and glistening blue once again. “How long have I been wearing this?”

He rolls again, and you squeak in surprise as you now find yourself sitting atop him, hands braced on his chest as his own hold you in place by your hips. He’s still smiling, wide and bright and more than a little mischievous. “Do you like it?”

You think back to last night. To Dex snuffing out the candles, one by one. To the completely darkened room, and the way his fingers had slid over your own as he’d turned you in his arms. Such a simple touch, you never would have thought twice about it. And afterward, there wasn’t exactly a moment you were in your right mind enough to notice anything other than him.

You’ve been wearing this ring for the entire night, and you had no idea.

You look down at the diamond, and back up to his face. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

“We’re already married.” He says easily, shifting to sit up against the headboard with you still straddling his lap, one ridiculously muscled bicep resting comfortably behind his head. “I’m just asking you to wear the ring.”

Something swells in your heart, big and warm and light. “It’s gonna be pretty hard to get a marriage license while we’re on the run, and using fake names.”

“Don’t need one.” His hand leaves your waist, sliding down over your arm to play almost absentmindedly with the fingers of your left hand, eyes locked on the ring. “And for the rest of it, I’m not above bribing a priest.”

You just stare at him for a moment, truly and completely shocked, before you start laughing.

“That’s a yes.” He confirms, clearly proud of himself as he tugs you to him and cuts off your laugh with the press of his lips against your own.

“…there it is,” he murmurs.

your shyness makes you hesitant to ask for affection, which means dex learns to read you instead. he’ll notice you hovering nearby while pretending to look at something else, the tiny glances you keep stealing at him, the way your fingers fidget with your sleeves. without a word, he’ll open one arm. you shuffle over almost immediately, resting against his side. “…better?” he asks. you nod into his shoulder. “mhm.”

he finds your tendency to hide behind him endearing. crowded streets, loud environments, unfamiliar people - you’ll unconsciously drift until you’re standing just behind his shoulder. after a while, he starts shifting slightly to make room without even thinking about it.

because you’re so reserved, every little sign of affection from you means everything to him. if you reach for his hand first, if you lean your head on his shoulder without being prompted, if you quietly mumble, “I missed you,” when he comes home - it stays with him for days. he doesn’t react in the moment, but later that night he’ll pull you just a little closer while the two of you lie in bed, silently replaying those moments in his mind.

your shyness means you’re constantly apologizing for taking up space. dex hates it. every time you murmur, “sorry,” for something insignificant, he gently interrupts. “don’t apologize, you didn’t do anything wrong.” eventually he starts placing a finger beneath your chin whenever you apologize unnecessarily, making you look at him until you smile instead.

dex has spent most of his life hiding every genuine emotion he has. you wear yours all over your face without realizing it. he knows exactly when you’re excited because your eyes brighten before you even smile. he knows when you’re anxious because you start twisting your rings. he knows when you’re trying not to cry because your lips press together just a little tighter.

“I can hear you thinking.” he says.

“…how do you know?”

“because I know you.”

one of the first things dex notices is that you instinctively make yourself smaller. when a waiter accidentally gets your order wrong, you smile and say it’s fine. when someone interrupts you, you simply stop talking. it bothers him more than he’d ever admit. after watching it happen one too many times, he starts speaking before you can. “she ordered the tea, not coffee.” his voice is calm, almost detached.

you glance up at him, surprised. afterward, you mumble, "dex, you didn’t have to.”

he looks at you for a second. “I wanted to.”

he loves when you hide your face in his chest after he compliments you. at first he thinks you’re embarrassed. then he realizes you’re smiling too much to look at him. from then on, he starts whispering compliments just to feel you curl into him. “you’re beautiful.” you let out the tiniest groan, face disappearing into his jacket. he rests his chin on your head, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

there are times when your quiet nature worries him. after everything he’s experienced, silence can make his thoughts spiral. if you spend too long lost in your own head, he’ll glance over more often than he’d like to admit. “you okay?” he’ll ask. every single time you smile softly and answer, “just thinking.” only then does the tension leave his shoulders.

he never tries to change your personality. if anything, he protects it. he knows the world constantly expects louder, bolder people, but he likes that you’re soft. likes that your words are carefully chosen instead of rushed. likes that your kindness isn’t performative. one night, when you apologize for “being too quiet,” he looks at you for a long moment before gently taking your hand. his fingers intertwine with yours. “it’s one of my favorite things about you.”

you’re soft in every way he isn’t. where his voice is blunt, yours is hesitant. where his gaze is intense, yours is quick to drop. when strangers make eye contact, you smile politely. dex studies them until they look away first. the funny part is that you balance each other perfectly. people approach you because you seem approachable. they leave you alone because they eventually notice who’s standing beside you.

Some may label you foolish for missing the signs. You’ve read every romance column known to women, familiarizing yourself with these so-called symptoms of a failing relationship. Looking at Max and the life you’ve built, you never thought to give any of them credence.

So what if he works countless late hours in the office, he’s continuing to build his parents’ legacy — of course, he would work hard. So what if he puts his phone face down when you enter the room, smiling up at you tight with a stiff crinkle in the corner of his eye that you brush off — he just wants all his focus on you. So what if he decides to get a separate credit card for his personal items — he doesn’t want to burden you with his spending.

You’re not naive by any means. Many have called you cynical, evidenced by the articles you write that often renounce simplistic forms of love, pure perspectives on life with no consideration of the horrors of the human mind.

It’s not that you’re naive. It’s that your edges, the ones that face him, have been smoothed over time. Chipped away and sanded until they are curves that he can hold onto, keeping a firm grip on you to free his other hand to reach for another.

When you first step past the threshold of your home, the last thing you expect is to hear voices. Max was supposed to be at work. Your heart lifts, the innocent thought that he had come home earlier to surprise you crossing your mind. It’s a consideration that does not last very long when a woman appears, skipping out into the living room which you have a clear line of sight into from the doorway.

A woman who looks very much like Max’s secretary. The one who always prepares you coffee when you stop by. The one who always simpers so sweetly at you, but lingers her sultry gaze a little too long on your boyfriend. The one Max told you not to worry about.

A woman who is in nothing but her bra and panties.

At first, she doesn’t see you, giggling carefree with her bare feet against your hardwood floors. Only when she does a twirl does she see you in your doorway. Only then does she do a double-take, stumbling over her own foot and nearly toppling over your very nice vase.

“Shit,” she squeaks out quietly, righting herself into an awkward stance.

The words die in your throat. While your mind could attempt to do the mental gymnastics of justifying why your boyfriend’s secretary would be practically nude in your place, you’re not granted the opportunity when the man of the hour comes running up to her, broad arms that you once called your home wrapping around her.

“Come back here,” he laughs, lips attaching to her delicate neck. The one adorned with a pearl necklace that you remember seeing him sneak into the apartment, but never reached your hands. “What are you—”

At least, you aren’t the only one caught off guard. It seems to be a three-way standoff the way everyone freezes where they stand. There is only a brief second of silence, you could hear a pin drop, before the chaos unfurls.

Safe to say, your beloved vase does not survive the five minutes it takes to chase the two of them out of your home. The vase ends up scattered across the hallway outside your door, lodged against his skin and maybe even hers. You’ll be the first to fully admit that you can’t fully recall what exactly transpired in the moments following the betrayal.

When all is said and done and you’re left in the aftermath of what just happened, two weeks before Christmas, all you can think is — ‘tis the fucking season.

—

By the time you roll to a stop in front of your parents’ upstate home, you’ve comfortably settled into the third stage of grief. Ire flows through your veins the entire drive up, blood rushing to your foot for you to floor the accelerator the entirety of the three-hour ride over. The music that blasts through your speakers is deafening. It’s angry, it’s hurt. It’s a reflection of you.

While you had been numb when you first called your parents to request permission, asking to use their home under the guise of a quiet place to focus on work with your pressing deadlines, that paralysis has quickly subsided into fire that sears through your entire being. Despite the early December chill, all you feel is hot.

Flames enveloping your heart in pure, unbridled white-hot anger. How dare he. Seven years. Seven of the best years of your life. Seven years shredded into nothing in five minutes. Five fucking minutes. He couldn’t have even bothered sitting you down, telling him that he was no longer interested in you, that he no longer loved you. He couldn’t even bother extending the courtesy of breaking up with you.

Hell, he couldn’t have even bothered booking a goddamn hotel room like any other cheater out there. He took her — the woman he promised you never needed to worry about — to your home. Your safe space. The one you purchased with your hard-earned work.

Your fingers itch with the urge to dial up his number, to give him a piece of your mind that certainly will last a lot longer than five fucking minutes. But you bite back that impulse because it’s not worth it. He’s not worth it.

He already tainted every single piece of your home by bringing her there. All the good — the whispered kisses under the covers, the tangling of your legs on the couch with the television purring quietly in the background, the clanging of pots and pans for your dinner dates — is gone. Memories stained with permanent ink. When you imagine your pristine apartment, all you can see are the spots — the marks that can never be erased. Smudges over the flawless house you’ve built.

For a while, you sit behind the wheel, knuckles tight where you grip. The tears are warm in your eyes, you will them away, but they stick. They roll down fast, soft lines down your face that can’t seem to disappear, no matter how many times you wipe them.

For a moment, you think you’ve regressed in your grief — the guilt seeping back in through the cracks of your wrath. The self-blame question in the margins of your mind has only partially formed when a knock on your window jolts you back to reality.

Quickly swiping away the wet streaks on your face, you squeeze your eyes shut and force your face to be brave. You plaster on a shaky smile before you unlock your car and slide out.

“Marta, it’s been too long.”

Marta is a four-foot-nine lady who’s been working here since you were two running around in nothing but your diapers. She mostly keeps the house clean, but she has had to occassionally wear a few hats, including babysitting you when you’re being a bigger brat than usual.

Her thick arms swathe you in a warm embrace, one that you didn’t know you desperately needed until your own limbs return the affection. She doesn’t say anything about your swollen eyes or your sniffly nose. Instead, she holds you at arm’s length and smiles softly. “Dear, it’s been much too long. You haven’t been here in years. The last time I saw you, you were off to start your first year in the city.”

Remorse slinks around you again, hovering close by. “I know, I’m sorry. It’s been busy. Life, I mean. I haven’t really had the chance to come back here.”

“No matter,” she tuts quietly with a pat on your shoulder. “I’m glad to see you’re doing well. You look healthy at least. Probably could use my squash soup, you used to love that.”

“I still do,” you grin back.

Marta takes you on a tour of the home, refreshing your memory of where things are stored and the renovations your parents have done on certain rooms, including turning your bedroom into a home gym. The two of you spend an hour or so catching up, her lighting up with every piece of your life that you share with her. By the time she bids her farewell, the sun is slowly sinking over the horizon.

The rush from the day has slowly given way to weariness that weighs heavy on your eyelids. You barely register her words when she tells you that your parents have hired a full-time caretaker for the property who lives just down the road. You barely remember drifting towards the living room couch and stretching out, letting sleep swallow you.

When you come back to, the room is bathed in a gradient of purple and orange. The sun peeks shyly over the horizon as you stretch your exhausted, aching arms long into the air with a groan. Your phone lights up to indicate that it’s barely six, which means you’ve slept more than you have this past week alone.

You tug the throw blanket around your shoulders, fabric dragging by your feet as you step across the creaky, cool floors into the kitchen. You reach for a fresh glass and fill it with tap, tipping the crisp water down your throat to quench your parched throat.

Sleep hadn’t been kind to you. Even — especially — with your eyes closed, all you can see is the betrayal that plagues you. The scenes shift throughout the night — your home, his office, a restaurant that you used to frequent with Max. Each one once a memory of the good you had, now soiled with her face replacing yours. It’s her hand he’s holding. It’s her eyes he’s looking into.

You’re standing in the fringes of these moments, like an outsider watching through a window.

Your head pulses with an ache that doesn’t seem to cease. Instead, you try to distract yourself by fussing with the kettle to make some tea, hoping that the caffeine would ease your drowsy mind. While you wait for the kettle to whistle, your hand automatically reaches for your phone, your first instinct is to scroll through the news notifications.

A wedding in Brooklyn. Another stupid comment from the president. An alien invasion in Metropolis.

You can’t tell if some higher power above finds destroying the world you live in to be the ultimate cosmic joke. This is why you don’t like writing about real news; it’s too depressing. At least you find interest in the topics you write, even if they aren’t always the most critical things the world needs. 

You’re halfway through this article from The Daily Planet that you’re convinced is another outlet similar to The Onion when you spot movement in your periphery. The blood-curdling scream leaves your lips when you see the dark figure standing by your kitchen.

Said figure then steps into the streaks of gold the sunrise paints across your floors. Slowly, his face is illuminated — it’s his broad chest that you notice first, hidden beneath the fabric of his t-shirt. Your eyes then shift to his equally broad shoulders, covered by a plaid button-down that hangs loose over his middle, tight around his biceps. Then his bearded jaw comes to life before the slope of his nose and finally his bright blues.

While you aren’t a particular fan of home invasions, maybe there is something to the way this man looks ridiculously handsome. Ridiculously, effortlessly handsome. He doesn’t even seem fazed when you lunge for a knife, pointing it in his direction. In fact, he looks rather amused.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Never knew you had such a potty mouth.”

A scowl descends on your face. “Never answered my question.”

“I’m Bucky,” he says simply. When you don’t put your weapon down, he sighs. “Marta didn’t tell you? I work here. Been helping your parents with construction, renovation, and plumbing, along with some other odd tasks.”

Bucky? “What kind of name is Bucky?”

His lips curl again, amusement deepening the dimple in his cheek. His eyes twinkle with mischief, like he’s about to respond with a ridiculously stupid line. Your annoyance burrows deeper into your heart as you tighten your grasp around the knife.

“You gonna put the knife down or are you gonna keep acting up?”

There’s something in his voice, the curl of his syllables, the drop in pitch of his tone. It almost makes you want to listen. Almost. Your hand falters for a second, he notices. His smile stretches again.

“What? I gotta show you my state ID?” He chuckles, reaching into his pocket and pulling out and jingling the keys in his hands. “Telling you that I have keys to the place. I didn’t realize you were coming so soon. Thought it would be a couple of days. Upstairs toilet has been acting up so I was going to take a look before you came.”

Pinching your lips, you slowly lower the knife. You slip it back into the block but keep your eyes on him the entire time. “Alright, I’ll bite.”

“Bet you do,” he mutters under his breath, low enough that you nearly miss it. But the morning is quiet, a far cry from the constant cacophony of sirens and honks in the city. For a second he pauses, his curious eyes appraising you silently. They analyze you carefully from the top of your head to where your toes are curled into the tiles.

Then they fly back up to meet yours. You make the mistake of letting a gasp escape. You didn’t think it was possible but he grins even wider. He looks even more handsome with that smile. “What?” You snap, crossing your arms over your chest, covering yourself up further.

“Nothing,” he huffs a laugh, “just look cute in the morning.”

Your heart stutters against your ribcage. He doesn’t even wait before he tromps up the stairs, footsteps disappearing along with the ghost of his voice caressing your ear.

The way your heart skips is new. You’ve been with Max for so long that you forget the thrill of the flirting game. The little comments. The teasing looks. You tell yourself that it’s because you’re freshly heartbroken. It’s not because Bucky is alluring in the way Max never was. Rough bumps rather than smooth surfaces. You’ve slipped on that slope before; maybe it’s time to try something different.

—

For the most part, you keep to yourself. Bucky putters around and outside the house doing all sorts of things. Sometimes he’s carrying a toolbox, other times a sledgehammer. There are instances when he walks around with nothing at all. But through it all, he’s always fucking stripping.

He would come into the house with at least two layers. Over the course of the day, he would peel off his shirt and drape it over the kitchen chair. Then, when he’s under the sink plugging away, he tugs his t-shirt over his head. By the time you look up for the second time that hour, he’s already exposed in front of you.

It’s not easy to ignore, not when you see the way his abs flex with every move. Or how he grunts every time he does something a little hard. Or the attractive furrow of his brows when he can’t figure something out.

You’ve been sitting on this desk by the window for the better part of the day, but your eyes have wandered more than a handful of times to him. It’s enough times to make it embarrassing when he catches your gaze straying to him one too many times. When his lips tip up with that stupid twinkle in his eyes. That’s when you duck your head back down behind your laptop screen.

At some point in the afternoon, Bucky does come up to you. He opens his mouth and, before he can say anything, your stomach rumbles. Loud.

Shit.

It’s worse when you see him clearly resisting a laugh, his teeth catching his bottom lip, his eyes shining with mirth. It looks even brighter in the light — closer to a baby blue than cerulean.

“What?” You glower at him when he doesn’t say anything.

“You wanna go out and eat?” The question catches you by surprise, obvious when the creases on your forehead melt into your raised brows.

Bucky shoves his hands into his jeans, his naked chest still open in front of you. You almost want to look at the mirror and write whore on it with how closely you’re tracing the lines on his stomach. Maybe it’s time to write a piece on attractive parts of a man that aren’t sexual. Like the clavicles. His are quite attractive.

“There’s no food in the house. Your parents cleared it all out when they left on their cruise,” Bucky clarifies, hand reaching up to scratch the back of his ear. For the first time since you met him, he looks almost… awkward. It’s satisfying.

“Right, that would make sense,” you say, equally as awkward. “Where were you thinking?”

“I needed to go into town to pick up some supplies, need it to fix up that toilet upstairs. There’s a bistro there with decent sandwiches — nothing crazy like you city folks are used to but it’s food.”

As if on cue, your stomach protests again. Loudly. Bucky doesn’t hold back his laugh this time. Heat crawls up your neck as you scrape your chair back. “Fine. Let me get changed first.”

“Why?” Bucky looks at you, eyes falling to your clothes before coming back up.

He can’t be serious. You’re in frumpy, wrinkled pajamas that cover your toes. “I can’t tell if you have shit taste in clothes or if you’re just being nice.”

Thankfully, Bucky only smiles at you and lets you know that he’ll wait outside. When you finally step out in a much more appropriate sweater and jeans, Bucky’s leaning against a pickup truck, arms crossed over his chest. He seems to be deep in thought, eyes laser-focused, face devoid of emotion. His gaze is on the dirt in front of him. He only looks up when the front door slams shut a little too loud.

The sharpness in his eyes chips away when they land on you. You’re not entirely sure what to make of that change and choose to tuck it away in a box of questions for another time.

The drive into town is relatively quiet, Bucky has some radio station playing music with static that he hums along to. You choose the safer route of looking out the window to the wide expanse of forests and farmland. Your mind slides slowly back to why you’re here in the first place, a dangerous territory you would rather avoid.

“How long are you staying?”

You jerk around to face him. “Oh, um, I haven’t really figured that out yet. Maybe Christmas? New Year’s? Who knows?”

He’s quiet for a beat then continues, “Why’d you decide to come up? Figured you’d want to spend the holidays with friends — your boyfriend — in the city, especially with your parents gone.”

You know what he’s doing. He’s testing the waters, wading his fingers in slowly to see if anything will bite. So you sigh. “You don’t have to beat around the bush. I haven’t told my parents yet but I found my boyfriend with his practically-naked secretary in my apartment. Packed up my bags same day and wound up here within five hours.”

An expletive leaves his lips. “That’s… shit.”

You can’t help the bark of a laugh that comes out of your mouth. “One way of putting it. It’s pretty shit, especially when I gave him seven years of my fucking life.” Now that the floodgates have been opened, all your words come pouring out. They spill out in questions about whether you’re good enough, whether you did something wrong to deserve this, to push him to that point. They stream out in expressions of irritation, a combination of how dare he with that motherfucker with a sprinkling of who the fuck does he think he is.

By the time you run out of phrases to curse out your ex, Bucky is pulling up to a parking spot in this quaint town. It’s the kind of small town you see in movies where people greet each other walking down the sidewalk, where the flowers are always yellow, and the skies are clear. It’s the complete opposite of the storm brewing inside of you.

That is when you realize what you’ve just done. Embarrassment swiftly spreads across your entire body, rippling in goosebumps. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” He asks, sincerity coating the single syllable.

“I said too much. You didn’t want to know all that.”

Bucky shrugs. “Didn’t mind it. Helpful context. Plus, think you needed that.”

You do feel a little lighter, a little less tense. You’ve had nowhere to channel all your thoughts and energy since yesterday evening, worsened by the fact that you haven’t eaten a single bite since lunch. For the first time since you left your house, you’re able to take a breath without your lungs quivering. It’s steady. Your heartbeat even.

“Thanks,” you say quietly.

Another huff of a laugh. He rubs your head, an affectionate gesture for a guy you’ve just met this morning, but you don’t mind it. There’s a familiarity to his touch that you lean into. He seems surprised but smiles. “No need to thank me. Let’s get some food in you.”

Lunch with Bucky is an experience, mainly because, by the end of it, you’re convinced he’s some sort of celebrity in town. No fewer than five people stop by to say hello and coo about how nice Bucky is. The waitress comes by with a slice of pie on the house. The chef knows the way Bucky likes his burger by heart. You get plenty of you’re so lucky’s that you blanch at, much to Bucky’s entertainment. If you didn’t know any better, he planted these extras and you’re waiting for someone to jump out and say you’ve been punked.

“Did I accidentally walk into a cult and you’re the high priest or something?” You ask when you finally leave the restaurant, a paper bag in Bucky’s hand of extra dishes the chef had whipped out for him.

His lips shift into a smirk. “Now why would you say that?” You’re not going to give him the satisfaction so you clamp your mouth shut and look away. Bucky touches your head again, and you do swat it off this time. “I have to go to the hardware store for the things. Did you want to join me or explore?”

The face you involuntarily make is apparently answer enough.

“Alright, grump. Give me your phone, we’ll trade numbers. Meet you back here in an hour?”

“It takes you an hour to pick up supplies for a toilet?”

Bucky shakes his head as he returns your phone. “A lot of questions. Might start charging you for answers.”

Before you can say anything else, he’s already stalking down the street. You’re left standing there, wondering what in the world you’re going to do to kill an hour. So you just start walking, your feet taking you down corners, twists, and turns. You wander around a farmer’s market for a while and end up with two bags of fresh produce to hopefully last you the week. Without fail, each stall owner points out that we haven’t seen you around here before, welcome to town!

It’s slightly unnerving but perhaps you aren’t used to eastern hospitality. Usually, when someone acts nice in the city, they probably want something from you. You try not to let your cynicism show and merely say I’m only in town for a little bit.

You’re making your way back towards the car when a bookstore not too far away from where you’re parked catches your eye. The titles are a little worn, but they look like they’re taken care of. There are a few classics that you’ve been meaning to read, time that you invested in your boyfriend now freed up for you to regain your literacy. You stack a few copies in your hand, only stopping when you can no longer balance them with your grocery bags.

When you go to put the bags down, you catch a fascinating sight.

Bucky is walking towards you but he doesn’t seem to have noticed you yet. On his journey, he suddenly stops, turns to look inside a store then goes in. Your eyebrow raises in question which is quickly answered when the door swings open and an old lady walks out, chattering excitedly at Bucky who is now carrying three additional bags. He packs them away inside her trunk and she pinches his cheek, which he winces at.

Then he continues walking only to pause again when he hears a group of kids bickering in front of a shop. He talks to them for a moment, the sheepish looks on three of their faces growing before they mumble apologies and run off. The one kid remaining thanks him profusely, lighting up in a smile that could power a city.

His final pause was when he spotted a dog sitting patiently on the sidewalk. He crouches down and gives the dog a few good rubs, lips moving in a murmur you can’t hear from the distance. The dog rolls over to show its belly which Bucky provides equal attention to.

Finally, he stops in front of his car and looks around. That’s when his eyes catch you and a slow smile spreads across his lips. He struts over to you — yes, strut because the way he walks makes him look like a model.

“Find anything interesting?” He teases, nodding to the pile in your hand.

You purse your lips. “Yes, a few. I’ll go pay and be right out.”

Bucky plucks the stack from your hand, flipping through them with an easy smile and putting away the ones he says are in your parents’ library. Only two remain. Instead of handing them back to you, he peeks his head inside the bookstore. “Mr. Moore, put them on my tab, will you?”

Mr. Moore is fast to agree and wave him off.

“You have a tab here?”

“Yes, I’m surprisingly literate.”

“That’s not what I meant,” you scowl.

“Mr. Moore only takes cash and he’s nice enough to let me keep a tab in case I don’t bring enough cash.”

Oh. When Bucky senses you aren’t going to ask follow-up questions, he picks up your bags from the floor and tucks the books between his arm and his waist.

“I can carry them myself, you know.”

“I know.”

You don’t need to look at him to know he’s smiling again. Damned flirt. Bucky opens the door for you again, waits for you to slide in and hook your seatbelt, before he drops off the items in the trunk and goes over to his side. 

When you prepare dinner that evening, a risotto recipe you found online and somehow manage not to destroy, you find yourself quietly stirring the mixture. It’s not as if you’re thinking about your breakup again or the fact that you have just lost seven years of your life to a man who couldn’t keep in his pants and had the gall to lie to you about it. You’re only feeling a little… listless.

For that reason, you are thankful that Bucky is still tinkering around upstairs. You haven’t gone to check on him once but you assume he isn’t destroying your mother’s precious porcelain tiles. The noise is comforting. It’s a relief to know that you’re not alone in this expansive, overwhelming space. You’re not engulfed in deafening silence that rings all too sharp in your ears.

As you switch off the stove, you hear Bucky land on the final step downstairs. Typical man — no help in the kitchen but arrives when the food is ready. His voice carries into the room as you keep your back turned towards him. “Toilet upstairs should be good to go. I’m going to head out for the day.”

That has you freezing. Muscles involuntarily spasming. You’re not entirely sure why you lock up. It’s not as if you know this man, as if you want him to stay. Because why would you want him to stay? Again, you don’t know this man.

Slowly, you turn, shifting your gaze away from him and onto the flowers dotting the wall. “I made too much for dinner. Followed a recipe with multiple servings. Did you want some?”

Bucky observes you for a second, silent as he searches your face. You can see his eyes moving from your periphery but you refuse to meet them. Then he breathes out, “Sure. That would be nice.”

“Wash your hands,” you automatically say, wincing when your habit comes out. Your now ex-boyfriend had the terrible habit of coming in from god knows where and putting his hands on everything in your spotless home.

The man before you doesn’t seem to take offense; in fact, he looks humored. “I was going to. Scout’s honor.”

Dinner passes relatively peacefully. Between the tang of lemon on your tongue and the mushrooms melting in your mouth, Bucky peppers you with surface-level questions. What do you do for work? How’s life in the city? What are you working on these days? You hate to admit it but you are grateful that you’re not entirely alone here.

You have a feeling that Bucky understands that too. He keeps the conversation flowing, not a moment of silence for you to overthink your current circumstances. Even as the two of you are working through the dishes side by side, Bucky makes you laugh over some of the things your parents have done in the house, their kooky requests that he has had to draw the line on. Your heart feels a little lighter once more.

But as the night dwindles down and the crickets begin to chirp outside your window, Bucky moves slower, like he’s delaying his departure. When you look at him from across the room, he seems hesitant for a second then asks.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

His question catches you off guard, your grip on the sink faltering. “Uh, have we met?”

Bucky tilts his head, like he’s trying to gauge whether your response is genuine. “Never mind,” he shakes his head with a small smile. The look has you prickling in annoyance, partly because it seems like you’re not in on the inside joke playing in his head. Still, you don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting to it. “I’m going to head out, let you get some rest. I’ll be back here early tomorrow morning,” he smirks, “just a heads up so you don’t launch that knife at my head.”

Your eyes roll instinctively. “If I throw a knife at your head, it’s more likely because you’re insufferable.”

“Mhmm, sleep tight. If you need anything, call me. I’m just down the road and I can be here in five minutes, yeah?”

The offer is comforting — an olive branch. You don’t tell him as such, but he seems to know when your shoulders slacken, tension draining from your bones. “Yeah, thanks, Buck. Bucky—” you quickly correct yourself.

His pink lips curve up on one corner. “Buck is fine too. Goodnight, doll.”

Before you can protest the unprompted nickname, the front door is closing behind him. When you reach up to touch your cheeks, you find them warm. 

–

The following days pass in a hazy blur. You continue to work around the house, moving your laptop from one place to another whenever you run into a block. Sometimes you pace, take a lap around the house. What you won’t admit to yourself is that, every time you move, you find yourself chasing after Bucky.

You’re still not entirely sure what work he does around the house, but apparently it’s everything. One moment he’s fixing the leaking tap in the kitchen, the next he’s climbing on the roof to fix the shingles. He’s always covered in dirt-stained clothes, always ends up shirtless in the house at the end of the day. It’s all incredibly distracting.

If Bucky notices you trailing after him, he doesn’t point it out. He keeps to himself, occasionally looking up to check on you then goes back when he sees that you’re still sitting there, fingers chipping away at your keyboard. Once he does notice, which is unfortunately after the second time you followed him, he always gives you a heads up.

“I’m going to work on the kitchen sink, do you need more time here?”

“The balcony upstairs has a clear view of the garden and the roof.”

Small gestures that don’t go unappreciated by you. The two of you make it a habit of sharing lunch, you whip up something easy when you need a break from writing, and Bucky tries his hand at a new dish when you’re fully immersed in your work (spoiler: both of you put both bathrooms in the house to good use).

The noises he makes as he works — the clanging of his tools, the hissing of loose air, the little grunts he lets out — become your soundtrack. A soothing sort of white noise that keeps you company as the words fall onto the pages. You don’t think you’ve ever been so productive in your life.

When the day bleeds into hues of pinks and purples in the sky, you find that sinking feeling returning. Dinners with Bucky are comfortable with the two of you sharing bits and pieces, like a precursor to dessert that leaves you hungry for more. Each time Bucky shares a small bite, you have the urge to take a bigger one. He seems to know, drinking in the curiosity in your eyes, and offering you more.

However, as each night winds down and the silence begins to settle again into the air, you’re left to your own devices. At the end of the night, he always leaves. There are words sitting on your tongue that risk falling free, a plea for him to stay, to keep your nightmares at bay. Alas, your pride has them crumbling into ashes, and he is gone before you can even whisper your desire into the quiet.

This is one of those nights and you find yourself twisting and turning in the guest room, the sheets feeling a little too scratchy, the bed a little too firm, and the room a little too silent. Throwing the covers off, you pad back downstairs and attempt to tire yourself with work. Only the sentences come out a garbled mess and you end up closing your laptop in frustration, nearly tossing that darned thing out the window. You’d give something else for Bucky to repair.

So you give into your last resort which is to step outside into the brisk air and sit on the steps of your front porch. At least out here the crickets and the wind lull you to a sense of peace. A peace that you haven’t found on your own since you left the city. You almost miss your small apartment and the cracks on your floor, the sounds of city traffic and impatient rush-hour drivers pouring in for the day. But you rather enjoy the fresh air. You needed it — to take a step back.

When you think about Max now, the ache doesn’t pulse as painfully anymore. Your heart throbs dully, a reminder of what you have suffered and survived. When you really turn it in your mind, you realize that what you had in him was comfort. It’s difficult to describe what you had as love when you can barely describe what it means to be in love with him. Romantic media has soiled your idea of love and sparks and butterflies, pushing you to the other end of the spectrum to believe that love is much more practical. Love is about checks and balances, building a strong, grounded foundation to last.

And you’re left wondering if you’ll ever find a love that feels like the movies.

Before you can dwell on it for too long, you hear the sound of gravel crunching and your skin pebbles in fear. You have no weapon out here. You’re near hypothermic in your flimsy pajamas. Your fingers will likely crack if you even think about clocking this intruder.

Luckily, you don’t have to think about self-defense when Bucky emerges from the shadows. The moonlight casts him under a pale glow, gleaming gold with the lamp hanging by the front door. “You scared me,” you mutter with a huff, heartbeat soothing into a gentle rhythm.

“You scared me. I thought I was going crazy when I saw someone sitting on your porch. Figured I’d check to make sure you were okay.”

A light laugh slips past your lips. “Why were you up?”

“Why were you?”

“Stop turning it around on me.”

“You’re such a brat.”

A gasp. You narrow your eyes at him. “Excuse me?”

“And you’re barely wearing anything. You must be freezing.” Bucky doesn’t waste a beat before he shrugs off his thick coat and drapes it over your shoulders. The warmth that surrounds you is immediate — what remains of Bucky’s body heat that clings to the fibers of the fabric. “What in the hell are you doing out here?”

You sigh. “Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t work. Thought I could use some fresh air.”

“Doll,” Bucky grunts, sounding almost disappointed.

“Why do you call me that?” The question springs from your lips before you can think twice. “Just— not that I mind, I’m just wondering.”

He pauses only for a second before he shrugs. “Because you look like one.”

“You objectifying me, Barnes?” You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest to bury yourself deeper into his jacket.

It smells like him. You’ve been getting whiffs of him while he works — sometimes he smells like citrus and pines, other times like sweat and grime. Both are equally intoxicating and you can’t tell which you prefer. This jacket is a balance of the two, placated by the crisp winter air.

“Only if you want me to,” he shoots back with an easy grin, leaning against the wooden frame opposite of you.

You hate to admit it but there is something so effortlessly sexy about him. A lazy kind of confidence that doesn’t come embellished with hours of primping that you’ve seen your ex do. The fine lines on his face, the exhaustion in the shadows under his eyes. They make him feel real.

Bucky adds, “Are you okay?”

The million-dollar question. “Not sure,” you confess, eyes wandering into the open field. You see his house in the distance, blinking like a single star in the stretch of darkness. “I think I’m getting there.”

Bucky drops down next to you, scooting closer while also nudging you to make room for him. You do. For a moment, the two of you sit in the stillness. Two people existing, hovering but never touching. His voice is gentle when he asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

The first instinct is to say no. You’ve barely met the man, you already told him too much once, you refuse to do it again.

But the voice inside your mind tells you to trust him, to open up to him. He’s a stranger, one who you’ve been following in the time you’ve been here. But his presence feels like a safe haven.

When the words come out, they are intentional. “I’ve been playing back the last few years in my mind. Seven years is a long time to spend with someone. I keep trying to find that single point of inflection, the time when it all went wrong. When did he decide that I wasn’t enough? Or maybe that I was too much? When did he figure out that it wasn’t me that he wanted forever? When did he realize that this risk was worth losing me?”

The questions that have been swirling in your mind for the better part of your nights spill out into the silence. You take in a shaky brath, your heart pressing against your bones, tight in the way it shrinks and inflates. Bucky doesn’t respond and it coaxes more out of you. The doubts you’ve been too fearful to address.

“I think I come back to the question of why. Why did he do it? Why didn’t he just break up with me if he didn’t love me anymore? Why did he take her to our home? Why her? Why not me?”

When you turn to look at him, he’s already staring right back at you. His gaze is kind. There is no weight to the way he scans your face crumpled into a resistance to your tears.

“It’s not on you. His decisions are not a result of your actions. His mistakes are not a reflection of who you are. Guys fucking suck,” he spits out and you giggle, the sound a little frayed. “It’s true — well, most guys suck. This one in particular because he couldn’t see what was right in front of him. Hopefully this one asshole doesn’t deter you from finding someone better. Someone who loves you. Deserves you.”

Your voice betrays the hope that tinges it. It’s fragile, small. “You really think there’s someone out there like that?”

Bucky’s eyes are soft, the frozen chips in his eyes thawing into clear water. “Loves you, yes. Deserves you, never.”

Your heart palpitates a little too loud, a little too fast. The skip of a beat. Your fingertips tingle with the urge to reach out to him, bury them in his thick hair. It would be easy, sliding your hand to close the whisper of a distance. It would be simple to scooch over until your knees touch, until you can brush your lips against his skin. Until you can draw them up to his.

His glance falls to your mouth, a brief millisecond, before flying back up.

Easy. It’s easy.

Too easy almost.

“Come on, let’s get you inside.” Bucky gently bumps your shoulder with his, breaking the spell. You look away quickly, hoping the warmth that’s crept up your neck doesn’t give away your intrusive thoughts.

The two of you rise to your feet, Bucky reaching out a steadying hand which you don’t take but appreciate anyway. He walks you to the door, some form of upstate gentleman hospitality that’s severely lacking where you live in the city.

There’s a crackle of a spark in the air, one that flashes so quick you nearly miss it. It’s a zap of lightning in clear skies. It weighs in the atmosphere like the residues of humidity after a downpour. The feeling sticks to your skin but it’s not uncomfortable, only unfamiliar.

“Try to get some sleep,” Bucky says as you stand just past the threshold of your doorway. You almost invite him inside, lips parting with the request ready. Without waiting for you to ask, he responds, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Promise.”

You can only nod. “Thanks, Buck.”

“Anytime. Have a good night,” he calls out as he jogs down the steps, figure half cloaked in the darkness.

A breeze whips past your neck and that’s when you realize— “Wait, your jacket.” You whirl around just as he turns back to look at you.

Then there’s that charming grin again, and your heart stupidly lurches for him again. “Keep it,” he beams, stealing the air from your lungs, “it looks better on you.”

—

Something has changed. You can’t quite put a finger on it, but you sense the shift to his demeanor. An unfamiliarity that makes the hairs on your arms stand. While the morning starts like any other, Bucky feels… different. He’s still wearing his uniform tee and plaid shirt combo, red this time, greeting you with a sleepy grunt at seven as he trudges into the house. Yet, the air teases with a new kind of tension.

It begins with breakfast when you’re deftly flipping some eggs and bacon, a hearty meal you have been preparing every morning. Bucky goes towards the stove, undoubtedly to steal some food as he always does. Only this time, he brushes behind you, a little too close for comfort when you can feel his body heat against your back. As he plucks a piece of bacon from the pan, his hand settles on your spine — high enough to be appropriate, low enough for you to notice. It’s not uncomfortable, but the weight and warmth say I’m here. When he drifts away, his palm drags to your hip, squeezes lightly, then releases you. He leaves you with the echo of his footsteps disappearing down the hall.

It’s not a material change. Not really. It’s not something you would outwardly question with him. It’s not that you mind that he’s suddenly comfortable enough to put his hands on you. You haven’t known Bucky that long but, when you’ve spent nearly every living moment together for the past few days, there is an automatic intimacy that connects the two of you. A red thread if you will.

You hate to describe it as dependency; whenever he exits a room you’re in, the temperature drops a degree lower; when he returns, the sun is pleasant where it kisses your skin. You want to chalk it up to the fact that you really haven’t been in this house for too long, and Bucky radiates the kind of contentment with being accustomed to the space. The voice in your head calls you a liar in denial.

You try not to listen to her too much. What does she know?

Bucky slithers back into the room a couple of hours later, this time in coveralls. A system in your brain appears to have malfunctioned at the sight because it can’t compute exactly what you’re seeing. If Bucky notices your blank stare, he doesn’t point it out. Perhaps it’s the years of evolution — and a decade of staring at men only in boring, stiff suits, but that same voice earlier is now screaming in your ear that’s a fucking hot working man. That voice is likely influenced by your knowledge that he actually does work with his extremely capable hands. It begs the next question: what other things are those hands capable of?

Your self-control tried and failed to slam the brakes on finishing that thought. How easily did you forget that seven-year relationship that almost destroyed you. What you need now is some healthy distance from romance and all of its associated variables. What you don’t need is to be thinking about how broad his chest looks underneath that navy fabric that stretches across it, or how his thick arms seem to fill it out, or how he’s now starting to tie his hair back into a bun.

Life isn’t fair. Some higher power up there is testing you and your self-restraint, which is admittedly not very strong.

“You okay?”

Bucky’s voice helps you drag your attention away from cataloging every single detail you find delicious about him today, quickly creating and filling a little memory box in your head to the brim. It’s probably a bad decision since you haven’t exactly gotten laid in a while, and Bucky is someone who you very much can imagine doing the laying.

Swallowing the thick, aroused lump in your throat, you nod and smile. Tight. “Fine. Great.” Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathless.

Thankfully, Bucky lets it slide. “I need to go into town to help out a friend. Did you want to come along? Figured we could do a night out after I wrap up. Dinner maybe.”

Your brows jump. Is he— “Are you asking me out?” You blurt out before you can stop yourself.

Bucky’s lips tug up on the corners, pretty pink surrounded by his dark stubble. He has trimmed it down, giving you a clearer view of his sharp jawline and shallow dimples. You can’t tell which one is worse for your libido.

“Do you want me to ask you out?”

You press your tongue against the inside of your cheek, heart skipping a beat over how casually confident he looks. That lazy smile, that devilish glint in his eye. “Touché,” you mutter, “let me get changed.”

Looking at your options, you are — well — stumped. It’s not as if you packed to star in some cheesy romcom, playing out this potential something with your parents’ employee. You packed for comfort, which means a wide array of cozy, ratty sweaters and sweats, more than enough leggings to avoid a wash, and a single pair of jeans. You tell yourself you’re not trying to dress to impress Bucky, why should you? It’s not a date. Still, you find yourself digging through your pile for more options, praying for something more enticing than home clothes that drown you.

Past-you clearly thought you needed this and you find a flowy, maxi skirt which you throw on with your most presentable sweater. You spend a bit of time on your makeup and hair — enough to make you look like you have been getting eight hours of sleep a night, not enough to make Bucky think you’re putting in that much effort for him.

Now, you look good. You may even look good enough for a date. Which this is not.

When you get to the bottom landing of the stairs, Bucky’s head immediately lifts from his phone. The slow smile that sprawls across his face is certainly worth the extra push you put into your appearance. He doesn’t comment, instead giving you a leisurely once-over that has your chest rising with the hitch of your breath. His eyes dark with his pupils blown.

For some reason, it feels infinitely heavier than a compliment.

The drive out into town is plagued with air thick with tension, the music crooning from the speakers doing nothing to ease it. It’s like sparks of electricity crackling here and there, enough times for you to notice, but so de minimis that you can choose to ignore them.

“You feeling better? Didn’t catch a cold from last night, did you?”

“No,” you murmur, “I’m fine. Just— hasn’t really been easy sleeping away from home. I’m used to the crowds and the noise.”

Bucky pauses. You can practically hear the gears in his head turning. “Anything I can do to help?”

You almost — almost — let slip that his being around does help. That his voice is soothing, his presence calming. The proximity and his warmth a balm for your aching soul. “No, think I just need to grow into it,” you shrug with a sigh, then add, “but thank you for checking in on me last night — and for your words.” You stop to take a deep breath. “It’s a little embarrassing actually to tell you all that, I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“Doll,” Bucky says, the word tinted with the slight hint of exasperation. “I’m glad you talked to me, alright? Shouldn’t be thinking all of that alone. Don’t want you thinking that you’re to blame for someone acting real stupid.”

You hum, looking away to bite back the smile that threatens to crawl up your lips. “Thanks, Buck.”

His shoulders loosen, rolling back slightly as he reaches his free hand over to your knee, giving it a squeeze. It’s barely anything, but it feels like everything.

“This okay?” He asks, voice so low that you almost miss it beneath the quiet purr of his car.

His hand is a comforting weight on your knee. His fingers grounding without overwhelming you. His eyes search you in brief glances, almost wary. You can feel his grip loosening, his hand slipping as you wait a beat too long to respond.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” you say, equally quietly, but you know he hears it when he slides his hand back firmly over your knee and keeps it there.

When you arrive and Bucky releases you, you feel the loss almost instantaneously. You wonder if it’s your heartbroken-riddled mind playing tricks on you, craving the touch of a man you barely know to replace the one you thought you did. His gaze finds you again, kind and warm. There’s reassurance in the way his blue eyes shine, and you take satisfaction in that for now.

Bucky helps you down, careful to take your hand and slip his fingers through yours as he tugs you towards the open door of the garage. You don’t question why he keeps your hands interlinked, you don’t want to risk him letting go.

“Great, you’re finally here,” a tall blonde man pops out from behind the car. “I can’t get this running. I don’t think the battery’s busted but—” His eyes find you a smidgen too late, but are quick to drop to your hand in Bucky’s.

Instinctively, you pull away, tucking your hand behind your back. It’s not shame, it’s embarrassment. You don’t know this man. He doesn’t know you. Neither of you can define the nature of your relationship with Bucky so neutrality seemed to be the best option.

Bucky peeks at you, slightly amused, but doesn’t comment. “Yeah, give me a second and I’ll take a look. Come say hi first, don’t be rude.”

The man swaggers over towards you, legs as long as Bucky’s carrying him to the two of you in a few quick strides. He wipes his hands, stained in oil and grease, on a rag that looks equally soiled. He sticks it out and Bucky smacks it away.

“Don’t get your greasy paws on her.”

The man is handsome in that traditional sense, a typical all-American. The light to Bucky’s dark, with the exception of the black smear on his face. He grins easily and nods his head at you. There’s a knowing look in his eyes that you can’t understand, but Bucky seems to, judging by the glower he throws at him.

“I’m Steve, Bucky’s friend.”

You introduce yourself and stick out your hand for Steve to shake. His smile stretches a little wider as he accepts it, and it morphs into a smirk when he turns to Bucky.

“Bucky didn’t tell me he was bringing a pretty lady around. Hell, I didn’t even know he knew any ladies, let alone pretty ones. Have you met Sam yet? Did you bring her around to meet Sam? He’ll love her. He’ll love you.” His attention consistently shifts between the two of you with every question. 

“Shut it, Steve.”

His gruffness is leveled by the fondness in his voice. It’s clear they have a good relationship. Good enough that Bucky lets parts of him that he hasn’t even shown you shine through. It’s endearing.

Bucky shoos his friend away, then turns to you. “Assuming you don’t want to stick around a couple of grease monkeys, I can drop you off in town when I go to pick up some supplies for that guy. I can pick you up whenever you give me a call. It’ll be a couple of hours at least before I finish up, but we can go to dinner after? You can also stay here if you want. I grabbed your laptop on the way out in case you wanted to do work or relax with us. Steve has WiFi.”

In the last few years, you don’t think Max has thought anything through beyond getting takeout together after work or shooting you a quick message if he gets a last-minute reservation somewhere. Perhaps your standards have stooped to levels lower than the floor in the years you’ve been together — resignation mistaken as comfort, but the thought that Bucky has put into making sure you’re comfortable is nice.

“You can drop me off in town. I can walk here after, it’s not too far.”

“Doll, I’ll pick you up, don’t—”

“Can you relax?” You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “I can read a map, Barnes. You finish up whatever you need to do here so then we can go to dinner. I want that Italian spot. The one you keep talking about with the good ravioli.”

His lips quirk up as he shakes his head slightly, a huff of a laugh escaping his lips. “Alright. I already made a reservation there, you’ve been talking my ear off about it.”

“I have not.”

“Alright, doll,” he relents. “Come on.”

Bucky keeps his hand on your knee again for the duration of the ride, completely oblivious to the fact that your heart is about to leap out of your chest and onto his dashboard. He releases you to come out and open your door, his hand around yours again in an instant, like he can’t bear to not touch you for even a second.

Before Bucky separates from you to head to the hardware store, he clasps your hand a little firmer. “Call me if you decide you want me to pick you up. I’ll have my phone on me the entire time, yeah?”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, Buck.”

Bucky chuckles again. “Such a brat.” You scowl. “I’ll see you later.” With one final pat to your head, he walks away.

The town is a nice place to stroll around in. Given that you’ve been cooped up at home, being more than aggressively productive with work and your deadlines, it’s nice to actually use your legs for something other than going to the kitchen or the bathroom. You stop by little shops and pick up little trinkets that remind you of Bucky, realizing later that he may not even need them. You start to overthink it, panicking on the sidewalk over how it looks, when a door opens.

“Come to look for more books?”

Mr. Moore. “Oh, hello. I, uhm, honestly am just browsing for now,” you say sheepishly, scratching your cheek. “But I’ll certainly be back when I’m interested in more.”

“Don’t worry. I was just surprised James was with a pretty lady, never seen him around here with anyone — and he is around here quite a lot.”

Heat creeps up your neck at the pretty lady, second one you’ve gotten today. Instead, you opt to address— “James?”

“The young man you were with. He comes by a lot for books. Says he is building out a library for someone.”

A library? James? “Bucky’s building a library? For someone?”

“Ah, yes, that’s what he prefers to go by. Yes, he comes by to pick up a new book every once in a while. His taste is quite eclectic and I’m not sure if he’s even read any of them,” Mr. Moore laughs lightly, unaware of what his words have just done.

Your heart may have splintered a bit. Despite what you try to tell yourself, that you’re not trying for anything with Bucky, this disappointing news has dashed what little exists of your hope. It feels a bit childish to be so… possessive over a man you’ve just met. You only know him in the context of your little bubble, within the confines of your home. He probably does have a life outside of it all, why wouldn’t he? You’re only meeting Steve for the first time and he seems to be a very good friend.

You try not to think about it too much as you start the slow walk back to Steve’s place. Even the hustle and bustle of this quaint town does nothing to distract you from the multitude of thoughts swirling through your head. You’re still thinking about them even when you stop in front of the open garage again.

Steve perks up when he spots you. “Hey! You’re back.”

Bucky slides out from underneath the car fast and your heart traitorously jumps. His coveralls are now spotted with grease and oil, his hair messier from lying on his back, top buttons of his coveralls popped open in the heat of the work. His eyes are bright when they find you, but his brows immediately pucker.

Fuck, are you really that obvious?

He gets to his feet and wipes his hands down, cursing when he sees that he isn’t getting rid of them that easily. He almost looks pained when he approaches you, looking down at your hands. “Sorry, don’t want to get you dirty,” he mutters, bitterness tinging his voice.

“It’s okay,” you can only say.

Bucky tilts his head, seeming to assess you and your expression. You don’t know what face you’re making, but it’s clearly concerning enough to have him frowning. “Everything okay? Did something happen?”

You’ve known this man less than a week and he can already read you like a book. Meanwhile, you apparently haven’t even begun to read the important chapters of his life. “Yeah, I’m good,” you force a smile.

Looking far from satisfied with your response, he gives you an easy out by pivoting to look at the bag in your hand. “Got anything nice?”

Now the gift feels a little silly. You pull out the small item from the bag. “Um, it’s a fridge magnet. A ravioli. Thought it would be cute since we’re having that for dinner tonight.”

“S’cute,” he murmurs, eyes only briefly flicking to the item in your hand before refocusing on your face.

“It’s for you,” you state lamely.

Bucky’s eyes sparkle even brighter as he looks at it in awe. He reaches out to take it from you, flinching at his dirty hands again as he stops. “Thank you, I love it,” he says softly, “hold onto it for me, will you? Don’t want to get it dirty.”

You hum and nod.

“Doll, did something happen? Was someone bothering you?”

Your head jerks up. “What? No. Nothing happened.”

“Then why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?”

Do you? “I don’t have a puppy,” you sarcastically respond. Bucky gives you a pointed look. “Nobody was bothering me, promise. I’m just… thinking about something.”

“You gonna share that thought with me?”

Highly unlikely. You’re not here for any longer, you may as well save yourself the embarrassment of bringing up hey, so I thought we had something starting here, but you seem to have someone else you’ve been interested in for a while.

Fortunately, before you can answer, Steve calls out. “Shit, Buck, need your help with this.”

He looks pained once more when his attention flies briefly to Steve and returns to you. “We’ll talk later. I gotta help this guy. He’s fucking hopeless when it comes to cars.”

You end up sitting against the wall on one of the workstations, your laptop propped up in front of you. Despite having all the time in the world while waiting for Bucky, you can’t seem to concentrate. It’s a good thing you’re ahead of most of your work. The rest of these pieces can be pushed to January, which leaves your holidays untouched. You end up pulling up a book you’ve been meaning to read and flipping through it.

The pages do keep you occupied, stopping you from going down a rabbit hole of despair. Every once in a while, Bucky would stop by and say, “Sorry, not that much longer.” He’d check in to see if you were hungry, if you wanted a drink, if you were enjoying the book, if you were comfortable, if you were warm enough. 

His concern is sweet, but you can’t help thinking that this is probably how he is with everyone. If he’s like this with you, you can’t imagine what he’s like with the recipient of that library he’s crafting.

Each time, you would reassure him that you’re fine and to focus on the task at hand. He doesn’t look very convinced.

When you’re a third of the way into the volume, Bucky comes up to you, looking weary but glowing with contentment. “Took longer than I expected. Sorry about that. I’m going to go wash up and we can go?”

“Sounds good.”

Bucky lifts his hand up again, fingers twitching, only to pull it back in frustration. You don’t have time to solve what that was about when he then goes into Steve’s house. Steve is still tinkering away lightly but you can feel his gaze drifting towards you every once in a while.

“You finding the house okay?”

His question pulls you back to the present. “Ah, yeah, it’s been good. Bucky takes great care of it.”

“Mhmm,” Steve singsongs, like he knows something he won’t share. Him and Bucky have that tendency, you’re not gonna take the bait. “What do you think of him?”

The question catches you off guard. Steve is probably being a protective friend. Bucky has been spending an awful amount of time around the house. Maybe he’s worried that he’s left him defenseless to a stranger from the city — not that that man can be defenseless, he can probably fling you across the room with one hand. The mental image does nothing to help when you press your legs together.

“He’s a good guy.”

“The best, really,” Steve emphasizes, “loyal too. Like a dog.”

You let out a small snort at the comparison. “Think he’ll twirl three times and bark if I tell him to?”

“Think he’ll do anything you tell him to,” Steve flashes a cheeky grin.

You’re not sure what to make of that. His words are cryptic, saying little but hinting at so much more. As a writer and a reader, you’ve always been able to read between the lines — except for when it comes to things related to you. In this case, while you are slightly hopeful about his words, you’re not going to let it get out of hand. 

“How long have you known him?” 

Steve pretends to think for a second, but you know the answer is top of mind. “Since high school. We went to different colleges for a bit, but ended up back here anyway.” 

This is someone who knows Bucky well. Really well. Maybe even too well. Perhaps he would know this person that he’s supposedly interested in. You could be nosy and ask, play it off as genuine curiosity, but who are you to invade his privacy? 

“That’s a while,” you choose to mutter instead. 

“Not longer than you though,” Steve shrugs. 

Your brows immediately meet in a frown. “What do you—”

“Ready to go?”

Bucky’s return interrupts your train of thought and your head instinctively turns to find his voice. The words fizzle out in your throat when you see him. You’ve seen Bucky down and dirty, grease-stained, dirt-covered. You’ve seen him shirtless under your sink, on your roof, behind your house. But you’ve never seen him like this.

To others, it may be nothing to write home about. A crisp button-down, black trousers. He’s rolling up his sleeves as he approaches you. His hair is tugged up into a bun with a few strands (aptly named slut strands by your friends) loosely framing his face.

The closer he gets, the louder your heart beats. You wonder if he can hear you, wonder if it’s obvious how your brain is completely short-circuiting at the sight of him looking deliciously put together.

While you can’t find the words to say, Steve lets out a low whistle behind you. “Look at you, haven’t seen you look this clean since senior prom.”

“Quit it,” Bucky grunts. If you didn’t know any better, you swear you see his ears tinged pink. He shifts his focus to you, eyes softer. “Ready to go?” He repeats.

Unfortunately, all you can manage is a nod. Mentally, your jaw is on the floor, dragging behind you as he leads you back to the car, a warm hand on your back.

It’s been so long since you’ve been this… affected by someone. Max dressed in custom suits and shirts that cost him thousands at least, but none of them have your heart beating out of your chest, your legs pressing together, or your breath knocked out of your lungs. Bucky changed that quickly.

Once again, you’re left wondering if this is all the aftermath of your breakup. You can’t help but constantly contemplate whether your attraction towards Bucky is spite towards your ex, or a search for something more, or a temporary filler for that cavity in your chest. The questions are a test of your rational decision-making. Emotions are difficult to decipher after a major incident, but you find yourself enjoying Bucky’s company and maybe that’s enough for now.

Bucky keeps his hand on your knee again on the drive over, the weight strangely soothing. A familiar touch. He doesn’t press further on your quietness from earlier, but you don’t miss the way he keeps glancing your way with inquiring eyes.

The Italian place is nothing fancy, nothing like the Michelin-starred establishments in the city. It’s a small, family-run bistro that Bucky apparently frequents because the host and the owner greet him like family, kisses on his cheeks and everything.

“And look at this pretty lady you’ve brought with you,” Maria beams, immediately welcoming you with a hug and a kiss on each cheek as well. “My, my, I can’t remember the last time you’ve brought a date here.”

“Maria,” Bucky scolds teasingly, affectionately, “I’ve never brought a date here.”

“You’re right,” she hums, eyes sparkling with a mirth that you don’t understand. “Come on, I have your table set up for you. Good thing you called, we have the Millers coming in later for Harry’s sixtieth so you know they’re filling the whole place.”

A groan resounds next to you as Bucky guides you to follow Maria with a hand on your back. “So much for a nice, quiet dinner.”

Maria only smirks before she leaves you at the table to get some water. You finally manage to get your first question out, and it’s not even the most pressing one. “Do you all just know each other around here?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “No, not everyone. Some are more active in the community than others, so you tend to see the same faces. The Millers are a large, rowdy bunch, you’ll always see the group of them at town events. Maria’s family has been here for generations and she does food donations every Sunday.”

“And you?”

Bucky leans forward, arms folded on top of each other on the table. His baby blues shine under the low overhead lights. His smile almost teasing. “What about me?”

Warmth crawls up your neck again. “How does everyone know you?”

“Not everyone knows me,” he says and you immediately reward him with an eye-roll over his fake modesty. He laughs, “It’s true. I help out around town, I’m pretty handy, but nothing compared to some of the good people around here.”

“I think if you kidnapped someone’s dog, they would probably thank you for taking such good care of them.”

A snort slips past his lips. “Glad you think so highly of me.”

Dinner is a lovely, quiet affair. Bucky’s compliments did not do the ravioli justice as the pasta melts in your mouth with that delicious ooey-gooey filling. You’re pretty sure you blacked out and threatened to marry Maria at some point if that would get you her secret recipe. She laughed and told you that you don’t think Bucky would ever let that happen.

“Oddly protective of your ravioli, Mr. Barnes,” you grin.

“Oh, trust me. It’s not the ravioli he’s protecting,” Maria smiles, winking at the two of you before disappearing back into the kitchen.

You’re too food-drunk to fully process her words, instead choosing to scoop up more sauce onto your pasta and into your mouth. Another moan leaves your lips at the tangy, fresh tomato flavor.

“You make those noises every time you eat?” Bucky asks from across the table.

You finally look up from the divine dish, finding him amused, pupils dark where they’ve expanded. You don’t even have the capacity to be embarrassed when the food is worth it. “Only when I get something really, really good in my mouth.”

Bucky’s lips part before his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. He closes his eyes for a moment, releases a sigh, and once again shakes his head. “The mouth on you.”

Sure enough, the moment the Millers arrive, the restaurant descends into pure chaos. You’re surprised Maria even let Bucky keep the table when their family takes up the remainder of the seats, some of them squeezed together shoulder to shoulder. Their voices pulse off the walls, rambunctious in a way that only a large family can be. You find yourself both endeared and amused; after all, growing up, it’s only been you and your parents.

“Wonder what it would be like to have a big family,” you murmur quietly.

“Think you want a lot of kids?”

“First date and we’re already talking about having kids?” You grin, relishing the way he flushes pink again.

It’s not a date, the voice in your head chooses to emphasize then. Two friends having dinner. Remember, Bucky has someone he’s actually interested in. The reminder has your stomach churning and suddenly, panna cotta on your tongue doesn’t taste as sweet anymore.

“Hey, where did you go?” Bucky drags you out of your thoughts again. His gorgeous face is marred by the furrowing of his brows. You blink at him, the grey clouds slowly rolling away. “Lost you for a second there,” he murmurs, “what are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” you answer a little too quickly.

“Are you sure? Sure seems like something’s bothering you. If I can do anything to help, you know I will.”

Unfortunately, this is not a problem he could help with. Not unless he suddenly loses interest in whoever he’s building a romantic library for. “I’m fine,” you force out a smile, “just work.”

“Thought you were doing well with your deadlines.”

Shit. You’ve always wished that men would pay more attention to the things you say; now, you’re starting to regret hoping for that. “I am, I’m thinking about my line of work for January. Hoping I have enough to sell to publications.”

Bucky stretches his hand across the table and takes yours, thumb brushing the back of it gently. “You’ll do great. You’re good.”

“You’re just saying that,” you laugh, your heart threatening to burst again with how aggressively it’s thumping. Your hand feels like it’s on fire where it’s tucked into Bucky’s.

“No, I’ve read your work. You do some nice fluff work, but there are a lot of your analytical think pieces that I enjoy.”

A squeak escapes you. “You’ve read my writing?”

“Don’t look so surprised, your parents talk about you all the time. How proud they are of you. I get forwarded all your articles.”

You groan, pressing your free hand against your forehead. “I’m going to murder them. I’m so sorry.”

“Why should you be? I like reading them.”

“They’re force-feeding it to you.”

Bucky laughs, grinning wide. “Actually, they did offer to stop after a while but I told them to keep ‘em coming. Makes me feel more intellectual compared to all the how-to-fix-a-bathroom guides I’ve been reading.”

It’s irritating how you keep drawing comparisons between Bucky and your not-to-be-named ex. The latter worked in finance and barely had the time to give your work the time of day. You didn’t think much of it, figured it just wasn’t his cup of tea. Little did you know that his cup of tea was bending his secretary over his desk.

“Well, I appreciate it,” you say, hoping your embarrassment of being perceived isn’t too obvious.

Bucky turns to look at the increasingly unruly crowd to the side. “Ready to get out of here? With the amount of wine Harry’s drinking, I have a feeling the tables will be their new floors soon.”

With a laugh, you nod. Bucky swipes his card before you can even pull out yours, which pulls a protest out of you. He only smiles, “First date, right? You can take the next one.”

Oh, how you love the way your heart skips a beat.

You didn’t have a single drop of alcohol yet you feel wine-drunk the entire ride home. With Bucky’s hand on your leg and his humming in your ears, this feels like a high you haven’t experienced in a while — or at all for that matter. You almost wished he would drive slower, take his time so the night wouldn’t end. Once the night comes to an end, he’ll be gone again and you’ll be alone again.

The car pulls to a quiet stop in front of your house and the engine clicks off, bathing the two of you in a thick silence. The dread sinks in fast. It’s not only about being left on your own, it’s specifically about having distance between you and Bucky. Today feels different; it’s not like all those times spent in your kitchen sharing a meal or the drives out into town for a purpose. There is a heavier taste to the air that leaves you wanting more, craving a fix that you can’t quite name.

“Walk you to your door?” Bucky asks softly, to which you manage a nod.

There aren’t enough steps between the car and the door. By the time you exhale, you’re already on your front porch, your key in the door. Bucky hovers behind you wordlessly.

Once the door is open, you rotate to look at him again. “Thanks for dinner, I really enjoyed it. We should do it again sometime.”

“Mhmm, just say when and I’ll take you.”

Then that word sticks again to your mind, begging to be freed. The one plea that you’ve managed not to say, but rests so heavy on your tongue that you want it to just roll off. Bucky looks at you with eyes searching for any signs.

Stay.

His eyes widen, revealing more of those beautiful blue irises, gold flecks glowing underneath the warm oil lamp. You realize then that you’ve said it out loud.

Moritification is etched onto your face when you quickly add, “For wine. I picked up a bottle last time we were in town. Um, it’s still early. If you want. You don’t have to, I’m sure you’ve got better things to do but—”

“Nothing better to do,” he easily interjects, “nothing else I’d rather do.”

Your chest blooms with hope as you take a step back into your house, swinging the door open further for him. “I’ll get the opener.”

The two of you settle in the living room. The television flickers quietly as background noise as you take another sip of the burgundy wine. It tastes delicious, a twenty-dollar bottle that could pass as two hundred. Maybe it’s not the wine itself, maybe it’s the company. Bucky pokes at the logs blazing in the fireplace before setting the metal rod aside and sitting back down next to you.

The conversation flows easily, lubricated by the alcohol buzzing in your veins. You take one glass after another, finding yourself a little lighter, a little less anxious in talking to him when he’s so close to you like this. He listens to you with rapt attention, even when you start going on tangents, arms moving around animatedly. He asks you follow-up questions, intrigued when you reveal more details about your story.

You tell him about life in the city, your friends, your colleagues. You don’t even think about your ex as you describe it to him, your life doesn’t center around him after all, and you realize that now. You tell him about the stories you’re thinking of writing, more think pieces that he enjoys, and he asks you to send him the draft when you’re done, tells you that he’d love to read it in advance.

“Why would you want to read the draft? It’s not going to be perfect,” you say, crinkling your nose.

Bucky’s lips twitch with the ghost of a smile. “I like seeing how your works progress. How they can only get better. Plus, gives me some idea to the raw makings of your mind.”

You laugh at that. Bucky grins even wider.

When you realize how long you’ve been talking — how much, you stop abruptly. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’ve been rambling. I tend to do that.”

“Don’t apologize, I like hearing you talk. You haven’t really been doing much of that since you got here.”

The way Bucky’s looking at you now, like you’re the only thing in the world worth paying attention to, has butterflies fluttering inside your chest. Your stomach flips when you see the flames flicker, casting his features in this warm glow, the other half shadowed where he turns to look at you.

He looks beautiful. He always has been. But in this light, on this specific night, you don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone more irresistible.

You blame the alcohol for what you do next. Looking at the clock, you see that it’s gotten quite late. The two of you have spent the last couple of hours chatting right here on this couch. A very comfortable couch.

“You’ve had a good amount to drink,” you whisper, scooting closer to him. 

He’s had one glass. Barely anything. He probably doesn’t feel a drop with how big he is.

He looks at you, his gaze falling to your lips before slowly, hesitantly drawing back up. “I have,” he lies for you.

“You should just stay the night. S’not safe for you to drive,” you say, keeping your eyes locked on your hand as it reaches over to slide up his lap. His thick thigh tenses beneath your fingertips and your mouth begins to salivate instantly.

“Sounds like a good idea,” he confirms as he leans closer towards you. His breath ghosts the shell of your ear as he does so, lips grazing the length of your neck as he inhales deeply. “Y’smell so good.”

You bite back a moan, swallowing it down with the taste of the wine. “New perfume.”

“Don’t think I’ve smelled it before.”

“Didn’t think you were paying attention to how I smelled.”

Bucky chuckles low, puffs of air meeting your sensitive skin as he presses his lips against the side of your neck. A shiver snakes up your spine as your eyes slide shut. His presence is heady, like a drug seeping into your veins.

“I always pay attention when it comes to you.”

Fuck. Not only is your heartbeat crescendoing, there’s a new but not unfamiliar pulse between your legs that pulls a whine from your lips. Bucky shifts back and you feel that loss almost immediately, body instinctively drawing closer to seek him out again.

“Are you sure about this? You’ve had quite a bit to drink,” Bucky says gently, gaze laced with concern as he stares at you.

You can feel him pulling away, becoming more hesitant, but your hand squeezes his thigh, the same way he’s been doing all day. “Never been so sure of anything in my life. Promise.”

Before the flickering flames, Bucky slides a hand up your neck, thumb pressing gently against your jaw, which has you parting your lips ever so slightly in soft pants. He watches it carefully, how your lips stick together before separating, how your eyes glaze over at the small act. Then he leans closer, you can feel his breath against your skin. Your eyes slide shut expectantly, lips closing in anticipation.

“Keep your mouth open, doll,” he says, voice clear and stern.

You feel that order between your legs, pussy clenching. But you do as you’re told and you open up your lips again. Bucky closes the distance with a groan and licks your bottom lip. It’s like the first breath of air when you’ve been choking for so long, the first drop of liquor for an addict who just wants a taste. His tongue pushes into your mouth and you moan needily, fingers crawling up his chest to claw at his collar and draw him closer.

Bucky doesn’t waste a second and hoists you up to his lap, legs bent and straddling him, before kissing you again. His moan reverberates straight through you, straight to your core where it squeezes with the need for attention. His hands around your back, one to cup your ass and the other to bury in your hair. He tugs it back, gentle enough not to hurt you, but firm enough that you can feel your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

He tilts your head slightly to the side to open your neck up for his lips. His teeth. His tongue. He’s lapping at you like a dog while you grind down on his lap like a bitch in heat. His mouth feels hot and delicious against your sensitive skin, his growing erection digging against your thigh until you position yourself right on top of it. You thank the heavens you decided to wear a skirt, the thin fabric of your underwear is the only thing that stands between you and heaven. His cock feels thick against you, growing with desperation.

“Tastes so good, as sweet as I imagined,” Bucky mumbles against your skin. “Are you wet for me, doll? Can feel you leaking on my pants.”

Shame doesn’t even reach you when you’re slammed with the urgent need to feel more of him, pressing yourself down with a hungry whimper.

Bucky slips his hand underneath your sweater and tugs it over your head. You let him without a single letter of protest. The house is warm with you sandwiched between the fireplace and Bucky’s body heat. Your body feels like it’s been lit on fire with how Bucky ravenously drinks you in, his keen bright eyes memorizing you with a weight that has you shuddering.

“Always imagined what you looked like underneath all those cute sweaters and hoodies,” he says softly, palm stroking up your side and thumb reaching to brush your nipple over the fabric. You jolt in his hand, back arching slightly to his touch. “Could never compare to the real thing. Look at you. Fuckin’ beautiful.”

“Buck,” you whimper, the beginnings of embarrassment settling in the more he stares at you.

His gaze is casual but alert, like he’s taking his time committing the sight of you, every part of you, to the parts of his mind that he will constantly bring to the forefront. “Don’t get shy on me,” he smiles slow, “been thinkin’ about this for far too long. You don’t know how many ways I’ve imagined taking you. How many nights I spend with my cock in my fist, the sound of you in my fuckin’ ears like you’re right there with me.”

You let out another curse at the visual. All those nights you spent turning alone in your bed, you could’ve been with Bucky. You could’ve had his cock in your fist, could’ve been giving him the real reactions that he so desperately wants.

Bucky pops open the hooks of your bra, carelessly tosses it aside, before he dives in. His mouth latches onto your nipple while his hand gropes you eagerly. Fingers pinching, palms kneading, stimulating every inch of you, before he switches sides. Your nipples are slick with spit as you throw your head back, pushing your breasts more into his mouth, which he accepts with a wet groan.

“Pretty fuckin’ nipples, couldn’t have pictured anything better,” he grumbles, teeth nipping lightly to tug your nipple.

It would be humiliating to hear him narrate all this, but everything that comes out of his mouth is fire on your skin. “More, Buck, need more,” you stutter a gasp.

“Yeah? So needy. God, you’re fuckin’ unbelievable. Look at you grinding your hips down like a slut for me. You want my cock that badly?”

Bucky pulls away for a moment, seeming worried that he has gone a step too far when he frowns to check on you, but you’re still weighed down by your labor breaths, your chest constricting. You put your own hand on the back of his head to push him back towards you. “D-don’t stop.”

You don’t need to ask him twice. He’s back on you, tongue swirling around your peaked nipples, breath hot against the moist skin. Drunk on the feeling, you barely register Bucky laying you down on the couch, stretching you long as he crawls between your legs. He pushes your skirt up to your hips slowly, the fabric tantalizingly exposing each inch of your leg until he sees the damp fabric of your panties.

His thumb digs into the wet spot as he chuckles. “So wet for me already. So desperate. Thought I was the only one who wanted this. But looking at you now, so sweet on me, rubbing your pretty pussy against me before I even do anything,” he groans, breath hot against your skin. His tongue darts out to stroke up your clothed pussy, getting a hint of your saccharine taste.

“Buck,” you whine, fingers burrowing in his thick hair. His bun has loosened now, more of his hair brushing against your legs. “I can’t— I want your cock. Please. Can’t wait anymore.”

“No can do, doll,” he smiles, pressing a firm kiss against your clothed cunt. “Need to make sure I take care of you first. Prep you first. I don’t want to hurt you with my cock.”

The idea of how thick he is, how big, that he has to prepare you properly. You can only weakly nod as he ducks his head again and begins to thumb your clit while he mouths on your pussy, soaking your panties further with his spit. Before long, he’s hooking a finger to drag your panties to the side and touching his tongue to your center. The first stroke has your hips lifting, a gasp yanked out of your throat involuntarily.

“So fuckin’ sweet, this is what I wanted for dessert,” he grumbles, keeping his lips attached to your pussy. His tongue swipes up the lips, meeting his thumb at your clit to stimulate that sensitive bundle of nerves. “Would’ve taken you right there at the restaurant if you asked.”

“Bucky,” you whine. You could say more, but his name says enough. I want you. I need you. Your mind already struggles to string words together with him, let alone when you have him between your legs. His breath stokes the fire deep in your belly as he continues mouthing you hungrily.

“Mmm, keep calling my name, doll. Always pictured what you sound like beggin’ for me,” Bucky grunts and finally pushes a finger into you. He looks up at you as he does, watching as your expression morphs from a frustrated frown to blissful desire. He pumps the finger in and out of you slowly, enough to tease you, to edge you. With every stroke, he changes his tactics based on how you’re responding. He curls his finger inside when he sees your lips part, he pulls it out when you squeeze your eyes shut. His tongue joins two of his fingers then as he scissors you open, stretching out your insides.

His ministrations are relentless and you’re left squirming and whining underneath him, his free hand pressing down on your hip to keep your steady. You’re leaking all over the couch, the smell will likely last for days, but that seems to be the last of his problems.

“Should’ve taken you at mine,” Bucky grunts in annoyance. “I wanted you to drip all over my bed, my sofa. I wanted your smell to linger for days. Every time I lie down to sleep or rest on the couch after a long day, I’ll smell you everywhere. I’ll jerk my cock to the thought of you, knowing you’re probably doing the same with your pretty fingers right here.”

“Shit, Bucky, please. I can’t do this anymore,” you gasp breathlessly, “I need you. Please. I need you inside. I want you to cum with me.”

“Doll, you keep me down here and I’ll cum untouched, I promise you. Don’t need my dick wet in you to cum. You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this, how long I’ve wanted this. How many times I pictured bending you over the kitchen counter, or eating your cute cunt on the balcony.”

Desperate whines leave your lips again as you tug on the strands of his hair, a feeble attempt to get him to come up. The more he talks, the closer you get to your orgasm. But you want him. You want him inside you.

“I’m begging you, please. Just— just come up here and fuck me properly.”

Luckily, Bucky relinquishes and crawls his way up, his lips wet with your juices dragging up your skin as he makes his way back up. When he meets your lips again, you can taste both of you on him. You never thought you’d like it, but the way Bucky enjoyed himself down there was enough to have you giving in.

Bucky strips off his shirt, flinging it across the room, and unbuttons his pants. He quickly takes everything off before climbing back on top of you. While he keeps your mouth busy, his hands are tugging down your panties to your ankles. You don’t even know when he grabbed a condom but he’s already rolling it on while your brain is still stuck in this hazy fog of lust.

“So hard for you,” he heaves, “been hard for days. Balls so full. No matter how many times I cum, every time I see you, I get so hard again. You’ve turned me into a mess. Desperate only for you.” He positions himself at your entrance and the first push of his thick tip into you already has the two of you moaning. He inches himself in slowly, if not for you then for him. Bucky lets out a gasp as your pussy clenches tight around him. “So fuckin’ tight, doll. Fuck. Pussy was made for me. Got me locked in a death grip. Like she doesn’t wanna release me.”

Bucky eases into you slowly, excruciatingly. Every drag of his cock inside of you feels like the strike of yet another match to set you on fire. Your knees are bent and he’s fucking deep inside you, sweat beading his brows not from exhaustion, but the energy exerted to keep himself in check, to stop himself from finishing embarrassingly fast.

“Could cum right now, doll. But want you to enjoy it. Want you to feel how fucking hard I am for you.” His fat cock splits you open as you lie there and take it, as you let him use you however he wants. You savor the way his face transforms every time he pumps inside you. His eyes shutting and opening, a battle between the need to control himself and the desire to watch you as your cunt swallows him. His lips separating with hot, heavy breaths. His chest rising, stomach tightening, until you can see his chiseled torso gleaming in the light.

“Buck, I’m so close,” you whisper, trust in your own voice slipping through your fingers. “Needa cum. Just, mmm, feels so good. Need you.”

Bucky presses his forehead against yours, capturing your lips once more as he fucks into you. His cock is hot and heavy and thick inside you, a weight that grounds you into the cushions. Your insides coil tight. Your entire body buzzing alive with a desperate need for a satisfaction that’s so close you can practically taste it.

“So fuckin’ gorgeous, doll. You’re made for me. This pussy, gonna mold it to my cock. I’m gonna keep you in here, fuck you stupid every day. You don’t have to worry about a thing, I’ll take good care of you, you know that, right?” He rasps, shifting away slightly only to search your eyes. When you can’t find the energy to respond, he punctuates a “Right?” With a particularly deep thrust.

You nod, unsure of what you’re even agreeing to. At this point, all you have in your mind is Bucky and his smell and the feel of his cock delicious inside of you. You feel so full, each nerve vibrating for attention as Bucky continues to pump into you. Sweet and filthy words spill from his lips, each syllable dragging you closer and closer to that climax you so desperately crave.

“Now that I’ve had a taste of you, don’t think I’ll ever let you go.”

“Going to have you cockwarm me, just sit on my cock and look pretty.”

“Make you cum every day, until you can’t think about anyone or anything but me.”

From this moment alone, you know Bucky can keep his promise. Your brain is repeating his name over and over again, wretched pleas falling from your lips as he ruts his hips to push himself deeper inside of you. You can practically feel him inside your stomach, his length disorienting.

“Bucky, p-please, I wanna cum. Please let me cum.”

“Yeah, you want to cum, doll? Want to cum all over my cock? You’re already soaking my cock right now, can’t wait to have your cream all over me.”

His words have you wheezing, gasping for air in your choked lungs. You beg him one more time, the permission to release.

“Alright, doll. Cum around my cock. Squeeze my dick. I want you to milk me dry. Cum for me.”

Your orgasm wracks through you like lightning, the crack striking you as your pussy convulses around his cock, your stomach tightening with the release that catches you. Your body quakes beneath him as he too finds his completion, burying his face in your neck, beard scratching your sensitive skin, as he spurts into the condom, filling the rubber with evidence of his pleasure. Bucky’s hips stutter a few more times as he slumps on top of you, careful not to hurt you, but his weight a steadying presence.

Your cunt is still throbbing around him, his cock twitching inside of you, when you finally swallow around your dry throat. Bucky jerks back, quickly assessing you as he lifts himself up. Your hand wraps around his bicep to keep him there, keep his cock inside you a little longer.

“You okay?” He asks warily. “Did I hurt you?”

A laugh of disbelief rises from your chest. “Oh fuck you like you didn’t just give me the best damn orgasm of my life.”

His frown melts away into a wide smile. “Yeah? Best one, huh? That’s a big compliment.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

He presses his lips against yours again, tasting you slowly once more before he draws away and kisses your temple. “Well, now I have to figure out how to make it better than best.”

Somehow, you don’t think he’ll have a problem doing that. 

–

A one-time fix was never going to be enough. Now that you’ve had a taste of him, you can’t seem to get enough of him. Whereas you were already following him around the house before, you can’t keep your hands off him now. Anywhere he’s willing to take you, you will. 

Not that it’s any different from Bucky who hasn’t let you out of his sight for a second since that night. When the two of you wake up the next morning, sticky with each other’s body heat, Bucky joins you in the shower and soaps you up before he sinks his cock back into you, taking you against the hot stream of water pouring down from above, pressing you up against the cool tiles until your legs are shaking. 

With the wine glasses still in the sink, stained red from the night before, he has one of your legs over his shoulder as he devours you again. This time, you do cum around his tongue and, based on the groan and the way his shoulders shake, he finishes untouched inside his pants.

The two of you bounce between your bed, the kitchen counter, against the outdoor shed. You get on your knees for him until he’s begging for you to stop. You don’t and he cums in your mouth, cock hitting the back of your throat as he spills white into you. He returns the favor by pressing you down onto a wooden workstation and your legs clamped around his face as he eats you out, eyes fixated on you the entire time. 

You still do activities outside, of course. When Bucky tries to work on the sink, you end up slithering over and fucking him on the floor. When you try to write outside on the porch, Bucky has you sliding your wet pussy along his cock until he cums all over your belly. 

Sometimes, you still drive out to town and you tease him so much in the car that he ends up swerving into a deserted road to fuck you in the backseat. The two of you go at it like rabbits anywhere and everywhere, days of build up feeling like months of separation. So much so that—

“Shit, I’m out of condoms,” Bucky curses with two of his fingers inside you and one hand trying to fiddle with his wallet. 

At this point, he’s riled you up enough that you say, “I’m clean. I’m on the pill.”

Bucky’s lips tilt into a small amused smile at the desperation in your voice, how you greedily grind against his hand. “As enticing as that sounds, I want to be safe with you.”

So you drive into town and stop by the nearest store. Bucky picks up two boxes of condoms, smirking when you question him teasingly if that would be enough. The store clerk eyes the two of you with disdain as Bucky pays for it, once again pushing your wallet away. 

On the way back home, you’re still vibrating with need but there’s a calm with Bucky that has you leaning back in surprise, watching you carefully.

“What’re you thinking about?”

Bucky huffs a laugh, smiling as he turns to you. “It’s my favorite time of day. Driving you.”

It’s unexpectedly soft and you can’t help yourself from leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. Bucky turns then to peck you quickly before his hand takes yours on your lap. 

Through all this, you can’t help that tiny, niggling, persistent voice in the back of your mind that reminds you of what Mr. Moore had said. About this person that Bucky is trying to court. Your brain is struggling to draw the line between him having this grand romantic gesture of building someone a whole damn library and the fact that he’s fucking you of all people right now. Not only once or twice or thrice, but you’re running out of fingers.

The only reason that your brain helpfully supplies is that you are a filler. It is the only reason that makes any semblance of sense. A good time. A good lay that he indulges in from time to time to keep him busy and distracted since he can’t seem to be with the one he is actually interested in. You want to ask him, want him to clarify what his intentions are — if this is all temporary or if he hopes for it be something more. Every time you come close to asking, your pride stands in your way; your last shred of dignity telling you that it’s better not to know rather than get an answer that puts an end to all this. You end up replacing that urge with his lips instead.

If you can’t have him forever, at least you can have him now.

Bucky doesn’t appear to suspect any of these thoughts from you. After all, every time he notices a shift in your mood, every time a question hangs on the tip of his tongue, you climb on top of him and push his attention to your body instead. It’s a defense mechanism, one that you’ve used hundreds of times before to avoid disappointing conversations. It’s apparently a tactic that works on Bucky too.

Still, sometimes, when all is said and done, and you’re tangled up in your sheets, Bucky says, “I know there’s something on your mind, I don’t want to push you to talk if you’re not ready. But I want you to know that I’m here and I’ll listen.”

Those times, your heart aches a little louder.

However, the conversation happens sooner than you think. It all comes full circle to where it began. You’re fully sated, limbs tingling all over from the delicious fuck that Bucky just put you through, stretched out like a feline on the couch — one that you replaced under the guise of a Christmas gift to your parents.

Bucky’s naked ass, his very gorgeous naked ass, is within your line of sight as he adds more logs to the fireplace. He had gotten up the moment you shivered a little bit. When he returns to you, he sets up pillows on the floor and tugs you down with him. A blanket covers both of your nude figures as he wraps an arm around you to keep you close and warm.

In addition to that invasive thought, another question comes to mind when you retrace your steps with Bucky.

“Something you said when I first met you,” you start and Bucky hums, “you mentioned something about me not remembering you. Have we really met before?”

His body shakes with laughter and you swat his chest, cheeks warm not only from the dancing flames. “We have.”

“When?” You ask in exasperation, knowing full well he’s only dragging this out for his entertainment.

“A long time ago. We met a good number of times actually,” he continues. When you give him a look demanding more, he only smirks. “My dad used to work for your parents. He did all of the upkeep on the property until he passed a couple of years back, then I took over.” You whisper a quick sorry for his loss with a kiss to his cheek which he gratefully accepts with a squeeze of your knee. “We lived in that same house but I used to come around and help him with odd jobs around here, especially when he got older. Your parents also just let me hang around because I was learning from my dad. That’s when I first met you.”

You’re struggling to piece together the memories from your childhood. Fragments of scenes in this house that you frequently visited during school holidays or lived in only for certain seasons. It’s all a little hazy but you vaguely recall a dark-haired kid. Always with a scratch on his face. A streak of dirt on his white t-shirt.

“Back then, you only came up here every summer and fall. Only time I got to see you. Grew up kinda alongside you. I’m a little older than you, a little scrawnier then—”

It hits you then. “James?” You blurt out. “You’re James?”

Bucky laughs, eyes twinkling delightedly. “Yeah, I’m James. It’s my first name. Bucky’s short for my middle.”

You remember this guy, older than you. He used to toil around in the garden, planting all sorts of vegetables and fruits that your parents would use to whip up the occasional home-cooked meal. You remember telling him once that daisies are your favorite and, three days later, you found beds of them in the backyard ready to pick. You hadn’t picked any of them; instead, you’d spend hours just laying on the grass reading by the flowers. You remember your friends coming to visit and they would tease you relentlessly for living with a boy because James was always there. They weren’t being mean, they were just innocently poking fun. You remember denying your crush on him, a crush long forgotten when you started getting to know Max more in the city.

Still, James is always on the outskirts of your memories. Helping your mom with groceries, talking to your dad about his car, out and about around the house. He lingers on the edges of your periphery, never quite in the center after a while. You can’t believe you nearly, completely forgot about him.

Now, what Mr. Moore said makes sense. Calling him James. You never connected the dots.

“Did you eat a truck or something?” is the first thing you ask. The James you knew, the blurry visage in the back of your mind, was lanky and skinny. He was always a little tall even for his age, but never this big. Not as big as Bucky is now. It seems like your graduation and full move into the city had removed him altogether from your thoughts.

“I grew up,” Bucky smirks. He sure did.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugs. “You didn’t remember me, there wasn’t a point to bringing it up. Plus, it was cute seeing you squirm around someone you thought to be a stranger for a while.”

He practically is a stranger. The years of distance have put a wall between the two of you, one that you failed to look over. But you’ve been chipping away at it slowly over the past week, taking down the bricks to reveal the man on the other side. The man you had known and the man as he is today.

With one mystery down, you brave yourself for the second — one that has the potential to break your heart.

“I was talking to Mr. Moore that day, when we visited Steve.” Your words have Bucky perking up, shifting to look at you with deep curiosity. “He told me that you come by there a lot, that the reason why he knows you so well is because you’ve been buying a lot of books to build a library for someone.”

Bucky pales even in the warm light of the fireplace. Your heart sinks.

“I just— if you were interested in someone, you don’t have to— I mean, if she or he or they are here, I don’t really understand why we’re doing this. I just assumed they’re not here and so you couldn’t, you know, be with them. Because it’s insane to think that someone wouldn’t want to be with you. I guess what I’m saying is—”

He shuts you up with a kiss, lips sealed firmly on yours. “Shut up.”

“Excuse me,” you scoff.

“For someone I consider to be incredibly smart, you’re an idiot.”

“Again, excuse me?”

“Doll, you’ve touched that library.”

That takes you aback, you look at him incredulously. “What?”

“The books you’ve been going through. That library upstairs.”

The realization dawns on you fast, melting like snow on your fingertips. The neurons in your brain are rattling off signals into the abyss, piecing together things you’ve heard, things that have happened in the last few days. Mr. Moore’s words. Steve’s vague teasing. Bucky’s behavior.

Oh god.

Before you can spiral further, Bucky takes your hand in his and brings it to his mouth. He places soft kisses on your palm and on your wrist, feeling the pulse underneath with his lips. “You read so much growing up. I remember you raided your parents’ books until you ran out. You’d complain about not having enough so I used to clean out my pocket money to buy you more. You lit up, thinking your parents finally heard you, and you finished those books in no time. It just became a habit,” he adds.

“You’re still buying books today?”

“Never stopped,” he replies simply, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. “You hadn’t come around in a while but I figured that you’d like it once you did. I’m not consistently buying things,” he chuckles, “just whenever I see something that makes me think of you, I’ll get it and shelve it.”

The library had been sparse growing up, shelves with empty slots that had you irritated even as a teenager. You never questioned the new books that popped up from time to time, thinking it was your parents finally adding to their collection. The library today is filled to the brim, books upon books filling the racks. The ones that don’t fit sit on a couple of neat stacks on the floor.

“Was that what had you up in your head all this time? You thought I was buying books for someone else?”

At that, you snap back into reality, embarrassment creeping up on you.

Bucky laughs and you whine for him to stop, burying your face in your hands. He takes your hands and uses them to draw you closer, peppering your face with kisses that have you squirming and giggling. “Fuckin’ cute. After all the time I spent with you and you thought I was trying to court someone else?”

“I didn’t know!”

“Doll, I’ve been into you since we were kids. Into you even when you were gone. You think I’d let this chance go when you’re here?”

You look up sheepishly at him. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember you.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he murmurs sweetly against your lips. “We have all the time in the world to make up for it.”

–

Your morning routine hasn’t changed much since everything that has transpired. You still make breakfast for the two of you, Bucky still comes into the kitchen groggy. Except now Bucky is strolling in straight from your bed, head rumpled with sleep, and eyes that quickly darken at the sight of you. He sidles up behind you, strong arms wrapping around your waist as he pastes his lips on the back of your bare shoulder where your pajama shirt has slipped down.

“Morning, doll,” he rumbles tiredly, tucking his chin over one shoulder.

“Morning,” you hum and pluck a piece of crisp bacon to hand-feed it directly to him.

It always starts like this, an innocent act stained the moment Bucky puts his mouth on you. He closes his lips around your fingers, licking the grease and flavor off completely and pressing his morning erection against your ass. “Want you,” he says, sleep slowly bleeding out of his voice.

“You had me last night, yesterday afternoon, at lunch, and in the morning,” you say with a smug smile. He looks equally pleased with himself when he realizes how many times, how many ways he has had you in the past twenty-four hours.

“Can’t get enough of you,” Bucky grins, switching off the stove and shoving his hand past the elastic of your pants. “I want to feed this greedy little cunt too.”

Before long, you’re a moaning mess with your cheek against the counter as Bucky fingers you open — not that he has to anymore with how much he’s fucked you last couple of days — and thrusts his cock deep inside you. He’s pounding into you from behind, fingers solidly buried in the flesh of your hip. He bends forward to press his front against your back, nipping your ear as his hand comes around to lock around your throat.

The light squeeze has you dizzy, whimpering for more. Bucky keeps you full, tells you how you’re such a good girl for him for always warming his cock in the morning. How your pussy is still so tight around him even after the number of times he has stretched you open.

You’re in that halfway state of lustful daze and barely-there consciousness when Bucky stiffens behind you. Turning back to look at him, you whine petulantly. “Why’d you stop?”

“Do you hear that? Someone’s coming.”

You grunt, nudging your ass back against him. “It’s fine. It’s probably the mailman, we can get it later.”

However, Bucky still doesn’t move an inch, which makes you huff. The sound of the car rolling up towards the house has him freezing. “Shit, I know that car.” He abruptly pulls out of you, cursing under his breath again as he helps you pull your pants up.

“Whose car is it?”

“Your parents.”

“Shit.”

The world drops at your feet as you scramble to put yourself together again. While your parents know you’re not their innocent little girl anymore, it doesn’t mean they approve of you christening every inch of their holiday house with the man they hired to maintain it.

Panic claws at your stomach but Bucky quickly kisses you, kind eyes grounding you. “Okay, let me make sure we didn’t leave anything behind. You go talk to them first.”

Always the rational one. The one with the solutions. All you can think about is — “They were supposed to be gone for another few days!”

“I know, doll,” he murmurs softly then kisses your forehead. “Go.”

Your stomach flips, and you can’t tell if it’s because Bucky’s being extra soft with you, or the fact that your parents nearly caught you getting your insides rearranged with Bucky fucking you seven ways to Sunday.

You reach the door just in time to hear the keys jingle. Grabbing the handle and swinging it open, you greet them with the brightest smile you can muster. “Mom! Dad! You’re back so early. I thought you were supposed to be in Cancun for a couple more days.”

Your dad wraps you in a hug first, his jacket chilly against your thinner pajamas. When he embraces you, you finally catch sight of the intruder who at least has the decency to look contrite when he catches your eyes. Your fists ball together tight at the sight of him.

“What’s he doing here?”

As your mom wrangles you into a hug of her own, your dad beams brightly at you, seeming almost proud for doing such a good deed. “Oh, honey, we thought it would be such a shame for you to spend Christmas alone and working, so we left our cruise earlier and picked him up on the way up here. I was surprised to hear Max didn’t come up with you. He’s welcome here, you know.”

“Okay, but—”

Max, the fucking asshole, has the nerve to interrupt you with a pointed look and that practiced smile on his face. “And we are so, so grateful for that,” he declares, sliding an arm around your shoulders and pecking your cheek. You wanted to hit him with an uppercut to his fucking jaw. His hand squeezes your arm. “We wouldn’t want anything to ruin Christmas, would we?”

Your parents love the holidays. They think it’s the time to reconnect with loved ones, spread magic, and sprinkle holiday cheer. You’ve been celebrating the season with Max, your parents, and his parents in the city for years, a convening of the two sides likely to be officially family soon. But this year is clearly different and your parents have yet to catch wind of what has happened.

You hate to break their heart, especially since you know they wanted to do something nice for you. So you keep your mouth shut — for now. The threatening glare you sear into Max’s head behind your parents’ back as they enter is enough to have him cowering slightly.

As if the universe is determined to set your life on fire, Bucky comes down the hall just as the front door closes behind the lot of you. His eyes are warm when they find your parents, but you can see the wall that slams up when he spots Max next to you, his arm around you. You quickly shrug it off with a frown, trying to reassure him with your gaze but he’s already shifting his attention to your parents.

“James! Good to see you, son. I see you’ve been taking good care of the place and our girl. The two of you haven’t seen each other in some time, right?” Oh boy. He’s been taking real good care of you, that’s for sure.

Bucky’s lips tug up into a genuine and partially amused smile as he nods. “Just doing my job.”

The look he throws at you is knowing, sparkling almost with mischief. You breathe a sigh of relief seeing some of the light return to his eyes as he looks at you, almost quietly asking if you’re okay. You only manage a quiet nod, pursing your lips to inform him that you’ll update him on the situation later.

Expectedly, Max’s glance bounces between the two of you, the small wheels in his mind spinning and working on overdrive. The genius that he is puts two and two together, and he narrows his eyes at Bucky. Good thing your real man isn’t one to be fazed and he sizes Max up as they greet each other.

“Max, the boyfriend,” Max smiles confidently, almost snarkily, as he sticks his hand out.

Bucky looks at it, looks at him, and clenches his jaw. “Funny, that’s not what she told me about you,” Bucky snips right back.

That wipes the smile clean off Max’s face and you’ve never seen anything to satisfying.

Your dad — god bless his soul — is oblivious to the showdown happening under his roof and only claps his hands together. “Let’s do a family dinner tonight. James, you’re welcome to join us, of course. We will order in and have a feast. A celebration of the holidays and joyous reunions.”

You wonder how you’re going to get yourself out of this mess.

The dinner is only tense for you, Bucky, and Max. Your parents are enjoying the catered meals, Maria having outdone herself with the selections once again. While your parents chatter your ears off about the cruise, you’re nervously looking between Max to your right and Bucky diagonally across you. He hasn’t said a word the entire time, while Max has been currying favor with your parents. He’s always been good at that, sweet-talking his way into situations. He just doesn’t know how to keep himself there when he can’t keep it in his pants.

“So, Max, tell us, come on. When are you doing it?”

“Doing what, sir?”

“Proposing to my daughter, of course!”

You can hear a pin drop in the silence that follows. Your mother waits with bated breath, you tense down to your toes, Max is frozen solid, and Bucky looks like he has stopped breathing altogether. The awkwardness weighs heavily at least between the three that understand the situation, but your parents only look at him with hopeful eyes.

“Sweetheart, you two have been dating for god knows how long now. It’s about time, don’t you think?” Your mother coos. “She wants children and this is a good time to start. We’d love to be grandparents.”

Marriage? Children? As good as Maria’s cooking is, you can feel the food coming back up your esophagus. Max glances at you and forces out a smile. A smile both to convince your parents and to convince you. “Soon. Whatever it takes. I’ll get her to marry me.”

It’s not only a promise to them. It’s a promise to you. He’s determined to win you back.

Your mother practically swoons. “Look at that, how romantic. Isn’t that just sweet?” As if things couldn’t get any worse, she then moves her attention to Bucky. “James, what about you? We’ve known you for as long as these two and I’ve never seen you with anyone. Do you have anyone special? You’re free to bring them around, you know. You’re practically family.”

Your heart knocks against your ribcage in anticipation. What would he say? Is this it? Is this the time to reveal everything?

However, Bucky doesn’t even as much as spare you a glance before he turns to your mom with a tight smile. “No, no one special right now.”

The collective disappointment is palpable around the room, but it’s most obvious on you. Bucky still won’t meet your eye, instead picking apart the food on his plate to keep himself distracted and his hands busy. Your parents continue to talk through dinner but none of you seem to be listening anymore. The five of you work quickly to put away the dishes and clean up the table for the evening.

With every passing second, your heart sinks deeper into the floor. You can feel Bucky slipping away, his presence, his mind elsewhere even as he putters around the house to help.

“Well, we’re going to call it a night, kids. We’ll see you in the morning. Perhaps we can go for a hike!” Your dad announces enthusiastically, only to be met with the groans of everyone in the room. “Okay, so hike up for debate, we can discuss this tomorrow.”

Your mother only shakes her head, shooting apologetic glances at the three of you. “He’s had a long day. Have a good night. Max, you can stay in the same room. We know you’re both adults, we trust you to act accordingly. And wear protection.”

“Mom!” You snap and she only laughs as she pushes your father up the stairs into their room. You mutter curses under your breath about how unbelievable your parents are.

When they’re finally out of sight, you turn towards Bucky, taking a step towards. However, he takes a step back, shaking his head. “I should head out for the night. Your parents are still here. We can talk in the morning.”

“Buck—”

“You have some things you clearly need to sort out too,” he smiles and you don’t like that it’s tinged with sadness. A preemptive disappointment that you want to wipe away.

You’re about to reach out for him again when Max catches your hand and shakes his head, telling you to stay. That one moment of distraction is all it takes for Bucky to leave the house with a quiet click and his car roaring to life. By the time you step out onto the porch, he is already driving down the winding road.

It is then that you turn the maximum strength of your seething glare towards Max. “You really have some fucking nerve.”

“They showed up at your door, thought I’d be home. They called me, what was I supposed to do?”

“Don’t pick up! Tell them you’re cheating scum! Literally anything but tagging along and fucking showing up here when nobody wants you here.”

Max sighs. “Baby, come on.” The pet name grates on your nerves now, sounding like the scrape of nails on a chalkboard. “It was one time—”

“Was it really? Because the two of you sure as hell seemed real comfortable in my home, fucking on my bed.”

“We weren’t fuck—” he stops when he sees the look on your face, “not that time. No. Look, I made a mistake. We have something good here, don’t we? We’ve been together for so long. That was an error in judgment on my part. She was temporary. You’re forever, baby. You’re it for me. We’re meant to be together. Your parents love me. Why throw away a good thing?”

When he extends his hand towards you again, you smack it away with your stomach churning in disgust. “You’re fucking vile. This was never a good thing. Meeting Bucky here, the way he treats me, the way he sees me, I know now that I was never anything more than a convenience for you. So you can shove that mistake and whatever good thing you think we have up your fucking ass.”

“You’re really going to disappoint your parents over Christmas?”

“My parents care more that I’m genuinely happy, and I can tell you — from the bottom of my heart, with the greatest sincerity known to man — that I am genuinely happier with Bucky than I have been with you all these years. I can’t believe I wasted all my time on you, but at least now I know I was preparing myself for someone much, much better than you.”

Max opens his mouth again and you’re getting real sick of his bullshit so you pin him yet with another glower, daggers landing a hairsbreadth away from his head. That shuts him up.

“I want you gone in the morning. I’m not a heartless asshole like you so you can stay on the couch. You’re going to keep your bags packed and you are going to go. I will explain everything to my parents so you don’t have to face them again. Or would you prefer I tell my dad now so he can whoop your ass back into the city?”

The look of pure, unfettered fear on his face is more than satisfying. While your dad is the most easygoing man you’ve ever known, he is also fiercely protective, especially when it comes to you. The last thing Max wants when your dad learns the truth is to be under the same roof as him, a confined space and acres of land in his backyard to hide the skeletons.

“Fine. I’ll leave in the morning. But I’m telling you right now, you’re making a huge mistake.”

“I’m sure you think that, but I don’t think I’ve ever been more confident in anything in my life.”

With that final word, you throw the door open and head out to the shed. You don’t want to arouse suspicion from your parents, so you can’t take the car and risk them noticing you peeling out of the driveway, but you also need to see Bucky tonight. Right now. You don’t like the look that he left with, like he’s saying goodbye without a proper farewell. Your rickety old bike leans against the wall. It looks like a death trap but it’s a death trap that’ll work to get you where you need to go.

In hindsight, biking in the dark is likely your dumbest idea to date. The flashlight on the creaking hunk of metal flickers in and out, leaving you blind in the darkness for a good portion of your ride. The tires are almost completely flat so it takes you a bit more work to get it moving. Your sweater catches on a few branches on your way there, probably collecting a bird’s nest by the time you reach Bucky’s home. You’re squinting at the mailboxes you pass by and finally screech to a halt when you see Barnes painted onto one of them. You turn into his driveway and break into a run the moment you hop off the bike; in fact, you’re only halfway off your bike as it spins and hits the ground when your own feet pound against the dirt.

Your fist knocks repeatedly, banging louder and louder with every second. He’s in there. He can’t pretend not to hear you. The side of your palm is starting to sting with how hard you’re knocking on his door when you land another hit, the same time the door opens, leaving you swinging into thin air.

“Doll, you’re going to wake up the whole damn neighborhood.”

“It’s not my fault you weren’t answering.”

Bucky looks behind you, notices something, and then looks at you with wide eyes. “How did you get here?” You open your mouth then promptly close it because you know he won’t like the answer. A scowl descends on his face. “You did not bike here. Tell me you didn’t bike here.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you that.”

“Are you insane? Do you know how dark out it is? Not to mention that bike is a death trap. Chain barely works, everything is rusted, the light is busted. You have no reflective attachments whatsoever which means cars can’t even see you. What if you got hit? What if you got hurt? What’s the matter with you?”

It’s your turn to give him a dirty look. “Oh, get off that high horse, Barnes. You wouldn’t even look at me, what was I supposed to think?”

“I told you we’d talk in the morning.”

“Well, we both know that you’re good at keeping secrets and who knows what you would’ve concocted in your head before the night is over.”

Surprisingly, he doesn’t argue with you. He only sighs and tugs you inside, muttering about how cold it is before he grabs a jacket from the coat rack and wraps it around you. “Alright, fine. Yes, I was thinking a lot about dinner. Maybe it got in my head a little bit.”

“I knew it,” you hiss. “And you still left?”

“I figured you’d want time to talk to your ex.”

“Why would you even think that?”

Bucky licks his lips, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks bigger this way, broader, but there’s something vulnerable to his stance that pinches your heart. “Look, I just wanted you to have the full opportunity to consider your options. We’ve had a great few days. This last week has been unbelievable. Sometimes, I still can’t believe this is real — and that you’re real. But if this is a rebound thing for you, fine. Just— I can’t really do that, not with you. I don’t trust myself to keep my distance.” He breathes out, his exhale shaking along the notes. “Also, you deserve better than that tool over there. Even if you don’t end up with me, even if you don’t stay with me, don’t go back to him. You could do so much better.”

This is when you take a step towards him, your hands reaching out to untangle his arms and wrap them around you. Your own hands slide around his torso, wrapping around his middle as you look up at him. “Bucky, listen to me very, very carefully. This is not a rebound. You are not a rebound. I haven’t thought about my dickwad of an ex in days. When I do, it’s only to compare how shitty he was to how incredible you are. I would never go back to him. I didn’t want to upset my parents for Christmas, which is why I kept my mouth shut tonight. I’m telling them about Max first thing in the morning. It’s not because I didn’t want to tell them about you because I do — and I think they’ll be happier seeing me with you anyway.”

He tilts his head. Light is already returning to his eyes and you melt into his hold as he tightens his arms around you. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I’m much happier with you too,” you grin, reaching up to kiss him quick on the lips.

Bucky leans down to chase your mouth again, slanting his lips over yours. He sighs into your parted lips. “You still live in the city, doll. This wouldn’t work. I can’t take you away from your life there.”

“Well, I do work remotely most of the time and my parents barely use this house. I could move back in while I figure out what to do with my apartment. The train is an easy trip into the city, I could still see my friends, or I can invite them up here for a getaway.” You look up at him with coy eyes, a teasingly shy smile. “Introduce them to my very gorgeous boyfriend.”

He practically glows with your words. The smile that threatens his expression breaks out in full force across his handsome features. “Boyfriend, huh? Think I could get used to that.”

“You better because that’s what I’m going to be calling you from now on. Boyfriend.”

“Fuckin’ tease,” he chuckles and lifts you up, your legs wrapping around him. “Well, how about you let your boyfriend take real good care of you tonight?”

“I can’t think of anything better.”

bucky is kissing (taglist): @superbassbuck @earthsmightiestbenders @umbreoni @houseofhyde @bckyslover @its-in-the-woods @flockoff-featherface @winterdecember18 @chateaubarnes @54nboo @barnes-babydoll @phoenix-in-writing @tofuonfaiya @avengersfan25 @miraclediviner @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @heldbybarnes @opheliabbarnes @/blowingbarnes @stanmarvelous @pinksplace @lunexiax @54nboo @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @esunarint @nikkitabarnes @captain-shannon-becker @toxicrelief

The Rogers' backyard was, for all intents and purposes, the hottest wedding venue in town. 

At least if anyone asked nine-year-old you and 11-year-old Bucky, as much was true. 

The cracked sidewalk leading to the clothesline was the aisle, peony and dandelion flower beds were the decorations. The old apple tree was the altar at which Steve stood taller on an upside down wooden crate, one of your father's old dress shirts over his shoulders to pretend he was a preist, or a pope, or some sort of higher entity able to witness this whole thing. 

Bucky had one of your dad's suit jackets on, the navy fabric completely swallowing his frame, overlapping at the front and masking the Yankees jersey he had on, and all the dirt and grass stains on it. 

You had a pillowcase that definitely needed to be in the hamper for laundry day pinned to your hair with your favorite hair clips, of a little crystal blue butterfly. 

"Everybody be quiet," Steve announced, nose high up in the air like he was presenting a case to the Supreme Court. "This is serious business."

"It is serious business," you agreed immediately, failing to bite back a grin, missing your top right canine tooth.

One that Bucky held your hand the whole time so you'd let Steve run away with the string and pull it out. 

"We are gathered here today because Bucky and my sister wanted to play wedding instead of baseball."

"You said you'd play too!" you accused. 

Steve ignored and just kept going. "Now, Bucky Barnes." He cleared his throat, trying to make his voice lower. "Do you promise to be nice to her forever, always save her a seat to watch fireworks on my birthday, and never eat the last s'more?"

Bucky rolled his eyes, his dimple coming out as he smiled wth the side of his mouth. "Yeah," he said simply. "I promise."

You raised your brow, mock-scolding him. "You're supposed to say I do."

"Okay, yes," Your heart did an odd flip. "I do."

Steve then turned to you next. "And do you promise to be nice to Bucky forever, not tell Mrs. Barnes when he sneaks cookies before dinner, and always let him have the red Popsicle if there's only one left?"

"But they're the best ones!" You whined. 

Steve sighed, ever the dramatic, looking at Bucky with fake sorrow. "Okay, then I guess you don't love him as much as—"

That set panic in your little heart. "I do! I do!" His face changed immediately, and Bucky smiled at you. 

The kind of smile that always made you feel like maybe the sun shined a little brighter on your side of the street than everybody else's.

Steve smiled, as if everything was back on track. "Now, for the rings."

Bucky dug into his pocket and produced two dandelions he'd twisted into little circles. Your eyes widened. "You made those?"

He nodded, brown hair bouncing up and down his head with the gesture. "Took me forever, but they're your favorites."

He held one carefully between his fingers before sliding it onto yours with all the concentration in the world.

"You made me a flower ring." Your grin stretched so wide your cheeks hurt.

Bucky shrugged. "Yeah."

Steve interrupted your thoughts, "Okay, okay. By the power in this vest… or in me, whatever they say in movies, you are now married." He pointed at Bucky. "No cooties." Then at you. "And don't make him play tea party every day."

Your stomach did that weird fluttery thing it always did around Bucky Barnes. It did the same thing when you rode rollercoasters, felt like it was gonna fly away and take you with it. 

"You may now high-five the bride." Steve announced, stepping down from the crate. 

Bucky extended his pinky towards you, "We'll be best friends forever."

"No take-backs." You smiled, wrapping your pinky around his.

TEN YEARS LATER

As time passed, you grew up. You got new interests, all of you got new friends, and the found family you had just seemed to get bigger. Of course, you weren't as close with Bucky anymore, no college sophomore wants to hang out constantly with his best friend's kid sister.

It's kind of uncool.

The house was loud in that familiar, comfortable way—the kind of loud that doesn’t feel chaotic so much as lived-in. Every sound has a place. Every voice belongs. Bucky, as much as he isn't family by blood, grew up running up and down these stairs the same you and Steve did, as Steve did in his house. 

Both of your moms were best friends since diapers, and it was only fate that Bucky and Steve were too. 

The kitchen doorway had his height and age and name scratched on it just the same as it did yours, he knew that house in the dark just as much as Steve, trying to sneak around to get snacks during late nights playing video games. 

Controller clicks. Steve muttering under his breath. Bucky’s low laugh every time he wins—because of course he’s winning.

“Dude, you’re cheating,” Steve groans, tossing his controller down for a second.

“I’m just better than you,” Bucky shoots back easily, stretched out on the couch like he owns the place, long legs kicked up, completely at home.

He always is.

Him and Steve drove back home from their Sophomore college parties for your graduation weekend, still half-running on energy drinks and bad decisions from the night before, which just happened to fall in the same one as your prom, only separated by three days. 

They could hear your speaker booming in your bathroom while you got ready with your two best friends, Yelena and Kate, and Natasha, Steve's girlfriend, helped you with your makeup. 

It was a mix of Megan Thee Stallion playing and giggles coming from the three of you, your two best friends gushing over their dates.

Makeup scattered across the counter. Curling iron plugged in and dangerously close to knocking something over. Dresses half-hanging, half-draped over the shower rod.

And Natasha’s laugh, warmer, older, threaded through all of it as she tried to keep things somewhat under control.

Kate is perched on the edge of the tub, kicking her heels against the porcelain. Yelena is leaning into the mirror, fixing her lip gloss with unnecessary intensity.

And you—

You’re standing between them, half-finished, dress still unzipped, hair clipped up, trying to decide if you feel as good as you’re supposed to.

“Okay, no—seriously,” Kate says, pointing at you like she’s making a case in court. “John is going to lose his mind.”

Yelena hums in agreement. “He already looks at you like he has no thoughts.”

You laugh, a little breathy. “That’s not even true.”

“It is completely true,” Kate insists.

“You’re just saying that.”

“We are not just saying that,” Yelena shoots back.

Natasha, standing behind you, gently brushes powder along your cheek, more focused than the rest of them—but she’s listening. And she notices there's a sparkle in your eye that's missing when John's the subject. 

He's nice, he's good looking, he's captain of your football team, maybe he has some anger issues with other guys, but all in all he's a solid boyfriend. He's just not—

“Alright,” Natasha says finally, pulling you from your thoughts, lightening her tone again. “Turn around. Let me see the full thing.”

You do as she asks, and she takes in her work of art, your hopeful eyes, and the soft blownout curls of your hair framing your face. 

"Perfect!"

Careful with your steps as she reaches for the zipper, pulling it up your back slowly, sealing you into the dress, into the night, into everything that’s supposed to happen.

A knock sounds on the bathroom door. "You girls alive in there?" Steve calls. "Or did the hairspray fumes get you?"

"We're decent!" Natasha calls back.

Steve pokes his head in for a second. "Oh."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

His expression shifts immediately into something resembling offense. "What happened to my little sister?"

"Oh my God." You snorted. 

Steve's broad frame now came into full view in the tiny bathroom as he stood on the dorway. "Who is this grown woman and where did she put the gremlin that used to steal my fries?"

You rolled you eyes. "I'll still steal your fries."

He shakes his head. "You look beautiful, Bug."

Your expression softens. "Thanks, Stevie."

As Pietro and Bob scrolled their phones impatiently at the bottom of the stairs, making small talk with Steve and Bucky, you were almost wearing a path into the carpeted floor of your bedroom.

Seconds after he was supposed to arrive with the other two, he texted you some shitty excuse as to why he was taking Olivia, his ex, to prom instead. 

“I was gonna explain,” John says finally, like that makes it better.

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Explain what? That you’re ditching me the night of prom?”

“I’m not ditching you,” he says quickly, defensive already. “It’s just—Olivia asked me to go with her and it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” you repeat, your grip tightening around your phone. “John, it’s prom. We’ve had this planned for weeks.”

“I know, I know,” he says, exhaling like you’re the one making this difficult. “But she’s going through stuff right now and I don’t wanna make things worse.”

Your chest tightens. “So you thought canceling on me last minute wouldn’t make things worse?”

“That’s not what I said.”

You huffed. “That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

He goes quiet again for a second, and you can practically hear him thinking—calculating—trying to figure out how to spin it in a way that makes him look less like the bad guy.

“Look,” he says finally, voice shifting into something more controlled, “you’re gonna have fun no matter what. You’ve got your friends, it’s not like you’ll be alone.”

The words hit harder than anything else he’s said.

Because they’re so easy for him. So dismissive.

“So that’s it?” you ask, quieter now, but it wavers anyway. “You just—drop me and go with her, and I’m supposed to be fine with that?”

“I’m not dropping you,” he insists again, frustration creeping in. “It’s one night.”

“It’s prom,” you snap, the word catching in your throat. “It’s not just some random thing, John.”

“Why are you making this such a big deal?” he shoots back.

That’s what does it.

Your eyes sting, tears blurring your vision as you shake your head even though he can’t see it. “I’m making it a big deal?” you echo. “You’re the one who decided, what, an hour before we’re supposed to leave, that I don’t matter as much as your ex?”

“It’s not like that,” he says, sharper now. “You’re twisting it.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” you say, your voice breaking despite your best effort to keep it steady. “You just told me exactly where I stand.”

He exhales, long and annoyed, like he’s already over the conversation. “You’re being dramatic. The words land like a slap. And for a second, you can’t even respond.

“Okay,” you say finally, and your voice is quieter now, but steadier in a way that feels final. “Okay. Go with her.”

“—See? That’s all I’m saying, it’s not that—”

“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head again, even though he still can’t see you. “I get it now.”

There’s a shift on his end, like he didn’t expect that. “Wait—”

“Have fun at prom, John.”

And before he can say anything else, you hang up.

The silence that follows is immediate and heavy, pressing in around you as you stare at your reflection, your chest rising and falling too fast, your phone still clutched in your hand.

For a second, you just stand there. And then your face crumples, and the tears come before you can stop them. 

Great. You think. An hour of Natasha's hard work gone in two seconds. 

You ripped a couple squares of toiled paper off of the roll, trying to dab away the tears when a knock interrupted you. You didn't even have time to tell whoever it was to leave you alone, the door opened anyway. 

And of course it was Bucky. 

"Hey, Walker finally—" Then he saw your face. The red rimmed eyes, the puffy nose and lips, he'd recognize your crying face if he was in a dark room blindfolded and you were three states away. "What happened?"

His voice wasn't panicked our loud, just immediate. 

"Apparently my boyfriend had a better offer." You said with a humorless laugh, fiddling with the corner of the tissue. 

His expression then changed to confusion, then disbelief, then anger. "He did what?"

Your eyes stayed on the paper, humiliated. "He took his ex to prom instead." It sounds ridiculous out loud. Embarrassing. "I know it's stupid—"

He shook his head. "It's not stupid."

You shrugged one shoulder anyway. "It kind of is."

"It kind of isn't." Bucky insisted. 

Your laugh broke apart into another shaky breath. "He said I was being dramatic." Your voice was small, like a small part of you almost believed John. 

"No the fuck he didn't." Bucky's voice, on the contrary, sounded like he was about to make sure John was in three zipcodes at the same time.

You wiped at your face furiously. "Can we not do the whole protective older brother routine thing right now? Steve's probably already planning a felony downstairs."

Bucky nodded, as if agreeing that yes, Steve should be planning felonies. "Good."

Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes you. "Bucky."

"I'm serious." He took the couple steps needed to lean back against the sink, back to the mirror, while you faced it. The familiar weight of him beside you settled something in your chest. "You know what I think?" he asks.

You sniffled. "What?"

"I think he's an idiot."

You snort. "Very eloquent."

"You spent weeks excited about tonight." You shrug. "You talked about your dress for months." A smaller shrug, your head shaking like you agreed with him three weeks was a little excessive. "And some guy decides at the last second that he doesn't feel like showing up?"

His eyes looked for yours, and he continued once you met his gaze. "That's his loss." 

Downstairs someone was shouting something about finding the car keys. "I just feel stupid."

His brows furrowed immediatelly. "Why?"

"Because I was excited." The words came out smaller than you meant them to. "I really thought tonight was gonna be special."

Bucky's expression softens. "It still can be."

You laughed weakly. "My date literally dumped me an hour before prom."

"Okay." He says, like the solutions is obvious. Like a dragon staring you in the face. 

You were confused. "Okay?"

"Okay." He stands up straight. "Counterpoint." You raise an eyebrow. "I've seen enough terrible teen movies to know where this goes." Despite yourself, curiosity wins.

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yeah." He nodded, and started counting on his fingers. "Option one: you go with your friends and have an incredible time."

"Mm." An amused smile played on your lips. 

He continued. "Option two: Steve commits a crime."

You smiled widened. "Likely."

"Or a secret, better option three—"

You quirked a brow. "There are three options?"

Bucky rolled his eyes playfully. "There are always three options." You gestured for him to continue and he grinned. "Option three: some devastatingly handsome college sophomore heroically steps in and saves prom."

You stared at him in disbelief. "Bucky Barnes."

"What?" 

"You are not asking me to prom."

"Why not?"

"Because that's ridiculous." You stammered. "You're a college guy and it's gonna be a bunch of drunk high school seniors and—"

"Seems pretty straightforward to me."

You crossed your arms over your chest, the action making your breasts stand out more, and Bucky had to hold back from looking briefly. "You drove eight hours home from college."

"Correct."

"You haven't slept." Another excuse.

"Also correct."

Truth is… You didn't trust yourself not to ruin your friendship, and Steve's, with Bucky as your date. Yes it was a childhood crush, yes it was stupid, yes he only saw you as a little sister, but for some reason every time you smelled sandalwood and listened to divorced dad rock, your stomach did the same fucking thing it always did.

It flipped. 

"I'm serious." The grin on his face faded into something gentler. "You shouldn't miss your prom because some idiot couldn't see what was standing right in front of him."

Your throat tightens. "I don't want a pity Bucky Barnes date."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Bucky shook his head. "I want to go to a high school prom sleep deprived, listen to bad music, and drink shitty punch."

You pretended to think about it. "I want milkshake and fries from Juniper's after."

Bucky got down on his knees dramatically, clutching his hands together, play-begging. "Please, let me spend my hard earned student loans on a malted brownie shake for you, m'lady."

You signed, as if you weren't blushing seven shades of red at the moment, all hidden by Natasha's foundation. "I suppose."

After Nat talked Steve down from whatever Law Abiding Citizen crap he was gonna pull, Bucky borrowed one of your dad's suits while you touched up your makeup, and off into his jeep you went. 

Bucky lingered back as he watched you walk to the old car excitedly, Natasha stopping right beside him as your friends walked to their cars, watching you get twirled by Kate. 

Bucky noticed Natasha staring at him and raised a brow in question. "What?"

She gave a noncommittal noise. "Nothing."

"Romanoff." Bucky scoffed.

She put her hands up in surrender. "I didn't say anything."

"You've got the face."

Now it was her turn to raise a brow, trying to bite back a grin. "What face?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "The face where you've figured something out before everyone else."

Nat shrugged her shoulders. "I always figure something out before everyone, Bucky." Tapping him on the shoulder and turning arounfd to go inside. 

The prom commitee worked very hard to make sure the night looked exactly like every movie promised it would.

String lights draped from the ceiling of the gymnasium like stars somebody had caught and hung overhead. Balloons clustered in the corners. A photo booth occupied one wall. The basketball hoops had been disguised beneath enough tulle and fairy lights to fool almost everyone.

Turns out, getting ditched by John Walker was the best thing that ever happened to your prom night. You didn't even notice when Olivia was cryingin the bathroom because she caught him making out with someone else. 

No. 

You were too busy slow dancing with Bucky Barnes.

When the first chorus of the song came on, he held out his hand. "May I have this dance?"

You rolled your eyes. "You're such a dork."

"Tick tock, Rogers." He wiggled his fingers impatiently.

You took his hand as if it didn't make your fingers go numb with excitement, and Bucky quickly nestled a hand on your low back, your forehead to the side of his jaw. 

"You know," Bucky said after a minute, "this is definitely better than my prom when I was your age."

"Okay, grandpa." You laughed softly. "What happened at your senior prom?"

"My date spent forty-five minutes crying in the bathroom because her friend wore the same shoes she did."

You clicked your tongue. "That's tragic."

"It was devastating." Bucky agreed, nodding his head, laughing softly. 

You nudged his jaw. "I'll try to hold it together."

"I appreciate that."

A moment passed, then another, and you spoke up. "Thank you for doing this for me."

"Anytime." He let out a soft breath, leaning back the slightest bit so he could look at you. "You do look beautiful, I mean it."

Thank fuck for Natasha's foundation, powder, and concealer for hiding your flush. "Thank you, Bucky." Oh how you wished you hadn't looked into his pretty eyes, reflecting the lights off of the mirrorball back onto the dancefloor. 

The ten seconds seemed to stretch an entire decade. Somehow Bucky's face getting closer and closer to yours, eyes switching from your lips back to your eyes and to your lips again. 

Oh my God, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, he's gonna—

"Hey." The word cut through the moment like broken glass. Fucking John Walker. King of never in the history of the world reading anything. Specialy the fucking room. "Can we talk?"

Bucky's hand tightened around your waist, "What do you want, John? Olivia is probably looking for you."

"C'mon, baby, you're not gonna throw our relationship away over one bad call, are you?" He was seriously trying to play this off. "I made a mistake." His hand reached for you but you stepped away. 

"I'm not your baby."

He scoffed. "Aw, c'mon." And tried again. 

This time, Bucky got between you two. "She's done, Walker. Walk away."

Now John got… Defensive. "This isn't any of your business."

Bucky clicked his tongue. "She kind of is." The words slipped out before he could stop them.

The air stood still for a minute before the football bros came to get John, leaving you and Bucky with the weight of unsaid words and unspoken looks. 

Juniper's was closed by the time you finally left prom.

Not closed enough to stop Bucky from leaning halfway out of the driver's side window and convincing one of the employees locking up to sell him two milkshakes and an order of fries out of pure pity.

It wasn't until you were stargazing in his jeep with soft music from his Spotify mixing with the crickets hiding in the grass that your heart settled again. 

You were in the passenger seat, your burger already eaten, just finishing your delicious fries and your milkshake with Bucky in the same predicament in the driver's seat. 

Now the two of you sat on the hood of his Jeep in the empty parking lot overlooking the river, the New York spring air cool enough that your bare shoulders prickled every time the wind picked up.

Without a word, Bucky shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders. You blushed. "Thanks."

He shrugged. "'M not using it."

"You literally had it on 30 seconds ago." You rolled your eyes. Bucky just muttered details between a mouthful of fries. 

"You know," you said eventually, "this wasn't exactly how I pictured prom going."

Bucky laughed quietly. "No?"

"I don't know. There was significantly less public humiliation in the original draft." You laughed softly. "But I like this version better."

Bucky nodded. "I had fun."

You looked over. "Yeah?" Hopeful little edge in your voice giving you away to anyone that knew you remotely well. 

"Yeah." His expression softened. "Got to dance with a pretty girl."

Heat climbed into your cheeks immediately. "You flirt with everybody." You rolled your eyes. 

Bucky made an offended expression, clutching his chest. "I absolutely do not."

"You absolutely do." You lolled you head to the side, raising a brow to make your point. He laughed.

God, you loved his laugh. Always had. The thought came and went so quickly you almost didn't notice it.

Your eyes drifted back toward the sky. "You know what this reminds me of?"

"Hm?" He lifted his eyes from the milkshake cup he was trying to get every last bit out of. 

"The meteor shower."

Bucky smiled immediately. "Oh man."

You grinned. "You remember?"

"Remember?" Bucky chuckled. "I had baseball tryouts the next day and I was up all night to make sure you didn't miss it."

It stopped you dead in your tracks. He did what? "No, you didn't. Your mom came and woke us up."

Bucky nodded. "Yeah, because I woke her up. I was outside waiting for it while you and Steve snoozed it off. Played like shit the next morning." He continued. "You had the date circled on the calendar."

Your brow furrowed. "I did?"

He nodded. "You drew stars around it."

"Oh my God."

Bucky chuckled, his own head lolling to the side on the head rest to look at you. "You made Steve and I promise we wouldn't stay up late the night before because we had to be rested."

You buried your face in your hands. "That sounds insufferable."

"It was kinda cute." He smiled at you like he always did, and your heart promptly forgot how to function. Bucky, meanwhile, was blissfully unaware of the devastation he'd just caused.

Trying so desperately to change the subject to something that wouldn't make you tear up or your heart jump, you fiddled with your milkshake, taking a sip and making a face. "You know, I think this thing is eighty percent whipped cream."

Bucky grinned. "I can see that, it's all over your face." His left thumb came up to wipe down the leftover shake on the corner of your mouth, and it lingered just a second too long. 

For a second, or three years, the world felt like it stilled. A moment frozen in a snow globe to be forever replayed. 

Neither of you moved, not entirely sure how to. Suddenly Bucky was very close, close enough to see the tiny scar in his eyebrow from falling off his bike when he was fourteen, to count the freckles dusting across his nose, enough that you could feel your heartbeat somewhere in your throat.

His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up, and your heart and lungs stumbled over themselves. 

His hand lowered slowly, resting on your thigh. The night around you seemed quieter somehow. Smaller, as if the entire world had narrowed down to the space between you.

"Buck..." His name came out softer than you intended.

His expression shifted into something you'd never seen directed at you before. "If you don't want—"

And then your body moved forward on instinct, your brain a mess of fuzzy TV static, and when you came back to your body, your lips were on his.

Not because you were brave or even confident, just mostly because if you let him finish that sentence you thought your heart might actually explode.

For one terrifying second you were convinced you'd made the biggest mistake of your life. Then you felt the warmth of his hand on your cheek, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss as his tongue slipped past your lips.

The kind of kiss that felt less like fireworks and more like coming home after a very long trip.

One of your hands quickly found the nape of his neck, gently scratching your manicured nails against his scalp. He whined against your lips, hand drifting to your waist, and just as much as he pulled you onto his lap, you climbed over the console to him, food wrappers forgotten on the floor. 

You shrugged the suit jacket off, accidentally honking the horn with your butt in the process, and Bucky's hands rubbed up and down your thighs as you rocked your hips against him, feeling the heat of him against the suit pants. 

Your hands dropped from his shoulders down to his arms, then forearms, directing him to paw at the zipper on the back of your dress.

That made him pull away, looking for your eyes. "Are you—"

You could not have nodded more feverishly if you were a damn bobblehead.

Bucky needed no further incentive, he made quick work of the zipper, excitement bubbling in your stomach like freshly popped champagne while he peppered kisses along your jawline and neck. 

The now bothersome fabric of the dress fell to your waist as you worked on the buttons of his shirt, hands moving to his belt and pants after.

He kissed you again, deeper as his hand snuck under the hem of your dress to find the wet spot on your panties. 

You moaned against his mouth, your own hand finding its way inside of his boxers. You broke the kiss, gasping for air.

"Is this— I mean— okay?" It was hushed and murured against his lips as you stroked his length. "I've never— oh!"

You got rudely interrupted by Bucky's index and middle fingers rubbing your sensitive clit over the blue cotton of your panties.

He nodded against you, "Y-yeah, you're— fuck— you're doing so good."

His hips bucked up against you, and the second he slipped out of his pants with your movements his hand left your core and now were both squeezing your ass.

Bucky brought you flush against him, the angry red tip of him begging for friction found it when you started to dry hump him through your underwear, gasping into his mouth every time it nudged your clit.

"Bucky, please…" He couldn't not give you what you wanted, right? "I can't take it." Not when you begged this pretty.

He nodded against you, "I know, baby." And his right hand went under your dress, behind you, and pulled your panties to the side. "I know."

The second his bare cock made contact with your wet slit, he hissed, and a lightbulb went off in his head.

Condom.

He did not trust himself to pull out. Not of you. "Condom." His voice was almost distant to you, like it hadn't crossed your mind to use protection. Not with Bucky, anyway. He'd never hurt you, he was your—

"I—" You were dazed, lost and drunk in the scent and thought and feel of him. "My purse."

His hands let you go and you leaned over the seat to grab your purse from the backseat, your ass right beside Bucky's head. 

Of course he took advantage of that fully pull your panties down, now that you had the leg space. 

You sat back down on top of him with a little huff, trembling hands fumbling with the wrapper.

Bucky hissed as you rolled it down on him, and one of his hands lined himself up with your entrance.

As you sank down on him, you thought maybe you should've thought twice about it. I mean, you knew he was packing, you walked in on him changing one time a couple years ago, there was no way you could—

"Hey," Bucky's voice brought you back from your spiral. "Look at me." Beautiful cerulean eyes stared up at you like the moonlight was made to bounce off them specifically. "Breathe."

His other hand brushed your hair away from your face, just as the hand that was holding his shaft traveled up, thumb finding your clit rubbing soothing circles on it.

"Just take it slow." Your eyes fluttered closed. 

"How do you not get knocked over hauling this thing around?" That brought a chuckle out of him, landing straight onto the skin of your neck. "Oh, God..."

You rocked yourself back and forth, until he was fully inside of you, your lips touching the light hair at the base. 

Bucky kissed all over your face, his thumb never stopping its work. "You're doing so good, baby."

"Feels full." He laughed softly. squeezing your waist and helping guide you into a rhythm. "Feels good."

"Yeah?" Hushed and right by your ear, you felt like drowning and the happiest person alive at the same time. "You're so tight," He continued. "So warm."

You whined against his lips, the vibration going all the way down to his core.

He moved you up and down his cock, listening to the obscene wet squelch each time you sat up and sank back down on him, and each time it dawned on him what was actually happening, he got louder.

Bolder.

He bounced you on his length, hissing each time, you squeezed around him. "Feel good, Buck. Hah!"

It surprisingly didn't take long for Bucky to have you right at the edge, not as long as people online led you to believe losing your virginity would feel like. "Can feel you fluttering." His thumb worked faster.

"Wanna come, Bucky." You whined, kissing him, and pulling away with his bottom lip between your teeth, "Can I?"

He hissed, the question making it hard for him to not blow his load right then and there. "F'course you can, pretty girl, c'mon."

Your release felt like a million meteors hitting you at once. Like Earth came apart and got put together all in the same breath. 

It felt entirely different, better, than when you tried to do it on your own. And your orgasm triggered Bucky's, waves of pleasure milking rope after rope of cum from him into the unworthy latex of the condom. 

For what it felt like forever for the milionth time that night, neither of you spoke. Your breaths and the crickets were the only sounds. 

It was quiet after. 

Just… quiet.

The kind that only existed when two people had known each other so long that silence wasn't something to fill. Starts lit up the sky that was now your ceiling, and Bucky had taken the condom off and tied it, throwing it inside of the trash with the fry bag and the milkshake cups.

For once in his life, James Buchanan Barnes appeared to be completely out of words.

Which was concerning.

You smiled a little, back in the passenger seat with the suit jacket around your chilly shoulders. "What?"

He glanced over. "Hm?"

"You're thinking too loud." That got a laugh out of him. A quiet one, but still a laugh. "Sorry."

A beat of silence, then another. "I don't want this to ruin anything."

Your smile faltered slightly.

Of course, you thought. Of course he doesn't feel that way about you, why would he—

"Oh, Buck." You faked a smile as his eyes met yours. "We'll be okay."

A sheepish, hopeful look hit his face. "Yeah?"

"Of course." You nodded and reached over and laced your pinky with his. "We're us."

His expression softened when he looked down at your joined fingers. "We're us," he echoed.

You smiled. "We survived Steve's bowl cut phase." You listed off. "The great Thanksgiving mashed potato incident."

"Traumatic." He chuckled.

"The time I accidentally backed your Jeep into Mrs. Russo's mailbox." You continued. 

He scolded you playfully. "You still owe me for emotional damages."

You laughed softly. "We'll be best friends forever."

The words came so naturally, so easily. The same words you'd said years before ona hot day beneath a tree. A pinky promise.

Forever.

Beside you, Bucky went quiet. Of course she wouldn't want anything to do with you, you're her brother's best friend. That shit only works in mov— "Right." His eyes dropped for a moment. "Friends."

Your stomach twisted at the word for the first time in your life. Because why did that sound disappointing?

Why did it sound like something had slipped through your fingers without you realizing you were holding it?

a little bit of fran in your life: okay did we like it??????? it was meant to read like a first chapter but also a standalone in case you wanted to just be done with it. yippieeeeeeee

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