𝒞. 𝓕. 𝓗𝒶𝓁𝑒 @xxchumanixx - Tumblr Blog

How to Let Go

✦Read on a03! - Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist✦ ✦pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader✦ ✦wc: 23k... (sorry)✦ ✦summary: After you meet Bucky at a gallery, he slowly but certainly becomes a part of your life. An important one. One that could mean something. And you don't know how to just do that. How to be loved. But Bucky doesn’t walk away. And together, you learn how to have something good.✦ ✦warnings/tags: Modern!AU, friends to lovers, falling in love, anxiety, light jealousy, angst, fluff, pining, shameless smut, love confessions, (fingering, oral f!receiving, p in v sex, softdom!bucky), no use of y/n✦ ✦author's note: Request from @swingingardensludgestudent! this one got. so far away from me. it's very important to me. please enjoy it.✦

He’s real.

When you touch him, Bucky is real.

It’s not another dream. You can reach over and run your fingers through his soft hair. When you rub a hand on his back, he makes a low sound and shifts in the blankets. Throws his arm over your hip and tugs you forward.

Now you’re pressed against his chest. Only inches from his handsome, marble-carved face. From the pink lips that you’ve dreamed about more than you want to admit.

That you’d kissed, last night. That had kissed you back, like he’d been dying of the same thirst you’ve been. Like he’d been in the saltwater ocean, and you were the first drop of rain, offering him a relief he’d forgotten he needed.

But now the storm is sweeping in. Pulling you under.

Bucky had pulled you under. Grabbed you by the waist and dragged you beneath the waves. You’d smiled at him after the kiss. You’d been lost to sea after that, with no real need to be saved.

And as the morning pushes through the horizon, and the room glows with the soft light of dawn, you don’t try to swim to the surface. It’s loud, up there. The world moves faster, everything is harsh and bright, and you’re breathing just fine down here. Breathing Bucky, the smell of mint and rain and something a little warmer. Something strong and just purely Bucky, with a little bit of salt and amber. It’s intoxicating. It reminds you that this isn’t just a dream, because you really can feel last night everywhere.

Sore between your thighs and on your neck. A little on your tongue, and glazed over in your eyes with pleasure. There’s never been this kind of content, above the water.

Never been anything as peaceful and everything as Bucky. There hasn’t been, for a while. So you just sit in it. Wait for something to drag you back to the surface, because something always does. Right now is all you have.

In the quiet. With Bucky.

You reach out and trace the gold plating of his arm, thrown around your waist. He shivers a little, turning his face into your neck with a grunt, and you smile.

Can you feel it? You’d asked him.

He’d stared at you, fingers flexing, then nodded. Cleared his throat and nodded, like it wasn’t just a simple yes or no. And said, All of it.

Your fingers find their way up to his shoulder, and he grumbles. Pulls you impossibly closer, lips grazing over your throat. You let out a long, slow breath, and look up at the ceiling.

At the sunlight, slowly creeping over it. Promising a reckoning.

I’m not lookin’ for anything. Ever. A cigarette was put out on a fire escape, and he’d given you a strange look. I just don’t think that’s good for anyone, if I am.

You’d smiled at him, the skin around your nails picked raw. Okay. Why the fuck are you telling me?

He’d smirked. You seem like someone who causes people to make mistakes.

That had made you laugh. You hadn’t cared then, where the morning went. Bucky hadn’t been anything.

He’s something now. Something you really don’t know how to hold, and not break.

And you don’t know where you go from here.

You’re keeping an eye on the clock. On three clocks, in case one decides it wants to move a little faster, and save you. Your watch is a minute behind, but it could be a minute ahead. The fancy, art deco clock on the wall is a minute ahead, but it could be five. Your phone is perfectly on time, but you could just lie and say it was dead.

No. Steve would know if you lied. And he’d give you his disapproving, you promised face. Or worse, he’d call you and make you come back.

It’s just two hours. You can survive this for two hours. If you cling to the walls and pretend to look at the art, it’s just like you’re in a very fancy subway. People passing you by, maybe trying to engage you in a conversation and giving up the moment they realize you really aren’t interested in talking.

That was Steve’s main pitch, for you being there. Nobody is even going to try to talk to you.

“You can just sulk in the corner, and nobody’s going to bother you.”

You’d snorted. “You can’t promise that.”

“No, but I can predict it.” He’d shrugged. “You can be really unapproachable.”

“You approach me-“

“I know you. It’s easy to approach you when I know you’re a lot more bark than bite. Actually,” he’d paused, frowning at the air. “You don’t even bark. You just kind of growl-“

“Steve.” You’d given him a firm look. “I am not a dog.”

“Right. Sorry.” He’d blushed a little, looking at his feet, then muttered. “But you’ll come, right? I know you don’t like parties, but it would mean a lot-“

“Of course I’ll come.” You’d grumbled. “But if one person talks to me, you better swoop in and pretend my house is burning down or something.”

Steve had nodded. “I can do that. And you can eat the whole fruit and cheese table, if you want.”

So that's what you're doing. And if people give you dirty looks—for taking another thing of grapes—you just glare at them until they look away. Retreat back to your corner, and invest yourself in eating and living on the outskirts. Where none of these fancy assholes are going to try and talk to you about the color composition of Steve’s paintings. About the glory of the muse, or the great imagination of the artist.

You know the artist is great. You also know he doesn’t like being complimented directly to his face, and that the glory of his muse is a lot of anarchist ideas that these diamond-clad, designer-wearing douchebags wouldn’t love. All Steve’s paintings are of nature and stars and normal people, made to be just as beautiful as the world around them. Made to blend into it, like they’re just another part of nature. He’s swapped out buildings for trees, streets for riverbeds. He does have a great imagination. It’s amazing, that all these people are here just to support him.

But you don’t have to be here. Steve knows you support him. You wrote all the companion poems. You’re in one of the paintings. Steve says that’s the exact reason you have to be here.

You think he’s lucky the cheese table is so good, and that the pulled pork sandwiches they’ve been serving are actually pretty fucking good.

Just two hours. For Steve, and his art, you can make it two hours. Then you can go home, where there aren’t any fancy people trying to engage you in conversation. Where you don’t have to pretend not to care what people are saying about your poems and stories, where you don’t keep glancing over to the painting of yourself.

You’re keeping your head bowed, so nobody spots the resemblance.

There’s still a very loud, needy and sore desperation for everyone to suddenly gasp, and decided that the woman in the painting is the most beautiful person in the world. To start asking Steve who this angel is, if she’s real, or just another artistic vision.

You don’t want them to know it’s you. They’ll try to bother you, and you’ll say something that you shouldn’t, and then everyone will be disappointed and you might as well just jump off a fucking bridge so nobody ever has to think of you again-

“Nice party, huh.”

You blink, and turn to see a man next to you. A pretty man. With dark hair and tanned skin and blue eyes. He looks more like a book character than a person. There’s muscle definition through his suit and a shine in his eyes like he knows how pretty he is. His lips are pink and full, and already smiling at you. His hair is long enough to be tangled between fingers.

His brows are a little raised. The pretty man wants you to say something back.

Pretty men are dangerous.

You just stare at him, because that usually makes people go away pretty fast. Makes them uncomfortable, and then you’re left alone again.

The pretty man doesn’t cough and walk away. He just stares back. He’s supposed to walk away.

“I noticed you’re hogging the cheese.” He nods to the small plate in your hands—being tested as to how much its flimsy paper can carry—and you flush.

“Steve said I could have it.”

The man blinks at you once, standing a little taller. “You know Stevie?”

“It’s… his art show.”

“Yeah, but- Most of these people are just here ‘cause they’re art folks.” The pretty man keeps staring at you, and you can feel it everywhere.

He looks at you like he’s trying to pull you apart. Trying to assess something.

You can’t imagine what. You don’t really hide things about yourself anyway.

“How do you know Steve?”

“College.” You shrug, and the pretty man nods slowly.

Keeps staring at you.

Your eyes drop to the glass in his hand. His fingers are flexing slightly on the stem, other hand tucked in his pocket, and when you look back up his tongue is flicking over his lips. It makes something buzz, under your skin.

Which isn’t good. You need to get away now.

“Well, I have to go- um- get more cheese-“

“I don’t think there is more cheese, doll.” He drawls, and heat rushes your face.

“There’s more. In the back.”

“We aren’t supposed to go in the back-“

“You aren’t. I am.” You take a large step back, and pretty man takes an almost lurching step forward.

You freeze, staring at each other. You’re breathing a little too fast. Your head is spinning.

He’s just a pretty man. Who’s looking at you. And trying to talk to you.

Steve promised nobody would look at you or talk to you. People aren’t supposed to look at you or talk to you.

Let alone keep trying to talk to you. They’re supposed to give up. Everyone always gives up. Steve’s only still here because he’s a stubborn asshole who never gives up on anyone or anything.

But he’s the exception, not the rule. The pretty man should not still be here. He should be done with you now.

Instead he slowly reaches out a hand, like he’s trying to pet a wild animal.

“James Barnes.” He gives you a small smile. “But you can call me Bucky. I’m here for Steve, too.”

Oh. You know who he is. Steve’s told you all about Bucky. But-

“Your hair is supposed to be shorter.” You blurt, and Bucky recoils slightly.

“I, uh- I’ve been growing it out. Figured I could, since I’m done shipping out.” He pauses. “You not like it?”

He needs to shut up. “No, I mean- It’s nice.”

Bucky grins. “It’s nice?”

You nod, then shake your head. Your eyes fall back down to his outstretched hand.

It’s black. Pitch black. And shining in the low light of the gallery.

“My arm got blown off.” He says, and your eyes shoot up to find him still staring at you. So carefully. “I, uh- Got lucky. Runnin’ a prototype, for prosthetics.” He pauses. “It’s metal.”

“Yeah, um- I can see that.”

“Right.” He chuckles, and his hand isn’t dropping. “Can you, uh- What’s your name? Y’know, since I told you mine.”

You stare at him. Pretty men are dangerous. Pretty men who are Steve’s friends are more dangerous. They could either stay, or leave and take Steve with them.

But this one has a gravity. Bucky seems to be made of something more tangible than anyone else in the room. Gossamer dresses and pressed suits and clinking glasses, flickering lights and gilded furniture.

Looking at Bucky, it all seems like nothing at all.

And you’re sort of under a spell, as you reach out and take his hand. Try not to shiver from the cold metal, and say your name so soft it’s almost a whisper.

Bucky grins at you, and the whole world narrows down. Just to him, and his smile.

“I know.” He shrugs. “Steve’s told me all about you.”

You don’t think you can stand to feel any warmer. You can’t seem to get your hand to leave Bucky’s grip. “Oh. I- You too.”

“Good things?”

“Yeah. I- Yeah.”

You don’t want to ask about yourself, because that’s presumptuous and you don’t really need to hear the answer-

“Stevie talks about you like you’re Helen incarnate.” Bucky says, and your eyes widen. “Didn’t get it before, but now…” He pulls his hand back, still grinning at you. “I’m startin’ to understand.”

Steve’s talked about you. To other people. Said things, that other people have heard. And maybe some of it was bad. Maybe he started talking about you like you were good, but then it’s slowly changed to an annoying, needy bitch who’s always testing me, and-

Bucky’s opening his mouth, to say something else.

Retreat. The best possible option now is to retreat.

“I have to- Um-“ You hold up your still-full plate. “Cheese.”

Bucky frowns, and takes a small step forward. You turn, before his call pulls you further into his orbit. You don’t need this. Don’t want it. He’s too pretty, and his voice is too smooth, and you’re going to do it all wrong. Say something that you’re not supposed to, start talking and fail to stop, show too many teeth and bulldoze and shout, and Bucky will go back to Steve and ask what the fuck is wrong with you.

Who knows. Steve will laugh, and they’ll bond over a mutual hatred of you.

Steve will keep being nice to you, because he’s a good person. But he’ll pull away. And everyone will keep whispering and hating you and-

Deep breaths. It’s just you in the back, so you take a few deep breaths, and tip your head back to stare at the ceiling. Almost black, because you didn’t really bother to turn on a light.

Steve doesn’t hate you. Bucky probably will forget that ever happened by tomorrow. You can remain nothing but an idea, on the outskirts. Everyone will remember the painting. The poems. The mirage.

Nobody will think of you.

It would be nice, you think sometimes, to just be the painting. Just the beauty, without the storm. Without the fury and sharpness. Without the capability, to disappoint.

But you’re still the person. You’re nothing but the person. So you’ll keep hiding in the dark, until there’s no one left to see you. Not even Bucky Barnes, and his pretty stares.

No one at all.

“Someone bought your painting.”

You look up from your sandwich, and find Steve watching you carefully. “My- What?”

“The painting. That I made of you.” He grins. “Someone bought it for like- A lot of money. I think you’re going to be paying off my student loans.”

You swallow, fingers digging into the bread of your lunch.

“That’s… okay, right?” Steve clears his throat, words a little softer. “I haven’t done the paperwork yet, and you said I could sell them, but- If you’ve changed your mind-“

“I haven’t.” You say quickly. Steve worked hard for this. The way your skin is prickling about attention—someone looking at you, seeing you, and do they think you’re pretty or did they buy the painting just to burn it, which would be a waste of money but maybe they hate you that much—isn’t important. Being there for Steve is important.

So you smile at him, and say gently. “I just wasn’t expecting it. I’m- That’s great. Good. I’m happy for you.” You pause, then—just to sell it—add, “Can I have a cut, since it’s my face?”

Steve relaxes. You’re a pretty good actress, when you need to be.

“Yeah, I mean- If you want a cut you can have half, they’re your poems too, anyway-“

“Steve, I was joking.”

“Oh.” He laughs. “Yeah, right. Uh-“ He blinks, then clears his throat. “Never mind.”

Your eyes narrow. It’s small. Easy to miss if you don’t know him.

But Steve’s brow twitched, and he cut off a sentence before he could finish it.

Which means there’s something he either doesn’t want to tell you, or isn’t supposed to say.

“What.”

He blushes. “Nothing. I said never mind.”

“Yeah.” You lean forward. “Never mind what.”

“Nothing-“

“Steve-“

“I just don’t know why you’re surprised people liked the painting of you. I actually had a lot of people inquiring about it. Even Bucky mentioned you, and he only comes to these things to drink and support me.”

Your mouth falls open a little. Bucky didn’t forget about you. It’s making your heart do little flips.

“Okay.” Is all you can think to say, because asking what did Bucky say is pathetic.

That doesn’t make you want to ask it any less. There must be a way to ask around it. To find out, without actually saying it. Something where Steve just tells you, and doesn’t even think twice about it.

“What did people say?” You hum, poking one of your fries into the sandwich. “About the painting?”

“That they liked it.” Steve shrugs. “And they liked you.”

They liked you. People liked the imprint of you.

That’s something that should make you feel good. It’s all you want to hear, ever.

But they didn’t like you. None of them even spoke to you-

“A few people said they wanted to talk to you.” Steve adds, and sometimes you think he can read your mind. “But you know. You were doing the thing.”

“The… thing?”

“Yeah, you know. The thing.” Steve chuckles to himself, continuing before you can push what the fuck the thing is. “Of course Bucky wasn’t bothered by it, though. I actually told him not to bother you, but he’s never really been deterred by that. He said that you were basically best-friend-in-laws.” He gives you an apologetic smile. “He wants to say he’s sorry, if he freaked you out.”

You blink. Everything feels a little far away. “He- What?”

“Buck told me you ran off. So- He’s sorry.”

“Um, I-“ You stare down at your plate, and take a deep breath.

It’s fine. It’s all fine. There are a million things that apology could mean, but you don’t need to think of all of them.

Just the main ones. That he’s apologizing because he really feels bad, or he wants you to think he feels bad, because he’s decided you’re a fragile little flower. And he’s trying to make it clear he’s not interested, because you freaked out. Or he’s not sorry at all, and Steve is just making it sound nice when he said it sarcastically. Or he really is sorry, and he’s trying to figure out if you were freaked out so he can do it again. Or-

Steve says your name, cutting through your thoughts. “You can tell me, if he did make you uncomfortable-“

“No. He- No.” Maybe he did. But only in the way that too much sugar makes your tongue hurt, or too many drinks makes your skin hot. “He was fine. Good. Bucky was good. I, um- I wasn’t uncomfortable.”

Steve stares at you for a moment. “Yeah. I can see that.”

“Good. Because that’s it.” You take a large bite of your sandwich, just to shut yourself the fuck up.

“You promise Bucky didn’t freak you out?” Steve asks, and you nod quickly, taking another bite. “Okay, well- If you’re sure-“

“‘m sure.” You protest through your sandwich, and Steve sighs.

“I believe you. Just- Bucky’s having a house party this weekend. Well- His roommates are having a house party, and he’s also allowed to invite people. And he said I could bring you. If you want.”

You almost choke on your sandwich. “Steve-“

“I know, I don’t like parties either-“

“No, I’m not saying- It’s just- I’m-“ You take a deep breath.

Party invitation. Means nothing. Means nothing.

Or something. Too many somethings. You could make a fool of yourself, or make all of Steve’s friends hate you, or-

“I’d like to go.” Steve says softly. “And he would like you there. He wouldn’t ask if he didn’t.”

You stare at Steve, the gears in your head turning too fast. So many ways this could go wrong. You could trip. Drink too much and vomit on his couch. Not drink enough and be boring. Somehow end up insulting someone. Try to flirt—would you try to flirt? You don’t know how to fucking flirt—and it goes horribly. Flirt well, and then you’re stuck still flirting, then you have to go on dates and keep getting things right when so many things can go wrong-

“You really don’t have to-“

“Okay.” You blurt, and that was a mistake. There was no reason to say that. Why did you say that-

“Really?” Steve smiles at you, and that’s why you said it. Not for Bucky.

For your only friend, who wanted you to go.

“Yeah.” You smile at him softly. “Really. This weekend.”

Steve nods. “Yes, and- You can leave whenever you want, if you hate it-“

“I’ll be fine.” You will not be fine. “I’m sure no one will even notice I’m there.”

Everyone notices.

You’re new. New and shiny and interesting, to a bunch of people who have known Steve forever and only heard about you.

You’ve heard about them, too. Actually met a few of them before, which you think is going to get you out of a few conversations, but only adds to the pile. The conversation with Thor—huge, loud, but very sweet, and who names their kid Thor—is short and polite. He calls you a muse three times, which is the exact right amount for it to not be a joke. A woman named Maria shakes your hand and smiles, which Steve says after is basically her calling you the most interesting person she’s ever met, which doesn’t seem true given how you spent the whole conversation awkwardly rambling about books. A woman named Wanda smiles at you, and actually has a full conversation about TV that’s pretty enjoyable.

But those are the people you hadn’t met.

“I heard you got a painting out there now.” Tony grins at you, and you smile politely back.

The first time you met him, he tried to out modern events you. You’d won the conversations—you don’t play games you won’t win, which is why you don’t play that many games—and he’d jokingly asked you out.

Or you think it was joking. Tony said everything like it was a joke. And he’d laughed as he asked if you were taking suitors. Which is why you’d just rolled your eyes and walked away. But there’s a world where it isn’t a joke, and you offended him by walking away. Or he wasn’t offended, but you also missed out on the chance to be financially secure forever. But you wouldn’t be happy with Tony—he rolls his Rs dramatically, whenever he says a Spanish word, and it makes you want to punch him in the face—but isn’t stability worth the cost of finding true love-

“Steve, If you haven’t sold it yet, I’m willing to double whatever the first perv is paying.” Tony winks at you, and you swallow.

“You could offer me your bank account and I wouldn’t sell it to you, Tony.” Steve says smoothly, and Tony smirks.

“Is that a challenge?”

“Don’t try and buy a girl, Tony. That isn’t legal anymore.” Natasha—nice, a little scary, never seems to second guess what she’s doing and has now shoved about three champagne glasses into your hand—scolds. “And you’re going to scare her off. Steve will never introduce us to new people again.”

“Ah, well, I’ve already met her so that removes the main factor of your argument, and I can-“

“You can’t do what you want.” Natasha says flatly. “And don’t main factor me. I’ll punch you.”

Tony whistles, and you finish your champagne glass. You’re not buzzed enough yet to stop thinking. You’re never buzzed enough to stop thinking. You shouldn’t have said yes to this, when you have work to do. You could do the work here. You could interview Tony Stark, and turn that into an essay. An essay about the corruption of money on a man’s manners. Or just about his opinions of art, editing out any flirty comments made about you. Or Natasha, you could try her, but Steve says she’s black ops CIA or something, and probably wouldn’t want you to write about her-

“Steve’s camp girlfriend!” Another large man—why are all these men so large—walks over to you with a wide grin. “You’re real!”

You flush, and the man—Sam, you recognize from a few photos—gets whacked upside the head by Natasha. A few sharp jokes are exchanged, and you somehow manage to keep up. When Sam asks what you do, you tell him. When Natasha tries to bring you with her to get drinks, you don’t resist. Steve trusts her. She’s never anything but nice—if not a little blunt and mildly amused by you—and you want to see more of Bucky’s apartment.

Because you’re in Bucky’s apartment. It’s sleek, and well kept. Clean, with nice wall hangings and carpets and furniture that look like someone had a lot of fun at IKEA. It’s big, but Steve says he shares it with Natasha and Sam, which is why everyone is so military.

Apparently, you and Steve are Bucky’s only guests. To his party. In his apartment. But Bucky hasn’t tried to speak to you at all.

You should be relieved. You didn’t want him to talk to you. Just the moment of him being near you—greeting Steve, shaking his hand without sparing you a glance—had made your heart move into your throat and your fingers fidget nervously. But all you can think now is why isn’t he talking to you. He invited you. He asked you to be here. He didn’t have to do that. It could be something you’d done in the split seconds between when you walked into the party, and Bucky greeted Steve. Maybe it’s your outfit. Too revealing. Not revealing enough. Maybe you’d done something with your hands that was like flipping someone off in the army.

Steve never told you if the army had secret hand signals to tell someone you hated them. You’ll need to look that up later. And if they do, that could be an interesting essay, but the government might not like it, but you also don’t respect the government all that much-

“You think a lot.” Natasha says suddenly, passing you another drink, and you stare at her.

“I-“ Fuck. Your voice sounds weak. “Huh?”

“I can almost hear it.” She shrugs, taking a sip of her own drink. “Do you want cheese?”

“No, I- I’m not that hungry-“

“Alright.”

“But- Thank you.”

Natasha tilts her head at you, and if she can hear you thinking. Like she’s staring right into your thoughts. Reading them like an open book. Finding every chapter on how you think it’s sad, how their apartment is nice, but in the way an architectural digest apartment is nice. That you’re worried about why they’re all talking to you—trying to organize what you think of them, while also keeping in mind they’re Steve and Bucky’s friends, but you don’t even know what you think of Bucky—and yet can’t imagine anything worse than them not talking to you at all. How you’re trying to figure out what you can write about.

How you are hungry, you just don’t want to impose. How your eyes are scanning over the crowd randomly, against your will. Trying to find Bucky.

You don’t even know him. But it’s making your stomach turn, whenever you see him, and there’s a split, stabbing second of eye contact. Or it had been. Then Natasha had pulled you over here, and suddenly you can’t find him at all.

You can’t stop thinking about that, either. You might be about to throw up.

And Natasha just smiles at you. Smiles at you like she can see in your head.

“I, um-“ You set down the drink, because your hands are shaking so much you’re worried you’re about to spill it. “Is there somewhere I can get some air?”

“There’s a fire escape, you reach it through a door in my study. Third door-“

“I’ll find it,” you blurt, and practically run away. There’s too much noise. Between the crowd and your thoughts, it was making you dizzy.

You find Natasha’s study, and almost scramble out the window. Onto the fire escape.

Into a different, dizzying kind of waking something.

Bucky stares at you, cigarette between his fingers. You stare back, mouth hanging open, breathing ragged from the run.

You need to get it together. Go back to the—slightly—composed version of yourself from the gallery. The one Bucky had pulled apart, with a small conversation.

Thinking about that isn’t fucking helpful at all.

You draw yourself up, smoothing your shirt and raising your chin. Staring at him, like he’s intruding on your space. Bucky’s lips twitch, and it doesn’t feel like your performance is working.

“You’re here.”

“I-“ Don’t let your voice crack. “I needed air-“

“No, you’re here.” Bucky leans against the gated ledge of the escape. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Oh.” You swallow, then say a little stupidly, “You invited me.”

“I did. Still didn’t think you’d come.”

“But-“

“You sorta ran away from me last time.” He drawls, and you flush. “Figured I was takin’ a real long shot.”

You stare at him, for once, unable to think of anything at all. You don’t know what that means. Under Bucky’s attention, it feels impossible to figure out.

“Sorry.” You mumble, because it’s all you can work out to say.

Bucky smiles at you. “For running?”

You nod, and he shrugs.

“It’s alright. Figured I just freaked you out or somethin’-“

“No.” Someone needs to put tape over your mouth. “I- I just needed cheese.”

Bucky huffs. “So you weren’t scared of me.”

You shake your head. “I wasn’t-“

“You ran pretty fast.”

“Yeah, but- I’m not afraid of most things.”

Bucky gives you a look of pure, amused disbelief. “Really. ‘Cause it sorta seems like you are.”

You are. But you’re afraid of things you can’t explain without sounding insane.

“I’m not.” You mumble, staring at Bucky’s shoes.

He wears boots. They’re covered in mud, but it’s caked and dry. There’s dirt under his nails, as well, when your gaze slides up. You shouldn’t look at his hands. They’re big and rough. Strong looking. All of Bucky is strong looking. Even his voice is like he’s made of something iron.

“Steve says I’m just twitchy.” You say quickly. “But- He’s not really afraid of things either-“

Bucky snorts. “Yeah, he is. He just has no self-preservation.” He pauses, and you can feel his eyes burning into you.

It’s different than Natasha. He’s not reading you. When you glance up at his handsome face—nobody needs to be that big and broad and handsome, it’s irrational—his eyes are boring into you like he’s looking for something. Trying to figure you out like a puzzle, not a book. You don’t understand why. You don't hide things. You don’t know how.

“You two aren’t…” Bucky clears his throat, taking a deep drag from his cigarette, and you frown.

“Who-“

"You and Stevie.” He mutters, smoke blowing out over the ledge before he looks back to you. “That’s not- You two don’t-“

Oh. “No. I’m- no.” You almost laugh. You adore Steve.

The idea of him naked is very upsetting, to the point it’s sort of absurd.

“He’s like a brother, and I- I’m not really. I don’t do that.”

Bucky’s brows raise, and you flush. Too much. You said too much. Bucky doesn’t need to know you don’t date.

That you don’t ruin things. That you’re not interested in being loved, then left.

“Why not?” Is all he says.

“It’s- Too many risks.” Why can’t you ever shut up. “And- A crapshoot. I’m not looking to come out the other side with, um-“

“Crap?” Bucky finishes, and you nod.

“Crap.”

He chuckles, and nods slowly. You pick at your nails, still unable to really think—let alone of a way out of this—and Bucky takes another, slow drag.

“You got a way with words, doll.”

His voice is dry, but not taunting. It lights something in your gut. A small, sharp fire that rises quickly to your tongue, and you don’t know him that well, but-

“It is my job, Barnes.” You drawl and Bucky gives you an odd look.

But not a bad one. Just… strange.

“You can bite.” He murmurs, and you stand a little taller.

“I can be provoked.”

He chuckles. “But dating is too many risks?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” He takes a drag, now watching you carefully. “Would you date Steve? If it wasn’t a crapshoot?”

“No. He’s- Like a brother.”

And not your type. But Bucky doesn’t need to hear that part.

He clears his throat, putting his cigarette out on the metal.

“I’m not lookin’ for anything, either. Ever.” Another strange look. “Just don’t think it’s good for anyone, if I am.”

You give him a small smile. “Okay? Why are you telling me that?”

He chuckles. “’Cause. You… Got something.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Something that causes people to make… mistakes.”

He drew out that last word.

You really don’t understand what the fuck he means.

“I don’t make mistakes.”

Bucky chuckles. “Yeah, I’m sure you don’t.”

“What does that-“

“I only make mistakes.” He holds your gaze, and you weren’t wrong before.

His eyes really do shine in the dark.

“I liked your poem.”

You stare at him for a second. “My… poem?”

“Yeah. At Stevie’s event.”

“I- I wrote all the poems-“

“I know.” He shrugs. “But I liked the one with that painting of the Sun. Perfect, I can’t find it, I keep trying to hide from it. Day come and fall, I don’t think I’m doing enough time for it.”

He quoted it. You’d fucking hated that poem—you’d rhymed it with it, twice—but Bucky had just quoted it back to you like it was nothing.

“That your whole thing?” He asks, and you only just hear him over your heartbeat. “Poems?”

You pause, taking a deep breath, trapped under his gaze. “You… said you knew who I was.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah, you did.” You tilt your head at him slightly. “You know what I do too, don’t you.”

Bucky stares at you for a second, then a wide grin splits over his face.

It might be the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen.

“Yeah. I do. Steve says you teach, too?”

“I- Um- I do volunteer work.”

He nods slowly. “Y’know, my vet group runs workshops. We’re looking for volunteers.”

“Oh. I get busy-“

“We’d work around you.” He holds out his hand. “Can I give you our number?”

“I’m not-“

“Just think about it. Don’t have to use it.”

You stare at each other for a moment, and you find yourself nodding. Passing your phone into his hand, and watching him enter in the group’s number.

His fingers brushed yours. There’s a strange electric sensation, where you’d touched. You hide your hands behind your back until he’s done, to make sure he doesn’t see you rubbing the skin.

“I, uh-“ He clears his throat, as he passes back your phone. “Put my number in there, too. In case you wanna just… call me.”

“Okay.” You breathe out, and your fingers bump again.

It’s hard not to feel Bucky’s gaze, as you go to look at the contact he added.

Bucky Barnes, right there on your screen. You look up at him, and he gives you a smile more nervous than you thought he was capable of.

“You’re Steve’s friend.” He mutters. “I- like friends.”

You swallow, voice still too soft. “I like friends too.”

“Good.” Bucky grins at you, and without a thought, you find yourself grinning back.

“Yeah. Good.”

You stare at the numbers for a week and a half, before you make the call. You don’t tell Steve about it. He’ll have an opinion, and a specific thing he thinks you should do.

It.

Steve will tell you to do it. That you love writing, and love helping people, and this is a perfect combination of that. Plus you’d be doing it with Bucky, and Bucky is the best, so there are literally no negatives to just calling the fucking number.

But Steve doesn’t understand that there are negatives. There are always negatives. You could be horrible at it, then you’ve ruined all these veterans lives or made their trauma worse or you get blacklisted from ever volunteering again. Bucky could be in the group, and you could do something embarrassing that makes him not want to be your friend. You could find out he just wants to have sex with you, which is nice, but not enough. He’s supposed to either be enamored with you, or not care at all, and anything in between is too complicated.

You could make this complicated.

Bucky could actually like you, and now you have to make sure he keeps liking you. Bucky could hate you, and then everything is harder for Steve. Bucky could fall in love with you—he won’t but you have to consider all the factors—and then you’ll actually have to deal with the humming feeling in your chest whenever someone mentions his name. He could quote more of your shitty poems back to you, and then you fall in love with him. Or you think he’s in love with you, and he’s not, and it makes everything weird. One of the other people in the group could hate you, and Bucky tells you it’s best if you don’t volunteer, but you’re already in love with him and now you’re never going to see him again-

You are not already in love with him. You’ve met him twice.

And it is a good opportunity. You focus on Steve’s voice in your ear, telling you it’s a good opportunity, and call the number.

They’re thrilled to have you. All you have to say is I know Bucky Barnes, and he asked me to volunteer, and the woman on the other side of the line squeals.

“Oh, we were hoping you’d call. Bucky showed us some of your work this is- Oh it’s so exciting-“

She gives you a first day, the very same week. And you spend the days leading up to it the way you spend most days. Worrying.

Trying to figure out exactly how to get this right. How to walk in and make everyone in awe of you, while remaining detached and cool enough that none of them try to approach you. To know you better.

You’re not good at being detached.

You walk into the little room—rented out in a public school, a bunch of beefy and scarred men and women squeezed into the middle-schooler sized chairs—and already you’re too invested in everything. These people look tired. They all have a slightly haunted look in their eyes.

You can help. This is something you’re good at. You do it with kids in hospitals. You’ve done it with abuse survivor groups. This is just a lot more men, which might be a challenge—feelings wise—but you love a challenge. You can figure it out. It’s just another thing to figure out.

“You came!” Sam crows, standing at the whiteboard at the front of the room, and Bucky gives you a small smile.

It feels secret. Something that’s just for you, and no one else. Friends.

“Well, Bucky really sold it.” You shake Sam’s hand—Bucky did mention he leads the group—and his lips twitch.

“You sure we’re talkin’ about the same Bucky? The one who told everyone we should watch the Wizard of Oz ‘cause we should?”

The rest of the group laughs, like it’s some long running joke, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“I don’t work in marketing, Sam. And you liked it, didn’t you?”

“That ain’t the point, Buck. I’m tryin’ to work out what the hell you coulda said to sell anything.”

“He said please.” You offer. Cool. Interesting. Not fucking insane. Don’t let them know you’re already trying to organize them in your head based on how you’ll get them to like you. “And promised me donuts.”

Sam grins, and that gets another, slightly smaller, laugh from the group.

“We got donuts.”

“All the kinds.” Bucky interjects, nodding to the small group of desks with a frilly pink box and paper coffee cups. “Enough for everyone to have one.”

You nod, pulling at your fingers nervously. “Do you have Boston Creme?”

"Uh-“ Bucky squints at the box. “Should be one. Or- One.”

“You said one already, Buck.” Sam rolls his eyes, and Bucky scowls.

“Don’t wanna give the lady the wrong count-“

“Yeah, whatever.” Sam says your name with a smile. “We got the donuts. And pens and paper, for your workshop.” Sam nods to the teacher’s desk, and you frown.

“No pencils?”

“Couldn’t find any-“

“In a school?”

Bucky chuckles in the corner, and Sam shoots him a glare.

“You didn’t find any either, and this wasn’t my idea-“

“I got the donuts, Sam. You were in charge of materials.”

“Well- Pens work just as well as pencils! They do the same fuckin’ thing!”

“Can these pens erase?” You cross your arms, Sam sighs dramatically, and Bucky looks like he’s having the best day of his life.

“Yeah, Sam. Can these pens erase-“

“You, shut it.” Sam snaps at Bucky, giving you an almost pleading look. “C’mon, I mean- It can’t be that important-“

“The lady asked for pencils, Sam.” Bucky drawls. “What you think you can’t find them?”

Sam shoots Bucky a venomous look, but before he can snap something, one of the vets shouts from his desk.

"Yeah, Wilson, get her the pencils!”

“Don’t be a little pen bitch!” Another shouts, and Sam doesn’t get to respond before they’re all yelling.

You stand awkwardly at the front of the room, and let Sam and Bucky handle the noise. You just need to listen. Watch.

They’re a loud group. They swear frequently, and with a fair amount of creativity. That’s good. That can be channeled, along with their great passion about making Sam get off his little flat bird-ass and get the damn pencils.

That one’s a large man with a tattooed forearm. It’s a snake. There’s also a snake on his backpack. You can use that, just like you can use the long haired woman’s blue pen, earrings, eyeliner, and nails. Every one of these people has something. And that’s more than enough for you to work with.

There’s a moment, as your eyes scan over the crowd. A moment where they find Bucky. And he’s not looking at his friends. Or laughing at Sam.

He’s just staring at you.

You stare back, and he smiles again. You turn away with a flush, and try to pretend you can’t feel him still watching. It’s not working. You very much fucking can.

Eventually Sam shouts everyone calm the hell down, and storms off to get pencils. Then they’re all looking at you. And you have to say something. You have to fucking say something.

It takes a second for you to find your voice, because they were all just insulting Sam, and shouting crude things, and if they do that to you, you’ll start crying. Your eyes find Bucky again, before you can think better of it. He gives you a small nod, tilting his head in the direction of the other vets.

They might rip you apart. They might not respect you, because what the fuck have you ever done for them. You’re an artist. Historically, artists and war don’t go along really well. Maybe you dressed too much like a baby bunny. Or not enough. You should’ve made yourself smaller, more vulnerable, nobody wants to attack a baby bunny-

Bucky clears his throat, and suddenly he’s next to you. You don’t remember him moving. Or his hand, coming to rest lightly on your lower back.

“Hey!” He shouts at the vets, who had started to murmur amongst themselves. “We listening?”

The room falls silent, and Bucky gives you a firm nod. Telling you to take it away. You take a deep breath, lace your fingers together to stop them from moving, and smile. Sweet, but firm.

It does the trick. Your voice is steady. Loud. Confident in a way your body starts to believe, until your heart is slowed down and your hands aren’t trying to wring themselves.

Sam comes back with the pencils, to find everyone listening to you talk like you’re preaching gospel. Blue Lady is taking notes, as you explain how the best way to write is just write. Snake Man is looking at you with wide eyes, leaning forward in his chair, and it makes you feel a little big.

You don’t miss Sam’s raised brows at Bucky, and Bucky’s shrug. His small grin, and the way Sam bumps his shoulder after.

It lights something up, inside of you. There’s nothing but friends, but there’s still a small ember that refuses to stop burning. Bucky sits down, and engages in your activity, and he's still watching you. Takes a pencil from Sam with his eyes on you. Grins up at you, when you come around to check his work.

You squint at the paper, and with everyone else you’ve been trying to prioritize kindness. They’re really doing their best. You need them to like you more than any other teacher they’ll ever have.

But Bucky gives you a challenging look, and being nice slips out the window.

“You used the word haven twice in the same paragraph.”

Bucky shrugs, still grinning at you. “It was an artistic choice.”

“The sky was a haven. I wanted to touch it. Then I look down, and there’s the haven of the sea below.”

“They’re both havens.”

“Hm.” You look between Bucky and the paper. “What are you writing about?”

“The beach-“

“And what do the sky and sea represent? Is it the same thing?”

“I dunno-“

“Then figure it out.” You hand him back his paper. “Either they’re both a haven and you need to connect them better, or one of them is a haven and you need a new word.”

Bucky stares at you for a second, and you went too far. That was too loud. Too dramatic. Too bossy, and a little mean, and he’s never going to speak to you again, let alone smile at you and make you feel fuzzy-

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re good at this?”

You flush, and nod. “I, um- Yeah. It’s my job.”

Bucky’s eyes are shining again. “They should pay you more.”

“You’re not paying me now.”

Bucky laughs. Loud and from his chest.

Everyone else looks up, like he’d just fired a gun. Sam’s eyes are wider than they need to be. It was just a fucking laugh.

But everyone is staring, until Bucky coughs loudly and looks back down to his paper. Everyone else follows suit. And you don’t know what the fuck just happened, but the rest of the workshop goes smoothly. People actually talk to each other, when you tell them to get up and share, instead of just sitting there awkwardly. They mingle and roam and chat about what they wrote—you know because you’re eavesdropping, which is fine, it’s your class—while coming up to ask you the occasional question.

The coffee is drained, by the end. The box is picked clean of donuts before you get the chance to stop and take one, but that’s okay. You did the important thing.

You shake a lot of hands, as the room clears out. Sam and Bucky linger behind, with thanks and a promise to clean up themselves.

They try to protest, when you stick around to help them. It’s not that much trouble, you say. But really, you just want to be around Bucky more.

But he’s mostly silent. His hand finds your arm or back, whenever he brushes past you, and there are short, nice conversation exchanged as you all work, but nothing like the fire escape.

It must have been all in your head. There was no electricity. No strange feeling, or skipping heartbeats. Nothing to daydream about, when you should be focusing on something else. No future to imagine late at night, before you fall asleep. All for the better. You don’t know him. He said just friends, and you’re being fucking weird making this something when it isn’t. Maybe he was staring because he was trying to figure out how to let you down easier. Maybe he laughed at your joke out of pity, and everyone stared because they know he hates you, he hates you, Bucky fucking hates you-

“Get home safe.” He murmurs, as you finish the cleanup.

He’s smiling. It’s shining in his eyes. You’re not sure that meant anything at all.

“I, uh- Thanks.” He grabs your shoulder, clearing his throat. “A lot. That was great.”

“Yeah, I- It was fun.” You give him a tight smile, and he frowns slightly. Opens his mouth.

“Buck!” Sam calls from the hall. “We’re gonna miss the bus!”

Bucky lets out a heavy sigh, gives you an apologetic look, and shoves something into your hands.

“You still got my number.” He mutters. “Use it for- Anything. Get home safe.”

You don’t get to tell him he already said that, before he’s gone.

And you sway awkwardly in the middle of the room, taking a little too long to collect yourself, before you even remember to look down at your hands. To see what he gave you.

A donut. The one, Boston cream donut.

You call again.

Still not Bucky’s direct number. You stare at that contact, your thumb hovering over the call button, and almost throw your phone across the room to stop yourself from hitting it. He told you to call him, but it’s still too soon. If you catch him at a bad time, or say the wrong thing, or hear him talking to someone else he’s more interested in, it’s going to ruin everything.

It’s easier to just call the group line again. Tell them in your most confident voice that you’d love to do another workshop, and thank some god that they can’t see you flush when the woman declares that everyone adored you. They’ll be thrilled.

It’s a strong word. Thrilled. You spend about twenty minutes after the phone call taking a mental attendance in your head, of how much you thought everyone liked you, and who could’ve possibly been thrilled. None of them hated you. Elation is a strong reaction to some lady teaching them to write.

You get a call back for scheduling, after about a day. You’d managed to stop trying to evaluate how much each person liked you—and how much they didn’t, and why, and how you could improve upon the current approval ratings—just in time for Sam to be on the other end of the line, making everything worse.

“Think you can do the same time next week?” He asks, and you pretend to click through your calendar.

“Um…” A blank month stares back at you, marked only by lunch with Steve and two deadlines for article.

Sam doesn’t need to know how low in demand you are. That’s—according to sources online you’d studied carefully—not a good way to pitch yourself.

“I think I can make that work, yeah.” You smile at the speaker, and it’s tight and strained. “See you then?”

“See you.” Sam’s smiling too. You can hear it. “Man, Bucky’s gonna be fuckin’ thrilled. He thought we were gonna lose you to the wind or something.”

You open your mouth with a frown, and the call drops before you ask what that means. It’s two thrilleds. Two people say that, allegedly, you doing this will be thrilling.

And it is. In the same way rollercoasters are thrilling.

It takes too long to arrive, it happens way too fast, your heart is in your throat the entire time, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to vomit the moment it’s over.

Bucky greets you when you get there. Just Bucky. His arms crossed and muscles almost tearing out of his suit, because apparently he hates you and wants to make you drool like an animal.

“You came back.” He says, eyes tracking you across the room.

You shrug. “Apparently.”

He chuckles, and silence falls as he helps you start to set up. There a mutter that—after the pencil incident—Sam’s been put in charge of donuts, and he’s on supplies duty. You just shrug, and try to focus on the work.

Not Bucky. How he’s not talking to you, and it’s making everything in your brain so loud. He might not find you interesting. Might wish you hadn’t agreed to this, because he wanted to never see you again. Wishes Sam was here instead, so he didn’t have to deal with you again.

And he’s so warm.

When you just stand next to him, sorting papers, you can feel the heat radiating from his body. You think if you just wrapped yourself around his arm, you’d never be cold again. And he’s got arms. Massive, strong arms that look like they could lift you up without a grunt, or put you in a headlock, or pin you against the wall without breaking a sweat-

“That’s a lotta colored pencils.” He says, and you stare at him.

His face is perfectly neutral, gaze unblinking. Fixed wholly on you, and searing right into your skin. It’s dizzying. If you try to hold his gaze, you might actually fall over.

“We’re doing an association activity.” You mumble, grabbing another purple pencil.

Bucky hums, and he’s still looking at you. You can feel it.

You don’t let yourself look up, until everything is in its place. Bucky gives you a small smile, when you finally dare to look in his direction.

You flush, and shuffle to the center of the room to wait for class.

It goes well. Thrilled was really too strong a word, but you get firm nods and handshakes when people walk in, and real smiles when they leave. Overall a victory, if you ignore how you lost your train of thought twice because Bucky was looking at you, and Sam’s loud comments about leaving you two alone when he stepped out to take a phone call.

Bucky saves you another donut. Lingers again, right before he leaves. His fingers brush your wrist. You spend the rest of the afternoon tracing where they had, like you’re trying to rub the sensation into your skin.

It’s addicting. The kindness and trust from people who swept the room for threats before they sat down. The praise of your teaching when they left. Bucky’s gaze.

So you call again. And again. And again. Until the sweet woman who answers the phone asks if you just want to make this a regularly scheduled activity, so they can pay you.

“No, um- It’s volunteer work, you don’t have to-“

“We’re a non-profit, ma’am. We get funding and donations specifically so we can continue our work and pay you.” She pushes forward before you can protest. “It will be a lot easier for me, if you just make this scheduled.” She pauses. “I won’t have to be pickin’ up calls with people askin’ when the next one is all the time.”

You swallow. It’s make things easier for her, not you. “Okay.” You mumble. “I- I can do regular.”

She hums, obviously pleased, and you spend the rest of the afternoon picking at your nails until they bleed. You want to do this. You do.

But it means seeing Bucky all the time. Feeling the electric buzz under your skin, and just biting on your inner cheek to pretend there’s not a burning heat through your blood for him. He said he doesn’t do relationships. You really would like a friend.

Then he smiles at you, and you feel like you’re glowing.

“I guess we’re co-workers now.” He says, standing barely an inch away while you count erasers. “Are you my boss?”

You shake your head, unable to find words. You don’t ever fully trust them, around Bucky. They come out sharp and needy at the same time.

“I think you are.” He continues. “You want me to get you coffee, doll?”

“No, I- I’m okay.” You mumble, turning to papers. Anything but Bucky. “And I don’t think I’m your boss. This isn’t even your job.” You pause, then frown at him.

Mistake. He’s too handsome. His attention is too undivided. He’s standing too close, and if you just leaned a little further forward, your chin would be resting on his chest.

“Do you even have a job?” You breathe out, and fuck, this is why you’re not supposed to talk-

Bucky laughs. It really is the most consuming sound in the world.

“Yeah. I got a job.” He winks. “But I like doin’ this, more.”

He doesn’t elaborate. You don’t as him to, looking back to the supplies you weren’t ever supposed to look away from.

His metal hand rests briefly on your lower back, when he walks past. You shiver involuntarily, fingers curling on the paper.

People file in. Settle down. There are whoops, when you announce that this is going to be a regular thing, now. Your face heats so much you think you’re going to pass out, and you see Bucky edge a step closer while Sam calms them down. Like he’s getting ready to catch you, should you fall.

It doesn’t help.

“Look.” He stops you, when you’re making the rounds on the workshop. Grabs your wrist, and send lighting through your whole body.

His grin is almost boyish. Proud and bright, chest puffed and a slight red flush in his ears.

Probably nothing to do with you.

“What am I looking at?” You raise your brows, and he sighs dramatically.

“My poem, doll.” He holds it up for you to read. “Did that alphabet thing you talked about, last week. Wanted the boss’s stamp of approval.”

You swallow, taking the paper delicately from his hands. Someone calls your name, before you can read the first line. You give Bucky an apologetic look, starting to hand it back, and he shakes his head.

“Nah, keep it.” He shoves it back to your hands. “And, uh-“ He clears his throat, eyes darting past you for a second. “Never mind. Just keep it.”

You frown, but nod. Fold it and tuck it in your pocket, before rushing over to the person who called for you. You’re so caught up in the workshop, you don’t realize what happened until you’re back home. When you stick your hands in your pockets, looking for your keys, and come out with the slightly crumpled piece of paper.

Bucky’s poem. Bucky gave you a poem. It hits you like a freight train, because Bucky gave you a poem. A fucking poem. Not for you, but for you. That he wanted you to read. And you just shoved it in your pocket and forgot about it, and he probably thinks you don’t care about him at all. He’s never going to come to another workshop again. He’s going to stop being your friend—although most friends don’t just sit in a wired silence, standing too close and making light conversation that also carried the weight of the world—and he’s going to hate you, and tell Steve to hate you, and all the vets to stop liking you, and you’re going to lose your job-

You’re wrinkling the paper further. You almost drop it, in an attempt to stop. It’s Bucky’s poem. It needs to be treated like it’s something sacred. And you can still read it. It’s not too late.

You fly into your apartment with fumbling fingers and shoes kicked off in the doorway. Collapse on the couch with your coat still on, not even bothering to fully turn the light on as you hunch over, and scan over his words frantically. Like they might hold the secrets to the universe.

They don’t. It’s a poem, written by a man who seems to rhyme through with through, twice.

But it’s Bucky’s. His thoughts. His feelings. That he somehow decided to share with you.

So it’s far more important than the secrets of the universe. And you read it three more times, before your breathing starts to settle again.

It’s vulnerable. Raw and vulnerable. Not a marvel of wordsmithing, but truthful. It has you clinging to every word, but that might just be because they’re Bucky’s words, and you want to understand every gear that turns in his head so you can understand him.

You grab your phone, before you even realize what you’re doing. Dial Bucky’s number, because your fingers don’t seem to remember that you shouldn’t be doing that.

He picks up after several rings. You clear your throat, and speak before you can think better.

“Do you want to get lunch, next week? Before the workshop? To talk about your poem?” You pause, then quickly add your name. “It’s, uh- It’s me.”

Bucky chuckles, and even from who knows how far away, it lights little sparks in your blood.

“Yeah, doll, I worked that out.”

“Oh.” You stare at your fingers, then mumble, “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. I, uh- I’m supposed to eat with Sam, before workshop-“

Fuck. You ruined it. “Okay, never-“

“But I can ditch him.” Bucky says quickly, and your mouth snaps shut. “Like you better, anyway. And he can figure out how to use the Subway himself.”

Like you better. Bucky likes you better.

“Oh- Okay.” You’re smiling so much it hurts. You pull your knees up to your chest, because otherwise you might fly out of your skin. “Next week?”

“Next week.” Bucky pauses. “You like it? The poem?”

You nod, then realize he can’t see you. “Yeah. Yes. A lot.”

“Great.” You could swear he’s smiling too. “See you soon, doll.”

“See you soon.” You whisper, and the call goes on for about five more seconds of silence before you mumble, “Bye.”

You hang up, before you say something else that ruins this. Lunch. You’re getting lunch. Friends get lunch all the time. You get lunch with Steve, once a week.

This feels different. You never think about lunch with Steve, before it happens. And if you did, it wouldn’t make you feel like something was starting to bloom through your ribs. It’s just lunch. Nothing is going to change, because it’s just lunch.

You’re still smiling like an idiot, all the way until you fall asleep.

Bucky texts you the place to meet. And you don’t spend twenty minutes staring at yourself in the mirror, trying to figure out the exact best way to do your hair and makeup. You don’t change your outfit three times, because the first two didn’t say this is imprint the me, but also I’m not desperately in love with you or anything.

You certainly don’t have to turn up your music so loud it’s going to make you deaf while you’re heading over. And if you do, it’s not because you’re trying to drown out every spiraling thought of what could go wrong. How you could mess this up, even though this isn’t supposed to be anything at all. It’s just lunch. To talk about a poem. Not a date.

Your fingers won’t stop fidgeting with your shirt, and you’ve chewed your lips until they’re swollen, but this isn’t anything.

And you’re not in love with him—he has done nothing but be gorgeous and magnetic and kind, so you’re getting very good at pushing down that silly thought—so this isn’t going to be anything.

Lunch between friends. Just like you and Steve. You almost trip, when you see Bucky outside the cafe. Which never happens with Steve. But it’s just like lunch with Steve.

“So,” Bucky says, and he’s watching you. Always watching you. “You like it?”

You hum, poking at your muffin with the most casual expression you can muster. He’d hugged you, when you walked up. An awkward side-hug, that had made him cough after, rubbing his neck like he’d known he’d made a mistake. You should’ve hugged him more. Or less. Or side-stepped in a silent message that he didn’t have to. Which he could read as you not wanting it, which would be worse.

At least after the hug, he’d still pulled out the chair for you. Ordered for you, and paid. Even gotten you napkins and utensils, and waited for your food to be ready before he started eating his. A gentleman. Dangerous.

“It’s good.” You murmur, watching a few crumbs fall onto your napkin. “I mean, I’ve only had a bite, but I like it-“

“My poem, doll. Not the food.”

“Oh.” You flush, looking up at him with wide eyes.

He’s just smiling back. A lazy, causal grin. He must not feel like he’d being tossed into the wind and doesn’t ever want to come down.

“Yeah. The poem- It was really good.” You smile at him, and it feels plastic. “You did really good.”

“Wow. Two goods.” His tongue flicks over his lips. You feel dizzy again. “You must think I’m the next Hemingway.”

“Hemingway wasn’t a poet.” You say before you can stop yourself, and nobody likes being corrected, and-

“Yeah, but that’s why I’m the next Hemingway.” Bucky smirks, leaning back in his chair. “I’m the poet version.”

Your lips twitch. “You could’ve just thought of a male poet.”

“Could’ve. Didn’t.” He pauses. “Can you- What’d you like about mine? If you wanna tell me.” He laughs to himself. “I mean, I get you’re a big deal. You’ve probably read better.”

“No, I haven’t.” You sigh. “I read a lot. Nothing’s better than anything else, and I- I really liked yours.”

He nods, voice raising slightly. “Why?”

You examine him, trying to figure out if he really wants to know. Most of the time people don’t. They say they do, then you tell them, and they get mad or disappointed.

But Bucky just looks hopeful. Leaning slightly forward, his hands resting in his lap and expression open. He wants to know.

“There was- One line.” You look back to the muffin. Looking at his pretty eyes while talking is never a good idea. “About the sunrise over the ocean, and thinking you could see all the way to the bottom. Then one about falling, and the idea that you want to die before you hit the ground.” You shoot him a small smile, under your lashes. “I liked that. A lot.”

Bucky blinks at you slowly, then clears his throat. “I, uh- I used one of your essays. For inspiration.”

“You… What?”

“I sorta… Looked you up. After the party.” He looks out the window with a grimacing smile. “Not like- Stalkin’ or whatever. Promise. I just wanted to know what kinda demand you were getting, to see if I had a shot.” He glances back to you. “With the volunteer to work.”

“Oh.” You swallow, and he laughs under his breath.

“Yeah. And I started reading, and- You got that one essay about death being something that’d like to be your friend.” He shrugs. “Stuck with me. Made me- Do that.”

He makes a vague gesture, and you can’t remember how to speak. He looked you up. And read more of your work, and enjoyed it, and he’s so impossibly pretty, you must have made him up.

“Thank you.” You whisper, and he flashes you a grin.

“No problem.”

“I- I did really like your poem-“

“Yeah, I know.” His smile widens. Grows a little softer. “Thanks.”

You nod, and look back down to your muffin. You want to keep talking. Want to ask a million questions about what he thought of your other essays, why he liked that one specifically, why he likes the beach and the ocean so much, if he looks up everyone he meets—or just you, and if so, why just you—and you really don’t want to make it weird, but is he also still thinking about the awkward hug-

“Can I ask you somethin’ morbid?”

“Morbid?” You blink at him. “Like what?”

“Just- While we’re talking about death. I was wondering if you had some idea about it.”

“About… Death.”

Bucky nods, and you could swear he’s blushing.

“Is this your usual icebreaker, in conversations?” You tilt your head at him. “Let me buy you a muffin, any thoughts on death?”

He barks a laugh. It’s the freeing, musical one you heard on the fire escape. The one you never, ever want to stop hearing.

“Maybe, yeah.” He shakes his head with a grin. “Is it working?”

“A little bit. Ask me what my worst fear is next.”

Bucky leans across the table, and it takes a lot of effort not to shy away from his attention. “I’ll ask whatever you want, doll. But you still gotta answer my first question.”

His voice is low. Smooth. Almost intoxicating. To give yourself time to think of something smart, you shove some of the muffin into your face, holding his gaze as you chew.

“Um- I-“ You swallow, your voice suddenly too soft. “You wanted to know my thoughts on death?”

He nods, still silent.

“Bad. Death- Not great.”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t respond.

“I- Um, I don’t hate it.” You fidget with your napkin, shredding it into tiny pieces. “I think it would be worse to live forever, and- You know, there’s a book called Tuck Everlasting that’s about that, and it’s pretty good. Basically if you live forever time means nothing and then everything means nothing. So I want to die. Not, like- Right now. But eventually. And there’s the song called The Gambler that says the best thing you can hope for his to die in your sleep, but- I don’t think that’s true either because death is goodbye and I- I’d like to say goodbye. Eventually. When I die. Not now.”

Bucky’s just fucking watching you. His smile is still growing. And this is a pretty fucked up power play. If he doesn’t eventually say something, you’re going to talk, and talk, and talk until you say something stupid. Like how soft his hair looks, or how you want to reach out and pet his beard. Feel it scraping between your thighs, brushing over sensitive spots with his pretty lips, all that borderline zealous attention he seems to have.

“I think I- I don’t know how I want to die. Peacefully? Probably peacefully. But there’s a history of dementia in my family to I probably won’t even know it’s like- Happening at all. You know? How do you think you’re going to die?”

You had to ask him a question. If you didn’t, he would’ve just kept staring at you, and that would’ve been horrible.

He gives you an amused look. “How do I think I’m gonna die?”

“Um, yeah?”

“Hm.” He pauses, brow furrowing, and he’s actually thinking about it. Actually entertaining your stupid, panicked question. “When I was a kid, thought I’d drown. Then started thinkin’ I’d fall. Now?” He picks up his muffin with a smirk. “Sorta varies.”

You swallow, trying not to stare at his lips as he takes a bite. Failing not to look at his lips, as he takes a bite.

“Army?” You manage to say.

Bucky nods. Licks his lips before he answers. “Army.”

For a moment, you just look at each other. You can’t take it. It’s a pressure, seizing in your chest, all while your head starts to shoot into the clouds.

“Why’d you enlist?” You blurt, and it’s an insane and personal question, but Bucky just shrugs.

“Wanted to be something. And my father said that was the way.”

You blink at him, he gives you a soft look that tells you he really doesn’t care that you know, and everything just keeps rising. And when you speak, it’s fast. You’re a little afraid he might actually hear.

“I think you’re something.” You look down to your muffin. Bucky coughs, and you ruined-

“Thanks doll.” He murmurs. “I think you’re something too.”

When you look up at him, he’s smiling. It’s small, almost like a secret. One you get to keep. One he wants you to have, as if you’re worth anything at all.

Your mouth moves on its own. Smiles back. And Bucky leans back in his chair with a pleased huff, taking a large bite of his muffin.

“Are you going to ask me what my worst fear is?” You say, because you have to say something.

Bucky shrugs, eyes shining on yours. “I thought you weren’t afraid of anything.”

You blink at him slowly. In the golden light of the afternoon, he’s hypnotizing.

“Good memory.” You smile at him, and he smiles right back. “I’m not.”

But you are. You are afraid of so very many things.

And still, none of them of them are tangible. But they’re becoming it. Very slowly turning from just shapes of darkness and a hollow sensation in your chest, into something with a name.

Bucky.

He’s the most terrifying thing that’s ever happened to you. His eyes are too blue, and it’s like the whole sky is watching you. His skin is tan, and body warm, and when he stands next to you in the tiny, rented classroom, it’s like the sun is shining just for you. His touch is still electric, and his voice rolls like the ocean, and just the feeling being near him is intoxicating. He’s something that you’re truly afraid isn’t real, until his fingers brush yours and everything lights up. You don’t think he’s actually looking at you, until you risk a glance and he’s almost stripping you bare with a twitch of his lips.

And that’s not what scares you. People have been beautiful before, and you’ve gotten fuzzy before, and you always managed to come out the other side unscathed.

But this time, you don’t think you’re going to get out. This time, Bucky is dragging you into him, and he’s got too much gravity for you to resist at all. And once you’re down, you’re not sure there’s going to be a way back up.

It’s what scares you. How fucking easy this is.

After one lunch, it becomes two. Then three, because you text Bucky that you haven’t eaten today—as a joke, to explain why you were going to be so grumpy—and he’d told you that you were going to get lunch. To just drop by cafe on your way over, and he’d fucking pay you for it.

You’d stared at the message for a second, then typed out and if I don’t?

Then I’ll go get you something myself. And you’ll be stuck with Sam. Who lost all the pencils, again. I never lose your pencils.

A soft laugh had escaped you, and your eyes had darted up to make sure no one heard.

Do you just want to come with me? You sent it before you could think.

Bucky responded faster than you knew he could type. Yes.

And then it’s three lunches. Four. Five. And you’re losing count, because it’s something you just do now. Before a workshop, you and Bucky go to lunch. He asks you what you’re writing, and tells you about his day. You ramble, and he doesn’t cut you off.

Bucky watches you like you’re endearing. Like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be but right here. And that’s dangerous too.

Bucky uses your number liberally. It starts with small texts. Plans for the workshop, an update about what he’s doing, a question about something you were talking about earlier. But then it’s turning into small, secret jokes. A photo of a motorcycle, every time you see one, with the question is this one you? Videos he thinks are funny. Little thoughts you have, that you can’t stop yourself from sharing with him.

Small requests of each other. Which means you’re trusting him. And that’s terrifying, because you really can’t find it in you to think twice about it.

You forget something for a meeting with some editor, and you don’t have time to get it yourself. You text Steve, but he’s across the city. That should be the point you just give up, and start thinking about alternatives.

Now you bite your lower lip, and text Bucky. He texts back in a second. Says he can do whatever you need.

And now he knows where you live. And where you keep the spare key. And he’s been in your apartment, and seen your things, and what if you owned something that offended him, or made him like you less, or your taste in decor was just that horrible-

I liked your stuffed animals. Your phone dings, and your fingers dig into your thighs.

That’s all you get. But then at lunch, he asks about them. Asks if they have names, and listens to you explain every single one. Brings them up later, in other conversations. Like he’s trying to prove he remembered. Like he’s trying to prove he was listening.

And then, suddenly, you’re not just texting. You’re calling. And you get lunch on days that don’t have workshops, because you’re both free. And Bucky drops by your apartment to give back a book you lent him, and lingers in the hallway for about twenty minutes. You drop him off at home, after workshops, Sam splayed out over the backseat because it would be weird to only drive Bucky.

Even if you want to only drive Bucky. Even if nothing sounds better than just you and Bucky in the car, and he could keep doing the thing where he accidentally touches you, and you both pretend not to feel it.

The fireworks. The thing that’s big, and threatening to sweep you away. Because that’s what you’re really afraid of.

That this could be something. That the blooming in your chest is something that you’re going to be able to wither away. That Bucky could rip away from you, the moment something soured. And something always sours. Something always goes wrong, and right now you can control it. You can find every line and mark it with stones in the sand. You can grab at the driftwood and pretend you’re changing the tide.

But the moment you let this turn into something more, then you’re gone. Under. No way up, and your heart can break.

Will break. It’s a fragile thing. It’s held together by glue and string.

Bucky doesn’t get to unravel it, just because he’s pretty and kind. Just because when he’s talking to you, he does everything so clearly it’s hard for your brain to find ways to twist it. Bucky doesn’t hang out with people he doesn’t like. Doesn’t seek out things he doesn’t care about.

But he seeks you out. And it lights you on fire. So bright, you’re really afraid it’s going to turn you to ash.

Friends. You’re friends. You repeat the word over and over, until it’s almost meaningless. Bucky said he doesn’t do relationships, either, and friends was established, that night on the fire escape. So that’s it.

But friends don’t give you this permanent feeling, that’s going to be so easily cleaved in half. Friends don’t show up on the other’s doorstep, at eleven at night and bouncing on their feet. And friends certainly don’t look at you the way Bucky does, when he opens the door and finds you in pajamas that are a little too short to be modest or decent.

“Hey.” He mutters, eyes dragging up to yours as his throat bobs. “Uh- You should-“

He steps to the side, and you nod. Shuffle inside with your head slightly bowed. You’d called. This is fine, because you’d called first. So he knew you were coming. He invited you over.

“Do you wanna get drinks?” You’d asked, shredding little bits of paper between your fingers.

You could’ve sworn you heard him gag on something. “Drinks?”

“Yeah? Like, you and me. Drinking.” You’d paused, then added. “Alcohol?”

Bucky had coughed. “Yeah, uh- I’d gotten that part. I’d love to get drinks, doll. When were you thinking?”

You’d swallowed. “Tonight?”

He’d been silent, for a long, heavy moment. And maybe he was busy. He had someone over, or already made plans, and of course he wouldn’t just drop things for you, what were you fucking thinking-

“It’s late.” He’d muttered slowly. “You tryin’ to forget something?”

“A little. Just- shitty day, and Steve doesn’t drink, but if you don’t wanna go out with me-“

“Never said that.” Bucky had sighed through the speaker. You’d been able to picture his frown. “I can’t go out tonight. Already settled, and most of the good place are closed.”

Your heart had sunken like a stone. This. This was why you didn’t take the risk. It hurt like being buried alive, and you’d never even held his hand. “Okay, I get it-“

“But you can come here.” Bucky had murmured, and just like that, you’d been brought back to life.

You’d been restless, the whole drive to his place. His roommates weren’t going to be there. Sam was visiting family. Natasha was on vacation.

It would just be you, and Bucky. In his apartment. Alone. Like friends often are. Friends don’t help you take off your coat.

Don’t remember exactly what you like to drink, and have it ready. Don’t bring you a blanket, when you both curl up on the couch. Don’t offer you a bunch of cheese and grapes, like you’re some sort of royal to be waited on.

But Bucky does. He pours your wine, doesn’t ask you to talk about it, and drinks with you on his couch.

“You wanna do a toast, Shakespeare?” He raises his glass, and you smile.

“No.”

You clink his glass against yours, and almost chug it as he laughs. Follows suit. When one glass becomes two, and Bucky’s sitting closer than before. Two flows to three, and your legs are over his lap. Three is four, and his hand is resting on your knee.

It doesn’t set you on fire this time, though. This is just exactly where you’re supposed to be.

“You gonna tell me what was so fuckin’ awful even that we had to go through a whole bottle of my best wine.” He gives you a lazy smile. “This was a gift from my dying father, y’know.”

Your eyes widen, your already heated face burning, and Bucky shakes his head.

“Kiddin’. But I still wanna know.”

“Bucky.” You kick him awkwardly, and he just laughs. “That was mean-“

“I know.” He pats your knee, still grinning. “You just get real cute, when you get all-“ He waves a hand. “Flustered.”

You scowl. “I do not get flustered-“

“Yeah. You do.” He leans back, grinning at you from the pillows. “Don’t worry. ’S… Good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s thumb rubs small circles on your knee. “You’re pretty good.”

Your mouth falls slightly open, your voice barely a breath. “Thanks.”

“Mhm.” Bucky grins at you, still so lazily. “So?”

You blink at him slowly. “So?”

“Yeah. You gonna tell me what happened?”

“Oh. Nothing.”

Bucky gives you a pointed look, and you shake your head.

“It was nothing, it was- Stop looking at me like that-“

You try to kick him again. He catches you faster this time.

“I can drag it out of you, doll.” He drawls, hand dragging down your calf.

“Bucky-“

“I’ll tell you all about my tragic, tortured past. I’ll tell you anythin’ you wanna know. C’mon.” He pouts at you, and you can’t stop your giggle. “Oh- You’re laughing at my pain?”

“No, I- I’m sorry, you’re just-“ You giggle again, settling back into the pillows. “You’re begging, and-“

You start laughing again, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Now I’m never gonna share anything with you again-“

“I don’t think that’s true.” You say before you can think, and Bucky goes silent. Watches you so intently, you can feel his name in your heartbeat.

“No.” He mutters. “It’s not.”

And the air has shifted. Suddenly, there’s a breathable, almost touchable wire between you, and it’s friction is building. Bucky’s hand feels like it’s molding into your skin. It tugs on a string close to your heart, and suddenly, you’re speaking.

“I just… I wish I could see the future.”

Bucky gives you his silent, curious look, and you sigh.

“I don’t like not knowing.” You whisper, words coming out fast and frantic. “I hate it, Bucky. I- I hate it so much, and everyone’s got so many secrets and I- I never believe it when they say they like it, ‘cause then they don’t. And I think I did good, but I didn’t, and I don’t like it.”

Bucky’s silent for a moment, hand still resting firmly on your calf. “So you wanna see the future?”

“I wanna know what I have to do.”

“To… make ‘em like you?”

You nod, and he lets out a slow breath.

“This about the review?”

Your nose wrinkles. “How’d you-“

“Y’know they were wrong, right?” He pushes on, leaning forward. “Dead wrong. It was a good fuckin’ piece, doll.”

“I- I know.” You swallow, eyes falling to his hands. “And that’s what the critic said to my face. Before they wrote it.” The world is blurring slowly. “I- I’m worried I said something, and that’s why they changed it, and-“ You sniff, slumping further into the cushion. “I could’ve been nicer, or- Said something about them, or-“

“Or they were just a dick.” Bucky mutters, and you frown at him.

“Bucky-“

“Some people are just…” He makes a farting sound with his mouth, and your lips twitch.

“I know, but-“

“Nah. Your piece was good. I loved it.” He leans forward, brushing the hot tears from your cheeks.

Your breath catches in your throat, and Bucky scans over your features, nostrils flaring slightly.

“You know I’d never do that, right?” He says the words like they’re an oath. “I’d never just… Lie to you. ‘Bout anything. And if I didn’t like somethin’ you did, I’d tell you.”

“Yeah.” You whisper. “I know.”

He nods, and slowly, torturously, pulls back. “Good. Just ask Sam.” He cracks a weak smile. “I tell him what I’m thinkin’ all the time.”

You giggle, wiping your nose with your sleeve, and Bucky’s shoulders relax. Just like that, all the weight is gone, and you’re back to drinking. Laughing. Talking until dawn.

And it scares you the most. That what you felt before, in the first few weeks, it wasn’t love.

But this. This is something dangerously close.

His head is in your lap.

You don’t know how you got here. How the night turned and flowed, that got you into the back of a quiet storage room, your fingers brushing through Bucky’s hair and his face pressed against your abdomen.

Steve’s going to come looking for you eventually. You’re going to shush him with a glare, and his going to give you a stupid, smug, knowing look as if he could’ve always predicted this where you’d end up. And he couldn’t have, because you didn’t, and you thought of every possible thing that could happen tonight.

It had been bouncing around your head, the whole day. Steve had another gallery. He wanted you and Bucky there—and even if he hadn’t, you would’ve gone—so the overall plan was that you’d both try to split up and talk Steve’s work up. You’d come up with it, over lunch.

“I think we can get him to a million.” Bucky had said, taking a bite of a fry.

You’d grinned back. “I think I can get him to two.”

“Oh, so it’s a competition now?”

“Yep.” You’d popped your mouth, your smile almost foolish, and Bucky had laughed.

It had been months, since you first heard it. It never got any less consuming.

“Alright. Is there a prize?”

“Honor and valor.”

“Doll, I was in the military. I got honor and valor pouring out of my ass.”

“Oh?” You’d shrugged. “You should probably get that checked out.”

Bucky had laughed again. You’d gone back and forth—and heat like a tidal wave had threatened to sweep you away—until you settled on a favor. Whoever sold Steve’s painting for more would get a favor.

And you’d weighed every possibility about that. You won, and you’d use your favor to make Bucky bring you to the pier or something. Anything that could be painted as a date, but wouldn’t be. Something that gave you an excuse to be near him, because despite every single rational protest you could come up with, your heart and body had decided that you never wanted to be somewhere Bucky couldn’t touch you.

You’d calculated everything that could let you win this. Even spared thought to what would happen if Bucky won. What he’d ask of you. Probably nothing significant—he still didn’t really let you pay for lunch, and whenever you gave him a ride he tried to pay you for the gas you’d used—but something. And there wouldn’t have been that glint in his eyes, if he didn’t know exactly what. It had been all you thought about, as you did your make up, and hair and nails. What Bucky could want from you. What he could want that you wouldn’t just give him.

Because right now, you’re in a very precarious situation. The one where you’d give him anything. Do anything.

He’d never ask for much, but that just makes you want to give him more. Which could be a friend thing. It isn’t. But it could be.

And you’d planned that out, too. Quickly indulged in a fantasy, late last night. Your brain had run the rapid, frantic course that usual kept you up—what if, what about, how about, and if this—and almost exhausted all the possibilities.

Except for one.

Bucky grinning at you, when he won the bet. Cornering you somewhere private and quiet, backing you against the wall, lowering himself down until his lips were just brushing yours. Murmuring your name, and telling you he knew exactly what he wanted. That this was what he’d wanted from the moment he saw you. That he didn’t love taking risks or letting people in, but you were perfect, and he loved you, and all he wanted in return was for you to get on your knees for him. Show him that you wanted this too, choke on him, get messy and wet so he could take care of you after, let him leave a few bruises so you’d never be able to question if he liked you or not-

You’d cum on your fingers, and your face had burned so hot even the air conditioner felt stifling. And maybe that had been where your first calculations had gone wrong. Because they had gone wrong. They’d gone so very, very wrong, so fast.

You’d seen Bucky, the memory of last night had crashed into you, and you’d fucking squeaked when he’d touched you. Shivered and bitten your tongue, when his hand had brushed the bare skin of your lower back. Like some sex-crazed fucking bunny. This dress had been a bad idea. This bet had been a bad idea. Volunteering to talk to people had been a horrible idea.

You couldn’t. Not when you kept looking over at Bucky, finding him laughing and smiling and casting more light around the room than the chandelier. Not like you. You’d somehow managed to forget that—when talking to people that weren’t Steve or Bucky—you trip over every other word, and flush, and say stupid things that you shouldn’t. That you get too caught up on trying to dance through the conversation, your feet stumble and you forget every step and you end up flat on your face, trying to pinpoint what went wrong.

Every time you’d looked a stranger, you were already trying to predict what they’d say, and what you should say, and what you could say to make them like you.

Every time you’d looked at Bucky, and seen him talking to some other woman with sleek hair and silken skin, you’d been trying to work out if he liked them more than you. If they’d start hanging out more, and you’d be tossed off to the side. She’d ask him to stop being alone with you, because of how obviously obsessed with him you were. Bucky would insist you’re still friends, and he’d mean it. You’d go to their wedding, and cry yourself to sleep after. They’d have a baby, and make you the godmother, then move to her hometown to build their family and you’d never get to see him again-

“C’mon.” Bucky himself had muttered your name, and you’d blinked at him. You didn’t even know when he’d gotten there.

“Bucky-“

“You’re makin’ the thinking face, doll.” He’d shot you a small smile. “We need to get a drink into you, or you’ll hurt yourself.”

You’d flushed, but just nodded.

And just like that, the bet had been forgotten. Bucky got you drinks and food. You’d stood together in the corner of the room, just like the first night, only you weren’t trying to get him away from you as fast as possible. This time, when he so much as stepped away for more drinks, you’d felt like you were being stranded in the middle of the ocean, and only surfaced from the deafening noise when he returned.

This was where things really started to get away from you. You’d drank. And drank. Until you were giggling, and Bucky’s face was red. Until you were pressed together against the wall, and he was whispering in your ear like there was anyone to overhear.

“See her?” He’d nodded to the woman he’d been talking to earlier.

A sore feeling had crept over your skin, and you’d hummed casually. “She’s pretty.”

“Yeah. Pretty stupid.”

Your mouth had fallen open, and Bucky had laughed at the look on your face.

“What?” He grinned at you. “She kept askin’ me what I thought of all the art, and when I told her she-“ He laughed again. “She asked me if I was up for auction, too. As art.” Bucky leans down. His nose is almost bumping yours. “I got an invitation to a yatch, doll. As a sex slave.”

You’d swallowed, and being vaguely aware of how weak your knees felt. “And?”

“And what?”

“What- Are you- Going?”

Bucky had blinked at you slowly, and shaken his head. “Nah. I get sea sick. And there’s only one girl who’s gonna get me on a stupid boat, and it’s not by buyin’ me like I’m meat.”

You’d kept gaping at him, too drunk for your brain to fully process and turn over his words.

Bucky had reached up, and gently guided your mouth closed. Leaned forward. Kissed you nose, and laughed at the little sound of surprise that had escaped your throat.

“Me bein’ art that shocking to you?” He’d teased, and you’d shaken your head.

“No. I- Um,” you’d swallowed, still blinking slowly. You weren’t really sure there was enough light in the world to help you see. “Bucky, I- I-“ Don’t say something stupid. Don’t fuck it up. “You’d make perfect meat.” Fuck.

Bucky had just grinned at you. His eyes shining and nostrils flaring, like you hadn’t said something stupid and insane.

And something else had flashed in his eyes. Something raw and pure and almost violent. Not in a way that scared you. In a way that sent a shivering thrill through your body, as he’d smirked. His brow had almost been pressed into yours. You’d been able to feel his breath, warm and dizzying and fanning over your face.

“Thanks, doll.” Was all he’d said, nodding to your empty champagne glass. “More?”

“Yes, please.” You’d whispered, and Bucky had been gone.

Things had kept getting out of control. You’d shifted in your corner, waiting for Bucky to return, but instead you’d gotten Steve. Which you were happy about—tonight was his night—but not what you’d expected. Not the softness and light in his eyes, even more than usual. And the small smile on his face, like he knew a secret.

“I thought I lost you and Buck for a second,” he’d said, and you’d flushed.

“Sorry-“

“No, I’m glad you guys are here. And happy.” Steve had sighed dramatically. “Mostly that you’re happy, honestly.”

You’d frowned at him, trying to work out what that meant, and Steve had kept going.

“I mean, I didn’t think Bucky would even come tonight. I told him he didn’t have to, ‘cause of what day it was. But then-“ He’d laughed to himself. “Told him you’d be there. And he was all for it.”

Steve had given you a knowing smile. You don’t know what you’re supposed to know.

“Why wouldn’t he have come?” You ask stupidly, and Steve blinks.

“He didn’t- Oh. Never mind.”

“Steve, you- You can’t just-“

“Ask Bucky.” He’d shoved his hands in his pocket with a casual shrug, and you’d glowered.

“Steven Rogers-“

“I’m not going to say something that’s Bucky’s story to tell.” Steve had said firmly, giving you a strange look. “But you should ask. He’d tell you. I mean-“ He shook his head with a low breath. “He really hasn’t been this happy in a while. So, anything that keeps it going.”

You were too fucking drunk for this.

“Keeps what-“

Bucky had called your name, then Steve’s. There had been a big, wide grin on his reddened face, and you’d dropped it. Smiled right back, and taken his drink. Let he and Steve joke about the art and tell old stories, and tried not to over analyze how close Bucky was standing to you. How it must look, to anyone passing by.

Eventually, Steve had gone back to talking to the patrons, trying to sell his art. You and Bucky had stayed in the corner, gossiping and giggling about every weird, rich-person hat and weird, holier-than-thou phrase you heard whenever someone tried to talk to you. You’d been hanging off of each other. Bucky’s grin had never wavered from his face. The room had gotten more and more crowded, and you’d started to get antsy, and Bucky had almost been sticking to you like you were an anchor in a storm, and-

Now you're here. Bucky’s head. In your lap. Your fingers in his hair. His breathing deep and even, as he lay against you in the dark. Steve’s words bouncing around your head.

And your willpower and brain never strong enough to stop words from falling out of your mouth. Not when Bucky’s so close, and he’s always made your tongue a little too loose.

“What’s today?”

Bucky grunts, and the sound vibrates through your whole body. “Uh… Saturday?”

“No- I-“ You tip your head back, biting your tongue. “Um- Never mind.”

“Huh?” Bucky shifts in your lap. “What? What’s never mind?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

He says your name, almost sternly, and you risk a glance down.

He’s so pretty, in the low light of the back room. Looks just like every single, sinful dream you’ve ever dared to have. And his eyes really are almost enchanting. When he raises his brows, prompting you to continue, you don’t know how to do anything but obey.

“Steve said… I dunno. Is today- Something?”

Bucky was silent for a moment. Then he groans, rolling back to bury his face in your stomach. Your hands move to hold him, before you can think.

And suddenly he’s hugging your middle, and you feel like the most important person in the world.

“Fuckin’- Gonna kick that punk’s ass-“

“I’m sorry, forget I said-“

“No, it- ’s not your fault, baby.” Bucky sighs, words muffled against your stomach. “Gotta tell you eventually.”

“You- You don’t have to.” You whisper, the wind a little knocked out of your body by the baby. He called you baby.

“Yeah.” Bucky sighs. “I do.”

You’re breathing shallow. Trying to stay as quiet as you can, like the wrong word might scare him away.

“I was sorta a POW.” He mutters, face still buried in your abdomen. “Prisoner of war. And they didn’t exactly have big more questions about the Genova conventions.”

Bile rises in your throat, and you’re petting his head again. Before you can even realize what you’re doing. “Bucky…”

“Yeah, I know. I don’t need it to be like- A thing.” He holds you a little tighter. “Only bringin’ it up cause it’s- Today. The anniversary of when I got… gotten.” He laughs to himself. “Not a great anniversary. I don’t even get a discount on therapy.”

You want to laugh at his joke. He always laughs at yours, and it’s a silent agreement that, even when it’s not funny, you laugh. For the other’s sake.

But you can’t find it. You just feel heavy, like a storm cloud is gathering in your chest. He’s never been anything but kind and light to you, and you’ve never asked him what happened to his arm because you didn’t want to push it, but… You’d hoped it wasn’t something like that.

You’d know, deep down, it had to be. You’d read his poems for your workshop. Seen the darkened look in his eyes, when he was doing something he hated or just standing in a corner alone. It’s always seemed to dissolve when Sam or Steve—or you—go over to him. But it’s still there.

So you can’t laugh. It’s not your pain, and he won’t want your pity, but that doesn’t change the ache for him in your heart, or the fury in your hands that someone could do that to him.

“I’m sorry, Bucky.” You whisper softly. “That- That sucks.”

He’s silent for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse. Like he’s crying, or at least fighting tears.

“Yeah. It does.”

“Is there anything-“

Bucky shakes his head. “You’re already doin’ everything. Just…” He hums against your body. “Wanna stay here.”

You swallow. “Oh- Okay.”

There’s a long silence, as you both just breathe. You tip your head up, and watch the lights on the ceiling shift as cars pass. Your fingers don’t move from Bucky’s hair. He doesn’t move from your lap.

“You smell good.” Bucky mutters, and your lips twitch.

“Thanks.”

He hums, burrowing impossibly closer. His fingers are tracing on the base of your spine, and you sort of feel like you’re floating.

“I think I…” He pauses, and lets out a slow breath. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods.

“Yeah.”

And for once, holding him in the dark, you don’t overthink what that means. You think you already know, anyway.

Things keep getting away from you.

People filter out of the gallery. Steve pokes his head to check on you and Bucky, and sighs. He volunteers to drive you both home, but he lives on the opposite side of the city, so you manage to talk him into just calling you an Uber that will drop you both at your apartments.

But you never get to both your apartments. You get to Bucky’s first, and tell the driver to wait while you get him upstairs. He hangs off your body, and you both giggle and whisper the whole way. When you stumble into his apartment, you almost trip and fall down. He snorts, and covers your mouth.

Your eyes shine on his. He scans over your face, pupils blown out, and slowly lowers his hand, barely an inch away-

A light flicks on, and you almost vault away from him with a squeak. Bucky just manages to catch you around the waist, before you fall.

“Jesus.” Sam grumbles, glaring between you. “Flirt quieter, some of us are tryin’ to sleep.”

Bucky groans. “Shut up, Sam, you’re supposed to be somewhere else-“

“It’s my apartment too, Bucky.” Sam shrugs. “But I’m nice. So I’m gonna put on headphones.”

He turns and walks away, but it’s too late. The spell is broken, and this is the part where you’re supposed to walk away. Go back down, and take the Uber back to your place. But Bucky shifts on his feet, glaring at where Sam disappeared to, and clears his throat.

“You wanna… Uh- Stay here-“

“Yes.” You blurt, and it’s worth it.

For once, there’s no question about if this risk is worth it. Not with how Bucky’s face splits into a grin, and how you’re almost certain this drunken feeling isn’t the champagne anymore.

It’s just Bucky.

Things move in a slow, easy blur. Bucky pulls out a spare toothbrush, and large t-shirt that smells like him. Not the piney cologne he’d been wearing all night, but just Bucky.

“You have a musk.” You giggle, walking out of his bathroom, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“You got a- Uh-“ He squints, like he can’t think of an insult for the life of him. “You’re mouthy.”

“Oooh.” You flop onto bed, grinning up at him. “I didn’t know you were a million, James.”

Bucky’s eyes widen slightly, at the use of his full name. You could swear they get a little darker, too. You’d overthink it, if you could think anything useful at all.

“I’m not a million, doll.” He rasps, and you shrug.

“Only old people say mouthy.”

“We’re the same fuckin’ age-“

“No.” You point a finger at him, pulling your knees up to your chest. “You’re older.”

Bucky stares at you for a second, eyes flicking down to your knees, then back to you. He coughs, and nods. Grabs a pair of sweats off his dresser, and turns abruptly to the bathroom.

“Alright. ‘m older.” He gives you a stern look over his shoulder. “Don’t move.”

You laugh again, giving him a mock salute. “Aye aye, captain.”

His mouth twitches. “Sergeant.”

“Huh?”

“I’m a Sargent, doll.” He drawls. “You gotta say yes, Sargent.”

You stare at him, and he fucking winks. Smiles, and winks, and goes into the bathroom like a buttface.

Everything is so warm. It all smells like Bucky, and it’s soothing your brain. You pick at your fingers while you wait, but not until they bleed. Eventually, you realize that your shirt had ridden up, when you lay down. Exposing your thighs and the boxer briefs Bucky had lent you, to his view. But it only makes your face heat. You’re to busy spinning on the high of being this close to him—even if he’s in another room, you’re clad in him and drowning in his things, which sort of makes you his thing, and you can’t stop giggling—to care.

When Bucky comes back, he flops down next to you, and lets out a slow breath.

You turn to look at him, and find him already watching you. For a moment, you just stare at each other in the dark. Bucky’s hand slides forward, and his fingers rest over yours. His tongue darts over his lips, gaze burning into you, and you can’t help it.

Another soft giggle bubbles up in your throat. Bucky’s lips twitch, even as he groans in exasperation. And then you’re both laughing at absolutely nothing, in the dark, together.

And you know. Neither of you are going to fall asleep. You feel far too free right now, to just let the moment slip away like that.

It not really clear what you’re doing, for the rest of the night. Bucky tries to teach you a few phrases in Romanian, but you just end up getting them wrong and laughing. You explain to him the plot of some show for about two hours straight, and he stares at you like you’re telling him the secrets of the universe. You scroll on your phone while he tries to braid your hair, because you teased him about not knowing how.

“You’ve got better hair than I do-“

“That’s not true. I don’t think anythin’ is better than you-“

“Stop kissing my ass, Bucky.” You’d pointed a firm finger at him, and he’d snorted. “You’re learnin’ how to braid, and that’s that.”

He’d nodded dutifully. “Yes, ma’am.”

And now your head is on his knee, and he’s moving slowly. Deliberately. You’d done it twice on yourself, just to show him. When he’d muttered that you make it look easy, you’d laughed. You’d been doing it your whole life. Of course it was easy.

“Oo.” You shove your phone into his face. “Look at that.”

He frowns at the screen. “Studies show that fish experience love. Huh.”

“That’s cool, right?”

“I guess, yeah.”

You pout at him. “I think it’s cool.”

He chuckles. “‘Course you do, doll.”

“What does that mean-“

“Nothin’.” He grins at you, and you narrow your eyes. “I’m serious.”

“I don’t believe you-“

“You’re just cute.” He shrugs, holding your gaze, and your mouth falls open.

Bucky reaches forward, and closes it. Just like he did earlier. Only now, it’s with his metal hand. It sends a shiver through your body, the cool material against your skin. He grins at you, and boops your nose with his soft hand. You pretend to try and bite him, and he laughs.

“Someone’s gettin’ feral.” He drawls, and you scowl.

“Shut up.” You try to whack him, but your hand lands on the metal arm, and a high whine leaves your throat. “Ow-“

“Shit, baby-“ Bucky drops your hair in a second, pulling you up into his lap as tears start to well in your eyes. “You can’t hit that arm, you know that-“

“I forgot.” You whine, and it doesn’t even really hurt that much. You’re just drunk, and near Bucky, and all your feelings seem to be stuck at a million. “Bucky- It hurts-“

“Well stop tryin’ to move it.” He mutters, giving you a pointed look, and you go almost limp.

“Sorry.”

“’s alright.” He mutters, looking back down to your hand. “Just don’t wanna have to stitch you up, doll. We’ll have to wake Sam and Nat up, and then…” He sighs, voice dropping under his breath. “Never gonna hear the end of it.”

You frown, and can’t even begin to work out what that means. So instead, you mumble, “Did I hurt you?”

Bucky chuckles. “No. You didn’t.”

“Oh.” You pause. “But… Can you even feel it? When I-“ You reach out with your free hand, and trace over his bicep.

He freezes, still cradling your mock-injured one.

“Yeah.” He grunts, eyes hooded on yours. “I can feel it.” His throat bobs. “All of it.”

You nod absentmindedly, glancing back down to your phone.

“I think the fish thing is really cool, Bucky.”

He lets out a soft laugh, and nods. “I know you do, doll.”

“Why don’t you. You like the ocean, don’t you want it to experience love?”

“I don’t think the article is talkin’ about the ocean itself,” he drawls your name, and you shake your head.

“No, I think it is.” You lean forward, trying to get him to understand. “I think there’s a lot of love, Bucky. I think it’s in everything, and I think it can all feel it. Does that make sense?”

He gives you a soft, affectionate smile. His voice is low and soft. “Yeah. It does.”

“Good.” You look back to your hand. “Am I gonna die?”

Bucky huffs in amusement. “No, baby. Not right now.”

Then he picks up your hand, and kisses your knuckles. Sweetly. Like they’re something priceless, and delicate. You’re going to explode into a million, shimmering pieces that all sing his name.

“I- Um-“ You swallow, and Bucky grins.

“Yeah?”

You nod, unsure what you’re agreeing to, and he laughs.

“Y’know, they’re pretty sure love is just a chemical reaction.” He tilts his head at you. “That make you think anythin’ different about it?”

You shake your head, still staring at him, and his tongue flicks over his lips. It’s really unfair, when he does that. You’d follow him off the edge of the earth, if he just asked you to with that little tongue thing.

“Nothin’? Really?”

“I don’t think the stars are less beautiful, just cause they’re balls of gas.”

Bucky blinks at you for a moment, then chuckles. Shakes his head and leans forward, planting a soft kiss on your brow.

“Lie down, baby. You’re talkin’ like a muse again.”

You don’t know what that means, but Bucky’s asking something of you. So you listen, and lie down. He lowers himself to your side, and when you grab his hand, he doesn’t pull away. You pick up his hand, and start to play with his metal fingers. You can feel his eyes again. It’s sort of static, over your skin.

For once, you don’t really care about the future. You just care about what’s happening right now.

“You’re beautiful.”

Bucky’s words are so quiet, you almost don’t hear them. When you turn to look at him, he’s still so pretty in the dark. His hand folded securely in yours, a small smile on his handsome face. You reach up slowly, tracing your fingers over his cheek. He leans into the touch, his own hand shooting up to hold you against his face. And when you blink at him slowly, your head spinning and chest almost floating out of your body, he smiles.

“So beautiful.” He murmurs to himself, and something about the way he says it seems sober. This isn’t Bucky’s thoughts being addled by the champagne, or pulled out of him against his will by the exhaustion. It just sounds like pure, honest and raw truth. He says it like it’s all he can see.

“Bucky…” You whisper, and he gives you soft, knowing look.

“Can I tell you something?”

You shouldn’t say yes. Nothing safe comes of you saying yes. Because for once, it’s not a question of what he’s going to say. It’s knowing what’s coming, and not being certain you’re going to be able to handle it. To catch it properly, and stop it from either tears you apart or slipping through your fingers.

Bucky says your names, pushing up on his elbow, and you swallow. Nod. He grins, and suddenly, all caution is gone. You just want to be the one he smiles at, forever.

“I don’t, uh,” he clears his throat, gaze dropping to where he’s still holding your hand. He’s pressed it to his chest. You didn’t know his heart could beat this fast. “I don’t love a lotta things.”

“Buck-“

“I know, I know.” He sighs, giving you a pleading look. “Just… Let me say it. Please.”

You swallow, but nod. And Bucky takes a ragged inhale, squeezing your hand tight.

“I don’t love a lotta things.” He starts over. Like he’s been practicing this, and he refuses to miss a beat. “Love my Ma. Love my sisters, and Stevie, and- Sam and Nat, even though they don’t get to hear it. ‘Cause I don’t say it that much either. Never been good at sayin’ it, never gotten better.” He pauses, voice dropping as his thumb starts to trace circles on your hand. “Never had a reason to get better. A reason to… try things. Do things. Stop just hidin’ in the corner alone.” He laughs softly to himself. “But I guess I’m still in the corner. Just isn’t lonely.” He smiles. “I like hiding with you, doll. And I-“

“Bucky.” You cut him off softly, squeezing his hand tight. You’ve never wanted to hear anything more. You’ve never been so afraid of something that you wanted. “You- You said-“

“I know what I said. But I also remember sayin’ you could pretty easily change my mind.”

He leans down, until he’s less than a breath away. His eyes scan over yours, and your head is starting to pick up again. Tracing every single thing you could do here, everything you could say. What might make him fall more, what might wake him up and force him to decide you’re really just not worth his time, what you’ve already messed up here—cutting him off, twice, not moving away fast enough, not saying this first, although you could’ve never said it first because what if you were reading it all wrong—and how you can fix it, and-

“No, You- You said,” your eyes flick down to his lips. His tongue darts out, and your voice gets higher. “Bucky, you said-“

He ghosts his mouth over yours, not even a real kiss, and your words fall into a soft, breathy moan. Your eyes flutter shut at the electrifying sensation of Bucky’s mouth over yours. Fingers dig into his thin shirt, trying to both keep him right where he is, and pull him closer. Bucky stays hovering over your, one forearm planted right next to your head and the other hand placing yours gently on your stomach. Wandering down, to rub the bare back of your thigh. You don’t remember locking your legs around him.

But he really can’t be close enough.

“You said I seemed like the type of person who could get you to make a mistake.” You whisper, watching him with wide eyes, he shrugs.

“If this is a mistake.” He mutters, searching your gaze. “I don’t think I’m ever gonna care about the consequences.”

Bucky shrugs, his smile that same, secret one from before. And you’re already gone. Already his. You just have to let him carry you away.

His lips brush against yours again. Your back arches. For a moment, he tries to lean up. Get away. Your nails sink into his neck, pulling him back down.

Bucky gives you a vaguely amazed look, lips parted and his hand on your thigh freezing.

“Yeah?” He says lowly, and you nod.

“Yes.” You try to tug him lower, but he remains firm and unwavering above you. “Bucky- Please- Oh-“

Your mouth falls open as his hand on your thigh drags lowers, cupping your pussy right over the boxers. Your chest heaves as the pleasure rushes through you, and a shameless moan falls from your mouth as he starts to rub you with a firm, unwavering hand.

“That good?” He murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes.

You nod, a small whimper escaping the back of your throat as his fingers press down near your clit. “Fuck- Bucky-“

“Yeah.” He drops his brow against yours, gaze falling to where you’re grinding into his hand. “That’s good.”

And fuck, it is. Bucky watches you move on him for a few more moments before looking to you with darkened, eyes, shining with lust. Pure, unwavering lust that makes your head spin and a little, nervous giggle escape your lips. He freezes, brows raises, and panic floods you fast.

“N- No, I like it- I-“ You try to grab his wrist, trying to tell him something you don’t have words for. “Bucky, I- I’m just-“

“You’re thinking.” He mutters, scanning over your face with an almost terrifying amount of focus. “You want me to take of that, baby?”

You swallow, legs spreading as his palm presses firmly on your cunt. “Take care of it?”

He hums, mouth pulling into a smirk. “Take care of this,” he kisses your brow, and a happy little sigh escapes your throat. “And this.”

He slaps your pussy, light but sharp, and you squeal. He laughs, and before you can even think to shove him and whine, he’s descending onto you. Pressing his lips over yours in a firm, certain kiss that has you melting so fast you almost spill open beneath him. He’s done so little—just rubbing your pussy through the boxers and nipping at your lips—and you’re already wrecked. Your legs spread wider, your hips rolling to try and gain more friction. Bucky presses his tongue between your lips, and you take him in, the kiss becoming wet and sloppy. Your fingers shoot into his hair and pull, and he lets out the most sinful groan you’ve ever heard in your life-

Bucky pushes off of you, panting and dark eyed. For a moment, his hand leaves your cunt. Moves to you face, when he gently cups your jaw. You blink up at him slowly, whining and writhing in the sheets without any pressure. His knee shoves up between your thighs, and you moan loudly.

Bucky makes a low sound from the back of his throat, eyes falling down to where you’re fucking his knee. He reaches down with his free hand, to pull up your shirt. Finds the massive wet spot, against the boxers.

When he looks back to you, his eyes are wild. He does the stupid fucking tongue thing, and you shiver. You’re so close, and he’s still done so little-

“Can I?” He says, voice rough. His eyes flick back to where you’re humping him, then meet yours again. “Please?”

He works his jaw, expression desperate, and you don’t have to ask to know what he’s talking about. You’d have to be insane to tell him no.

The breath of permission barely leaves your lips before he’s diving down. One last kiss that leaves you gasping for air, as he starts to work down your body. He pulls the shirt up, but not all the way off, and cups your breasts as he kisses over your stomach. Lower, his thumb starting to work your nipple. Lower, and he grabs your hips with both hands. Pins you against the bed, and shoves his face right against your cunt.

You call his name, hands shooting into his hair as he starts to make out with your core through the boxers. His tongue presses you through the fabric, every yank of his hair making his groan, low and deep and making your whole body shake with pleasure.

“Bu- Bucky- Oh, god.” You moan, the heat too much to bear. “More, please-“

He responds with a grunt, and a firm squeeze of your hips. You can feel his lips through the cloth, and you’re so wet it’s soaking right through and making him feel stuck to you, but it’s not enough. You need his lips and tongue deeper, into you, taking you and carrying you away-

“Hold on.” He mutters, drawing back suddenly. He kisses the inside of your knee with a small grin, and you whine. “Relax, doll, I’m takin’ care of you.” He slowly drags your boxers off, eyes raking down your body and landing on your glistening pussy. “Fucking… God.”

He towers over you, as two metal finger leave teasing touches on your folds. You grab his wrist with one hand, the other fisting in the sheets.

“Bucky…”

“I know, sweet girl.” He mutters, and you light up with the soft praise. “But you’re so pretty like this.” He kisses your ankle, slowly pressing one finger into your cunt.

You clench around him, the sensation of fullness combined with the temperature difference almost too much to bear. He chuckles, slowly pumping in and out, and look up to your slack, almost broken expression.

“Bucky- Bucky-“ You almost scream as he pulls away again. “No- come- come back-“

“I’m coming, babydoll.” He mutters, and you just manage to register that the hand which had been working you only a moment ago is now rubbing against the tent in his crotch. “I’ve got you. Just-“

He presses your legs up, until your knees are pressed to your chest and your pussy is fully exposed to him. He ducks down, pulling them over his knees, and his breath on your cunt makes you whimper. His fingers push back into you, two this time and you’re shaking. Grabbing at the sheets as you hover right on the edge, release just about to snap as his fingers crook and rub inside of you.

Bucky’s mouth latches over your clit, his tongue working in fast little kitten-licks, and you fall over the edge with a scream of his name. Your vision goes white, and he just keeps going. His fingers leave you fast, replaced by his tongue, and his nose bumps your swollen button as he devours your cunt like he’s been starved of it forever. You cum again, yanking at his hair, and it only seems to spur him on.

You’re a panting, shaking mess, when he finally draws back up. Your legs feel like jelly, and there’s a beard burn on your thighs that you hope never goes away.

Bucky grins at you lazily, licking his lips, and suddenly you’re not spent enough. More. You make a pathetic, hopeful sound as you reach for him, and you need more.

Bucky stares at you, then laughs. “Not enough, baby?”

You shake your head, and he looks annoyingly smug with himself.

“Can’t even talk? Already fucked you that dumb?”

You pout at him, and pull a soft, “Don’t you want to?” From the back of your throat. It’s supposed to come out teasing, about the massive fucking boner he’s pressing against your thigh. You just sound desperate, and Bucky smiles. Crawls back over your body, kisses you sweetly, and murmurs against your lips.

“More than anything, doll. You- Got- No- Idea.”

He thrusts his bulge against you with each word, kissing all over your face, and you moan weakly. Bucky kisses your shoulder, soothing the hem of your shirt and lightly toying with your pussy again, as he leans up and examines you.

“What?” You breathe out, and he grins.

“Nothin’. You’re just perfect.”

“Bucky-“

“Hold on, doll.” He says, squeezing your waist. “Wanna see you.”

He pulls you up, helping you out of the shirt. There’s a moment where he just stares at you with hungry, almost fond eyes—metal hand tracing over every curve in your body, going back a few times when he sees how they make you react—and then his eyes meet yours.

Bucky ducks down, pressing an almost impossibly chaste kiss to your lips. Then he flips you onto your stomach with barely a grunt, pulls your ass into the air, and presses the head of his cock over your clit. You make a high noise, and Bucky starts to rub himself up and down s your pussy lips. You’re clawing at the sheets, making breathless pleas for him to just take more, but he’s deadset on going slow.

And you expected him to keep teasing and playing with you, once he had you splayed out below him, too cockdrunk to bite back. But the heat seems to be affecting him too. He squeezes your ass with one hand, slapping his cock against your pussy, and grunts when you whine.

“I got you, babydoll.” He mutters, his own voice sounding wrecked. “Relax for me, just gotta- fuck-“

Bucky groans, as he starts to push into you, and you’re too far gone to do anything but take it. The burning, perfect stretch of him into your cunt. How impossibly full he makes you, when he bottoms out. How he pulls you up against his chest like a ragdoll, his cock still buried deep in you and bumping against electric, needy spots nobody’s ever been able to fully hit.

For a moment, you just sit in each other. The heat of your bodies, so close together. The sensation of Bucky’s lips, scattering kisses over your neck, and his hands grabbing at your skin possessively. But then it grows, and grows, and it’s too much.

“Bucky-“ You gasp, reaching up to claw at his neck. “Bucky- God, move-“

He nods, kisses under your jaw, and mutters a low, “Yes, ma’am.”

And you fly right out of your body.

His thrusts are short and rough, but they do more than enough. His arm across your chest traps you against him, and he sets an unyielding pace that has your already abused cunt gushing and fluttering in only a few moments. His lips don’t stop sucking and licking at your skin, as he slams against places that make stars form behind your eyes.

You grab his forearm, desperate for something to keep you grounded. Bucky’s grunts and moans of your name, combined with the firm but gentle hold on your body, make you feel worshipped.

And when you start to build up to that high again—slowly, the minutes of Bucky drilling up into you with sinful, wet sounds dragging into what feels like hours—you cry out a warning of his name.

He groans, and his metal hand drags back down. Finds that sensitive, wired spot, a little neglected as his cock slides in and out of you in the most graphic, lewd way you’ve ever seen. You almost shriek, and he starts to play it like an instrument. Fast and unwavering, like he’s been doing it his whole life.

You cum with a scream of his name, and Bucky fucks you through it. His thrusts become uneven and sharp, his mouth almost attached to a sensitive spot on your body. Before you’ve even fully come down, he’s shoving you down onto the mattress. Fucking you fast and hot, face pressed into your neck, and yanking out with a sudden grunt.

“Where-“

You roll over in a cockdrunk, needy daze, and open your mouth.

You’ve never seen Bucky’s eyes go so wide. His hand—fisting his cock and beating it in a way that shouldn’t be as hot as it is—stutters, and his voice cracks.

“Are you-“

“Please.” You stick out your tongue, and that’s all it takes.

Bucky crawls over you, movements short and uncontrolled, and calls your name with as you take his throbbing cock into your mouth.

You suck, looking up at him under fluttering lashes, and that’s all it takes. He doubles over, and shoots himself down your throat with the deepest moan of your name you’ve ever heard.

You swallow what you can, but a little spills between your lips. Bucky looks at you like you’re an angel when he pulls away, reaching down with soft fingers to wipe your mouth clean. He pauses, the offers the fingers in a silent, request.

You lick them clean without hesitation, and Bucky moans again. It might be the only sound in the world better than his laugh.

“I…” He stares at you, thumb tracing reverently over your cheek as he thinks.

You just listen. For once, your head is purely, truly empty. And when Bucky smiles at you, and you feel like the prettiest thing in the world.

“I am so glad I went to the gallery tonight.”

You wake up before him. Watch him in the morning light, too many thoughts spinning through your head. But his heartbeat is steady under your hands, and his hold is firm.

So you fall back asleep, with your cheek pressed into his chest. And when you wake up, Bucky’s not in bed.

It’s his apartment. He can’t run out on you, when he’s the one who lives here. And his side of the bed is still warm, so he can’t have been here that long ago.

You roll out of bed slowly. Still not entirely convinced last night wasn’t a dream. It would be easy if it was. If you’d just thrown Bucky’s now ripped shirt across the room because you got too hot. If the sheets were changed not because Bucky had picked you up and set you on the dresser with a kiss and mumble that he didn’t want you sleepin’ in such a mess, but because of… something else you can’t think of.

But there’s no denying the wet stain, on the boxers Bucky had nuzzled his face into. Or the dark hickyes, littering your neck like medals of honor. Or the slight sway in your step, as you grab another one of Bucky’s shirts—one from the bottom of the drawer, that still smells like him but he couldn’t possibly care about you wearing—or the soreness on your thighs when you squat down to grab a blanket, and wrap it tight around your body.

You poke your head out the door, checking for people before you shuffle into the hallway. You just need to find Bucky. Ask if he can give you a ride home or something, before you get embarrassed about the tiny daydream you might have gotten lost in.

That this wouldn’t be a what if. That Bucky would tell you exactly what you were, then kiss you, and your fragile heart would be bubble wrapped safely in his hands. But that’s not how this gets to work. That’s not how any of this works, because you woke up alone-

“Morning, doll.” Bucky says from behind you, and you whirl around.

He’s standing in the doorway with a smile, and messy hair, and the red marks on his neck are from your nails, and oh, god-

“Don’t think.” He warns, and every thought spills from your head. “C’mon. I made you pancakes.”

Your heart does a funny little skip, and when Bucky offers his hand, you take it without a second thought. He made you pancakes. He actually made you pancakes.

Fluffy, with syrup and fruit, and a glass of juice already out, and coffee right next to it. He sits with you, just watching as you eat with the blanket wrapped tight around your body. He hadn’t walked out. He’d just been making you pancakes.

And it hits you hard and fast. How fucking real this is.

It’s something you need. Something soft and good, that feels like it’s going to settle into you. Going to be something that lasts forever, that you’re going to be able to hold onto, that you’d like to engrave even further into your heart than it already has, that could be like stone. Holding you down, pressing into you, immovable and never able to do anything but become easier. Smoother.

But it could also be made of glass. It could be beautiful and clear right now, but then you apply pressure and it all falls apart. And you lose it. You have Bucky, in his kitchen, making you pancakes. His hair is still stuck at the angles you pulled on last night. Your thighs are still pressed together from his ministrations.

This is something you could have. This is something you could lose.

Bucky’s not eating. When you hold up a fork with a bit of pancakes on it, he smiles, and open his mouth. You feed it to him, and he looks at you like you made the whole world in his name.

Stop thinking, he said. But you don’t know how.

When you finish the pancakes, he grabs your wrist, kisses it, and clears your plate. You watch the muscles of his back flex as he washes it, trying not to think about how they rippled under your hands last night. Trying not to think about how they’re going to be touched by other women, once this ends. Because it’s going to end. Bucky knows, probably better than you do, that all good things end, and this is just his way of letting you down easy-

He braces his hands on the table, standing across from you. Says your name, his gaze burning into your soul. You’re going to vomit.

“Bucky, I-“

“What do you want this to be?”

You blink at him. “What?”

“I know what I want this to be.” He says firmly, holding your gaze. “I know what I want us to be. Had a whole speech about it last night, before you rudely interrupted by lettin’ me just fuck you without my romantic gesture.”

He cracks a small smile, and you flush. Look down to your fingers, picking at them. You know what you want. You don’t know how to say it.

Bucky sighs. “Look, I’m not gonna finish the speech. Not gonna hold you for that, and it… wasn’t very good, anyway. Steve helped, and he’s real bad at speech writin’. Gets too in his own head, and-“

“Steve knew?” You blurt, eyes shooting to Bucky’s, and he laughs. “Don’t- It’s not funny, why didn’t he tell me if he- If he knew you were- How long-“

“After the gallery.” Bucky gives you an amused look. “He guessed when I asked about you. I told him outright after the party. Why did you think he was never talkin’ about it, doll?”

“I don’t know, I just- He’s not that nosy-“

Bucky snorts. “Yeah, he is.”

“But- He should’ve told me-“

“Yeah?” Bucky’s brows raise. “And what would you have told him?”

Silence falls quickly over the kitchen, and your mouth hangs open. You know what you would have told Steve. You still can’t manage to say it to Bucky, because what if.

“What was the end of your speech?” You whisper.

“That I’ve been a goner since I saw you.” He says, no hesitation in his voice. “That I like hidin’ with you. That I’m in love with you, and I’m gonna get better at saying it so you don’t forget.”

You swallow. “But… What if I didn’t love you back?”

Bucky takes a heavy breath, but doesn’t waver. “I don’t know. Do you?”

You shake your head, then quickly nod, not sure which question you’re answering. “I- Bucky, what if I do, and you stop loving me?”

“I don’t see that being an issue, doll.”

“But what if it is? What- What if someone you love more comes along, and you can’t help it?”

Bucky drawls your name, leaning forward on the counter. “There is no one I’m gonna love as much as you.”

Tears prick in your eyes. “What if someone I love more-“

“You’ll break my heart.” He says simply. “But only ‘cause I love you so much it hurts.”

“What if I get sick? Like, really sick, dying sick-“

“Then I’ll take care of you.”

“What if your family hates me-“

“They won’t.”

“What if we have to move for my job, you’ve lived in New York forever, and-“

“As much as I adore your places feel things theory, my love, I think I chose you every time.”

Fuck. “What if this is a mistake.” You whisper, because it’s all you have left.

And Bucky just smiles at you, words soft. “Then I’m happy to make it, baby.”

You stare at him. So far away, across the counter. So close that you know, if you reach out and touch him, he’s going to move forward and into you forever.

And he’s still so calm, but you can see it flickering in his eyes. Red on the tips of his ears. The nerves. The openness, and how it’s leaving him vulnerable, and how easily you could crush him to pieces.

You never want to hurt him. You just want him.

“Are you happy?” He asks, words so low you almost miss the crack. “With this? Are you happy, takin’ the risk?”

There are so, so many reasons to say no. Countless. Your brain can’t come up with them fast enough.

But you only need one reason to say yes, and it wipes them all out.

And they die so easily, when you look at him. When Bucky smiles at you, and there’s nothing in your head but him. No risk big enough that you wouldn’t take it, just to have him.

“Yeah.” You smile. “I am. I’m happy.”

And Bucky smiles right back.

✦End note: I love falling in love in mundane and simple settings it's deeply important to me please understand.✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦ ✦Divider by @cafekitsune✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

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