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blackcatner00 · 21 days ago

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Reckless • P5

18+

A conversation with your kids ends sourly. Luckily, Steve is there to remind you of the sweeter things in life.

Content Warning: Widower!Steve x Divorced!Reader, Ex Husband!Bucky, Dead!Peggy, mature themes, angst, argument, yelling, hurt/comfort, smut (live sex show, public sex, fingering, penetrative sex, soft dirty talk, soft dom!steve), forbidden romance, more angst, mentions cheating, wholesome fluff.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

You're trying not to make it obvious that you need a lot of wine to get through this dinner, but when Blake nudges your arm after you pour your fourth large glass, you know you haven't been trying hard enough.

"Calm down," She hisses under her breath, frowning at you. "You know what you're like when you're drunk."

A little sore from her harsh words, you bite your cheek, staring down at your food. You feel Steve comfortingly stroke your arm with his thumb under the table, alleviating at least some of your discomfort.

Thankfully, the others are too busy laughing at Grant's anecdote to notice the tension on your side of the table. You try not to stare at Kaya for too long at a time, but you can't help it. Her beauty is the kind that makes you want to look at her forever, like a painting in which you can discover intricate details the longer you stare at it.

Kaya's nice. You hate to admit it, but she's a wonderful human being. Never once has she been malicious towards you, or expressed any sort of jealousy for your odd friendship with Bucky. She hasn't tried to replace you; hasn't asked the kids to call her Mom. Has never once disrespected your authority or overstepped any boundaries.

She's absolutely perfect.

Her and Bucky met on a dating app four years ago. He told you straight away, as he did with all the women he dated after the divorce. You didn't expect it to last as long as it did, let alone result in him getting married again, but you're genuinely happy for them both.

That's what makes it so difficult to be around her. She's so lovely and kind that you have to try extra hard not to seem like the villain. If you complain about anything, you'd look crazy because Kaya is amazing.

"I'm really glad we could all do this together," Bucky says with a warm smile. "Like a proper family."

You really do love seeing him happy. It's been a long time since a relationship has lit him up this way - you don't think you've seen him this happy in love since you were sixteen.

"Blake, are we still on for tomorrow evening?" Kaya asks once Steve, Bucky and Grant fall into their own conversation.

Frowning, you turn to your daughter. "What's tomorrow evening?"

"Oh, it's the second round of Battle Of The Bands," Blake tells you nonchalantly. "Kaya's been coming to watch us play."

You can't help but feel offended. "Really? You didn't tell me you had entered." Blake and Grant have been in a rock band since high school with a couple of their other friends, and whenever they've entered competitions or performed gigs, they've always informed you. Until now.

An awkward silence sits between the three of you. Blake rolls her eyes and sighs. "It's not a big deal. Kaya's really into music; she'd enjoy it more."

"Besides, you're always busy at work," Grant suddenly interjects.

You feel attacked by both sides, and it throws you into defense mode. "I could have taken a day off, if I knew about it," You state with a frown.

"But Kaya can take any day off because her job isn't that intense," Blake says, while Kaya looks like she wishes the floor would swallow her up. "For you, it's a huge problem and causes issues at work."

"That isn't true!" You say, scoffing.

"Mom, it's fine," Grant claims. "You put work first, and that's fine."

Your lips part, but you're speechless. You put work first? Above your kids? "Do you really feel that way?" You ask them, feeling completely sober all of a sudden.

"You make us feel that way!" Blake suddenly yells, making you recoil. "You're just jealous that Kaya is doing the mom things that you should have done for us."

The entire table is silenced, everyone's eyes on you. With a shaky breath, you stand up and rush to the bar, trying to calm yourself down. All your life, you've pushed yourself in your career in order to be able to give the twins the life they deserve. You took barely anything from Bucky in the divorce, adamant to be independent, but now they're throwing that right back in your face.

Sitting at the bar with your head in your hands, you feel someone sit next to you. "Rough night?"

Rolling your eyes, you look over at him. "Not now, Bucky."

He just gives you a smile before waving down the bartender. "Two shots of tequila, my friend!"

"Absolutely not," You say with a grimace.

"Come on, why not?" Bucky asks you.

"Because," You begin, sitting up. "Last time you and I took tequila shots, I woke up the next morning with two babies inside me."

He narrows his eyes. "Not sure that's how it works, but you're the mother, so I'll go along with it."

The bartender slides the shots over, making you grimace. "Please, Bucky, just let me wallow in peace."

For a few moments, he complies, saying nothing. After staring at the shot, you roll your eyes before grabbing it and drinking it in one go, making him cheer before doing the same.

"I'm not jealous of Kaya," You mutter once the burning in your throat alleviates, hoping he believes you.

"That was a low blow. They were upset, and said what they knew would cut the deepest," Bucky replies softly. "I guess they learnt from a young age how to really hit someone where it hurts. We were always so good at it."

You wince at the reminder of the times the kids would witness the toxicity of your marriage. They were only 11 years old when you got divorced, and daddy and mommy hating each other had been the norm for most of their life.

"They love you, you know," Bucky says, leaning closer. "They just miss spending time with you."

You glare down at the bar. "What am I supposed to do? They're away at college. I do my best to visit them. How can I be a better mom?"

"This is not about your competence as a mother," Bucky says sternly, placing his hand on yours. "You have been nothing short of incredible when it comes to raising our kids. Every time I look at them, I am so proud of what we did. And there is no way they'd have turned out so great if it wasn't for you."

You let out a sigh, nodding, knowing he's right.

"Fuck, why am I tearing up?" He mumbles to himself as his eyes gloss over. "I just- fuck, I'm just so grateful to you, sweetheart. Our babies are all grown up and they're doing so well in school. Oh, fuck."

Turning to him, you see the tears streaming down his face, the sight making your own tears build up. "Don't you fucking cry on me, Buck, I swear to God."

"I'm so sorry for ever hurting you," He sobs, leaning his forehead against your shoulder as his warm tears run down your arm. "Through everything, you're still my best friend. And you always will be, no matter what."

"I'm sorry, too," You say, your breaths quick and shallow.

"I love you, sweetheart," Bucky utters, wrapping his arms around you.

"I love you, too," You reply, rubbing his back.

"Everything okay here?" You hear Steve ask from behind you.

You pull apart from Bucky, turning to look at the blonde with a pressed smile. "Yeah, we're fine."

"Tequila, brother," Bucky says, palming his eyes before sighing. "Ah, fuck."

"I, uh, I think it's home time," Steve says, patting Bucky's shoulder who laughs up at him.

"Yeah, I think you're right," He says, standing. He gives you a quick hug, does the same to Steve and walks back over to the table. Kaya gives you a wave which you return, but Blake and Grant just storm out the restaurant, breaking your heart.

Steve takes you to his car, the both of you letting out a long sigh once you're settled in.

"That was... a lot," You breathe out, pulling down the sun shield to look at yourself in the mirror. Your mascara has smudged, your lipstick has disappeared and your eyes are puffy.

"Yup," Steve says, driving out of the car park. "What were you and Bucky talking about?"

A small smile plays at your lips as you look over at him. "You jealous that he can still make me cry?"

"Something like that," Steve mumbles, biting back his own smile.

You lean your head back and let out a sigh. "The kids. He always gets emotional when he talks about them."

He hums, placing his free hand on your thigh. "You know they love you. Kids are bound to forget how great their parents are sometimes, but you need to remember just how incredible you are as a mother."

A smile blooms on your lips. "I am pretty incredible."

Your words make him grin and when he gets to a red light, he looks over at you. "Do you trust me?"

You narrow your eyes, slightly offended that he even has to ask. "Steven, you could tell me your shit smells like roses and I'd believe you."

He chuckles before taking an odd turn into a quiet country road. "You're not scared of the dark, are you?"

"Not when you're here to protect me," You mumble, narrowing your eyes suspiciously. "What's with all the questions, Rogers?"

He doesn't say a word and continues driving down the vacant road until you reach a small clearing. After parking the car on the grass, Steve turns off the engine, making you snort.

"Seriously?" You ask him with a raised brow as you look around the forested area. "You brought me to a quiet spot in the woods so we could make out like teenagers?"

"Make out? Oh no, you've got me all wrong," He says, leaning over to you and lowering his voice. "I brought you here so I can kill you."

A small smile pulls at your lips. "Fuck, really? Damn it."

"Mhm," He hums, stroking your cheek as his eyes burn into yours. "But, I'll tell you what- if you let me cum inside you, I'll let you live."

His proposition makes you snort before you straighten your face. "Uh, sure. Seems fair."

"Yeah?" Steve asks, leaning closer. "Gonna let me fill you up?"

Your cunt throbs at his words, your thighs squeezing together. He notices straight away and looks down before slipping his hand between your legs and tutting.

"Oh no, baby, don't try and hide from me," He coos, kissing your cheek. "Let me take what's mine."

"Fuck," You whisper as you feel yourself get wetter by the second.

Without a warning, Steve lifts you up and sits you down onto his lap, attaching his lips to yours before you get the chance to react. He immediately groans into your mouth, using his grip on your hips to push you down against his boner.

"Shit," He utters, throwing his head back. "So fucking hard for you, baby."

"Just for me?" You ask him teasingly, resting your hands on his shoulders.

"Only you," Steve promises desperately, looking into your eyes with a clear certainty. "I'm all yours, sweetheart."

You fiddle with his belt while he pulls up your dress, and when pull out his erect cock it immediately slaps against your panties, making you gasp. Steve kisses you deeply, moving your panties to the side with one hand and guiding his cock to your slick cunt with the other. After rubbing his shaft in your juices for a few moments while you squirm, he slowly pushes it into you as you hold your breath. The sensation of him stretching you out is one you know you'll never get used to, and it takes you a few moments to grow comfortable with his invasion.

He lets out a low groan, his Adam's apple bobbing as he watches your face contort. Bringing his lips to your ear, he whispers, "You gonna be a good girl and ride me, baby?"

You can't help but want to please him, and with your grip on his biceps, you slowly begin to bounce on his cock. Steve kneads your ass with his right hand and gently holds your throat in his left, letting out weak groans as your pussy envelops his length.

"So fucking good, keep going," He mutters, slapping your ass. "Just like that. You're doing so well for me, pretty girl."

Letting out moans and cries, you ride him faster, your body twitching when he starts playing with your hard nipples through your dress. He pulls the neckline down, allowing your boobs to fall out, before grabbing them both and pressing his face to your chest. Soft grunts leave his mouth as he flicks his tongue over your nipples, sucking and slobbering all over them.

"Oh, Steve!" You cry out loudly, your eyes rolling back. "Steven, please, I'm gonna cum."

The windows steam up and the car is filled with the sound of his balls slapping against your ass as his cock pounds in and out of your pussy. He takes holds of your hips and assists you, thrusting up into you harder as you feel the knot tighten in your core.

"Steve," You whine, pulling on his hair. "C-cumming." The knot is undone and you cum all over him, a harsh jolt of pleasure and relief hitting every inch of your skin.

He groans loudly, growling as your cunt milks him of his cum. Shooting his load into you, Steve lets out a repetitive chant of your name, thrusting into you a few more times as his eyes roll back.

You let out weak whimpers, your head falling forward to rest in his neck. He strokes your hair while the two of you recover, breathing heavily. Steve cracks open one of the windows, allowing some fresh air to fill the heated vehicle.

"Baby," He whispers, wrapping his arms around you. "Baby."

Lifting up your head, you look up at him. "Yes, Steve?"

A look of conflict grows on his face, as though he's trying to decide on whether to say something or not. His eyes scan your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks, and when he lets out a soft sigh it's almost like he has given up with whatever he was contemplating. "Kiss me," He mumbles, to which you immediately comply.

The moment of bliss swallows you hole, but a small part of you can't help but wonder whether he had something more to say.

"So, it's Steve."

You look up at your office door to see Shuri standing there with a raised brow. Gesturing for her to come in, you wait until the door is closed behind her before you reply. "It's Steve."

"I can't believe this!" She exclaims, a shocked grin on her face. "I mean, I've always thought you would look good together, but I didn't think you'd actually go through with it!"

Leaning back in your chair, you shrug with a soft smile. "I didn't, either."

She walks further in and sits on the chair opposite you, her eyes lighting up with excitement. "Does Bucky know?"

"God, no," You answer, shuddering at the thought of him finding out.

"What about the kids?" She presses with a frown. "Have you thought about how they might feel about it?"

"Of course I have. I never stop thinking about them; they're my kids," You say, slightly offended that she even asked. "The thing is, I didn't expect it to go this far. I thought we'd sleep together and that would be it. We'd get it out of our systems and move on. But... fuck, I don't wanna move on."

Shuri presses her lips together, and you can tell that she's loving the drama. "So you like him? Are you like, together?"

Her question makes you stop and think for a second. "Uh... I don't know," You admit. "We haven't really had a conversation; we're kinda just going with the flow."

"He isn't sleeping with anyone else, then?" She asks with a frown. "Because that chlamydia scare last year has scarred me for life-"

"Steve is not that kind of guy," You insist, but there's a small glint of fear you can't deny. "And I thought you swore to never bring up Chlamydia 2020 again."

She holds her hands up in surrender, her eyes wide. "Sorry, sorry. But are you saying that it isn't just sex?"

"Of course not," You answer her. "It... we have feelings for each other."

"You don't sound so sure-"

"We have feelings for each other," You state firmly. "We do."

"Okay," Shuri says carefully. "Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?"

You stare her down, contemplating her words. There's no way Steve doesn't have feelings for you. He said you were more than a soulmate. He looks at you like he hasn't seen a single thing more beautiful. He's risking his lifelong friendship with Bucky to be with you.

"I don't need convincing," You tell her calmly. "In fact, I'm pretty sure he's in love with me."

A full week passes before you see Steve again.

Between the renovations at his gym and the new budget schedule you've been working hard on, neither of you have had a single minute to spare. On Sunday evening, though, he is finally able to come over to see you.

"Missed you so much," He mumbles against your lips as your legs tangle with his. There's a shitty soap opera on the television but your focus is purely on him.

"Missed you more," You reply before giving him a sweet kiss. "Can't believe you stayed away for so long."

"It was horrible. Terrible," Steve groans, rubbing your arm. "I thought of you every single minute, you know that?"

"Every single minute?" You repeat with a teasing pout.

"Every single one," He whispers back to you. "You make me fucking crazy. I don't think I've ever felt like this before."

His words make you snuggle closer to him. "Do you really mean that, Steve? Or are you just saying that?"

He frowns, taken aback. "What are you talking about, baby? Of course I mean it."

"No, but..." You trail off, feeling stupid. "Do you like me?"

Steve raises a brow, moving his head back as he stares down at you. "Honey, are you high?"

Snorting, you hit his shoulder. "Steven, I'm being serious. Is this just sex to you?"

"Just sex?" He sputters, utterly baffled. "What put that thought into your head, baby?"

You shrug meekly. "I don't know, I just-"

"Look at me," Steve cuts you off curtly, grabbing your cheeks and forcing you to stare up at him. His bright blue eyes burn into yours, his gaze both soft and firm. "I care about you more than anything. You're the first thing I think of when I wake up, the last before I sleep, and the only thing I think of in between. It's like I was half-alive before you became mine- like I hadn't experienced what it was to truly live yet. Baby, I love you."

His admission makes your heart flutter. "Steve," You whimper, feeling your soul burst with joy. "I love you."

It feels like you've both broken free from shackles that you didn't even know you were bound to. He meets your lips with his, tugging on your hair as he kisses you deeply.

"Mmm, fuck," He groans into your mouth, his hand roaming up and down your body. "Need you so badly, baby."

"I'm yours, Steven," You swear to him. "Forever."

He lays you down on the couch and spreads your legs apart before nestling himself between them. Just as you feel your heart begin to pour with raw excitement and need, you hear someone knocking on the front door.

Your eyes shoot open and it takes all your strength to push Steve off of you, who looks dumbfounded as his eyebrows furrow.

"If that's Buck, I'm gonna fucking kill him," He growls while you stand up and smooth down your hair.

Rushing out into the hallway, you open the door and are surprised to see Grant. He looks utterly distraught as he sobs into his hands, the sight making you want to die.

"He was cheating on me," His muffled voice comes through the gaps in his fingers. "The whole time, he was cheating on me."

"Oh, my baby," You whisper, pulling him inside and enveloping him in a hug. "I'm so sorry, my angel."

Grant lets out a weak whimper before removing himself out of your grip and walking further into the house. "Can you believe it? Franco. My Franco. He was so sweet, and nice... and the whole thing was a lie."

He strides into your kitchen, where Steve is already standing at the island with a look of concern on his face.

"Do you know what it's like to be cheated on?" Grant asks him hysterically, before huffing. "Of course you don't. Look at you."

At a loss for words, Steve stays silent, giving you a shrug.

"This has nothing to do with your looks, angel," You promise him, walking closer to him and rubbing his back. "Him cheating is not a reflection of who you are as a person; remember that."

Grant sniffles, resting his hands on the island. After a few moments, he looks up at Steve, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Wait. What are you doing here so late?" He asks him, before looking at you. Grant's face drops as cold realization hits him and he takes a few steps backwards. "What the fuck? Does Dad know?"

Shit.

You take in a shaky breath, doing your best to remain calm. "No. Your father doesn't know."

A look of disgust and confusion grows on his face. "What the fuck, dude?" He yells at Steve. "I'm named after you and you're fucking my mom?"

"Hey," Steve says sternly, frowning. "Do not speak about your mother like that."

"Screw you!" He retorts bitterly. "You're not my dad."

"Grant, calm down," You order him lowly, your heart beating erratically.

"If Dad knew about this, he'd punch you right in your face," Grant says angrily, and in a second his fist is raised as he prepares to sock Steve right in the jaw.

You grab his arm before he can make contact, appalled. "Grant Buchanan Barnes, you watch yourself," You boom sternly.

With a sigh, Steve meets your eyes. "I should go."

Nodding, you know he's right. "I think that's a good idea."

"Okay wait," Grant interjects, rubbing his forehead. "I'm sorry for overreacting, I just... my life is crazy right now, and this is just weird."

"It isn't that weird," You mumble defensively.

"He's Uncle Steve, it's weird!" He retorts with wide eyes.

"Okay," Steve holds up his hands. "I'm gonna go." He makes his way over to you and is close to giving you a kiss goodbye - but when he sees Grant's glare, he opts to give you a quick forehead kiss instead and a mumbled goodnight before swiftly escaping your tense home.

A silence falls between you and your son. You take his hand and lead him to the island, both of you sitting down opposite one another. His cheeks are still flushed from earlier, his eyes wet with his previous tears.

Taking in a deep breath, you speak calmly and with a control you didn't know you had. "When we got divorced, you know that Dad started dating around pretty soon," You begin, recounting the worst time of your life. "I was angry. I wanted to get back at him, so I did what I thought would piss him off the most."

Grant raises a brow. "What'd you do?"

You let out a dry laugh. "Took his worst enemy, Sam Wilson, out to dinner. I felt so guilty that I cried when the starters came out."

"Did you stay for dessert?" He asks you with a hint of a smile.

Snorting, you shake your head. "No, I did not. Ever since then, for the last 9 years, I still felt that guilt. Even if it was just flirting with a stranger at the store, I got this weird pit of dread in my stomach. Like I was betraying your father. It wasn't his fault that I felt that way; it's just how I felt. It was like every guy I dated was just to prove Bucky a point. To rub it in his face. To get one over him, and prove that I could move on, too." Looking down at the counter, a small smile grows on your face. "But with Steve, it isn't like that at all. For the first time, I feel... safe. Safe to be with someone without caring about what your dad will think. For the first time, I've finally let go of being your dad's wife. I can finally just be me again, and that's partly because of Steve."

Frowning, Grant tightens his grip on your hand. "Then why haven't you told him yet?"

You swallow thickly, letting go of your fear. "You're right. I have no excuse. In fact, you're so right, that I'll tell him first thing tomorrow."

To your surprise and utter joy, Grant smiles at you. "You know, I don't think I've ever seen you in love before, ma."

Your cheeks heat up at the word. Love. It was so recent that Steve said that word to you, but it feels like you've been in love with him forever.

"You look happy," He goes on to say warmly, before sighing. "Enough about you. Can we watch movies and eat ice-cream now? You know I just got cheated on, right? Tonight's about me."

Grinning at his dramatics, you stand up. "Of course, bubba. But first: what's Franco's mother's number? I'd like to have a word with her."

"Oh, please," Grant groans, getting up and pulling you through to the living room. "Just turn on Netflix while I peruse through your frozen treats."

"Wait," You say, grabbing his arm and looking up at him. "You came all the way from Raleigh tonight?"

"I caught the red-eye," He explains. "I just wanted to come straight here the minute I found out what he did."

"Here as in New York?" You ponder out loud. "Or here as in my house?"

"Straight to my mom, of course," He says as though it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Really?" You press with wide eyes. "You didn't wanna... I don't know, go see your dad?" Or Kaya?

"I've just been through a tragedy, Momma," Grant tells you. "There's nobody else I need more than you right now."

"Oh," You whisper. "I just... I just thought-"

"That I'd rather go to Kaya?" He finishes with a scoff.

You shrug. "The last time I saw you, we had the worst argument we've ever had."

"And you suddenly stopped being my mom?" He questions you incredulously. "Mom, you're my mom."

"But you've been spending a lot of time with her- which is fine and all, but I just figured you'd wanna go to her with this kind of thing," You mumble, even though you know you'd be pissed if he went to Kaya instead of you.

Sighing, Grant rests his hands on your shoulders. "Ma, she's Dad's wife. That's all. And sure, I have fun with her, and she's great to hang out with, but that's it. She's pretty much just a friend to me. And if all I needed was a friend tonight, I'd have stayed in Raleigh."

His words soothe you, and you almost feel stupid for getting envious in the first place. You're their mother. Get a fucking grip.

"Okay," You utter, giving him a smile. "I have butterscotch ice-cream and Oreo ice-cream sandwiches in the freezer."

A wide grin spills out on his face as he pulls you in for a hug. "And that, you wonderful creature, is why nobody could ever replace you as my mom."

> PART 6 >

hi! i no longer have a taglist, but if you follow @kinanabinksupdates and turn on notifications, you'll know when i post 🥰

also, if you are willing and able, i would appreciate if you bought me a kofi - even the smallest of donations helps me out so much! ❤

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blackcatner00 · 23 days ago

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Monster-in-law masterlist

Summary: Your mother-in-law is the worst. She will try anything to ruin your loving relationship with Bucky. Will she succeed?

Pairing: CEO!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, language, awful mother-in-law, unplanned pregnancy, awful behavior, pregnant reader, fluff, hurt & comfort, cuddling & snuggling, deceive, more to be added

Monster-in-law (1)

Worst-in-law (2)

Best-in-law (3)

Villain-in-law (4)

Family-in-law (5)

Sisters-in-law (6)

Forever-in-law (7)

No-more-in-laws (8)

You & Me forever (9)

Our family (10) - Epilogue

Seguir leyendo

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blackcatner00 · 27 days ago

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something good and true - masterlist

pairing: mob boss!bucky x reader

warnings: 18+ only. domestic violence. retelling of abuse and battery. minor character death mentioned. angst. sweet and protective bucky. fluff. not sure if this qualifies as a slow burn or not 👀. smut. there’s a happy ending! (as per usual)

last updated: 03/13/25

status: complete

part one

part two - (!!! tw: explicit dv, abuse, battery, and minor character death all from reader’s pov retelling of events !!!)

part three

part four - (smut)

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blackcatner00 · 1 month ago

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Supposed Distraction

Pairing: College!Athlete!Bucky x College!Reader

Summary: It’s Bucky’s birthday and you and your friends are planning a surprise party. That leaves you with the task to distract him while the others prepare.

Prompt 1: “I think we need to talk.”

Prompt 2: “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

Prompt 3: “Kiss me.”

Word Count: 7.6k

Warnings: friends to lovers; reader is embarrassed and rather terrible at attempting to distract Bucky; Bucky is smug; Bucky is worried; Sam and Steve are idiots; feels; pining; tension; Bucky is a sweetheart

Author’s Note: This is another entry for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge by @elixirfromthestars ♡ I hope you’re not getting tired of me participating, my dear, but I couldn’t help it. Especially since you were the one inspiring me to write this about college!bucky. I'll have to thank you for that!! Hope you enjoy! ♡

Masterlist

You always knock four times.

It’s instinctive at this point, muscle memory more than conscious thought. You don’t even remember when or how it started, but it's always fours knocks.

The door swings open within seconds, revealing Bucky’s easy and bright grin. He leans against the frame, arms crossed over his broad chest, hair slightly tousled, perhaps from running his hands through it. God, he looks great.

“Hey, doll,” he greets, voice warm. “You’re early.”

You arch a brow, stepping past him when he shifts to let you in. “It’s your birthday, Buck. What kind of friend would I be if I left you alone, huh?”

Bucky exhales a short sigh, but his smile stays in place. “Told you, it’s not a big deal.”

“‘Course it is, Buck,” you argue, almost indignant at the thought. Because if anyone deserves a day where people get to celebrate him, it’s James Buchanan Barnes.

But he doesn’t make much of his birthday. He doesn’t like attention when he hasn’t earned it.

It’s why he loves the mound, standing there under stadium lights with all eyes on him, but loathes things like this - birthdays, personal praise, anything that forces him into a spotlight just for existing. You suppose that’s just part of who he is.

You saw him earlier, in university. You shared one class today. He walked in a few minutes late, baseball cap pulled low, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder.

You had been waiting for him, barely able to contain your excitement as you nearly launched yourself at him in the hallway with a cheerful happy birthday, Bucky!

He had only blinked, slightly startled at your enthusiasm before huffing out a laugh when you crushed him in a tight hug. But he hadn’t complained, only chuckled softly, winding his arms around you and pressing his hands to your back, waiting for you to be the first to pull away again.

You told him he'd receive his present later the day with a grin and Bucky only rolled his eyes with a fond smile, letting you have your moment.

But what Bucky doesn’t know is that there is a surprise party awaiting him later, planned by you and your shared group of friends - because somebody has to make sure that today doesn’t pass like it is just another day.

Sam’s apartment is the only logical choice, given that his roommate dropped out and no one had rushed to fill the space yet. That means lots of room, plus an open invitation to make a mess.

The only issue is that Sam’s apartment is directly across the hall from Bucky and Steve’s.

Which means you have been assigned a very specific task - keep Bucky in his apartment until it’s time.

Not that you had much say in the matter. The moment the question came up about who would be the one distracting him that long, every pair of eyes landed on you.

You are his best friend, but - and that’s how you see it - so is everyone else. Still, they seemed to believe that you could hold his attention for long enough, that you could keep him engaged enough not to notice the shuffle of footsteps and suspicious voices beyond his door. That it would be you who he doesn’t mind having around, lingering in his space.

Honestly, you didn’t argue.

There is not a reason as to why you should. Any excuse to spend time with Bucky is a good one.

After all, you love the guy. But that’s a problem for another day.

You drop your bag on the worn-out armchair by the window, the same spot you always claim when you are here.

Bucky’s jacket is slung over the back of the chair, and the second your bag lands on it, the scent of his cologne drifts up - clean, something woodsy, something him. It distracts you for a second, but then you turn to face him again.

He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans after closing the door again.

“Where’s Steve?” you ask casually, like you don’t already know he is across the hall, making sure everything is set up for the surprise. But you don’t know what he told Bucky.

“He said somethin’ about running some drills with the rookies, helping out the coach, or whatever,” Bucky answers, tilting his head in that unconcerned way. He slowly makes his way toward you. “Guess one of them nearly took his own damn head off trying to hit a curveball.”

One of your brows lifts amused. “And Steve’s the guy to fix that?”

Bucky smirks. “Well, y’know how he is. Someone fucks up a throw, suddenly he’s gotta be the one to teach ‘em how to do it right.” He shakes his head, like the whole thing is ridiculous.

“Yeah, sounds like Steve,” you state, trying to suppress a knowing smile.

You lean your hip against the kitchen counter, arms loosely crossed, trying to keep it casual. The apartment is small, with the kitchen bleeding into the living space, a single couch, and a coffee table taking up a lot of the room. You love it.

“So, what do you feel like doing?” You tip your head toward him. “You’re the birthday boy, you get to decide.”

Bucky scoffs, lips curling, finding your antics amusing. But then, he actually seems to consider it. His hands slip from his pockets, arms crossing as he leans back slightly against the table. His gaze falls to the window. Sunlight spills in, casting golden lines across the floor and making your hair gleam.

“You wanna go get some ice cream or somethin’?” he suggests. “It’s warm out.”

You blink, caught off guard. Bucky isn’t usually the one to propose going out. It takes a little coaxing most days, a push to get him moving and leave his apartment to meet your group of friends somewhere outside. You wonder what he would have said if anyone else were the one distracting him.

But you can’t take him up on it. Because you can’t let him leave and potentially find out.

“Uh-no,” you say, a little too quickly, a little too firmly.

Bucky’s brows lift, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. “No?” He huffs a laugh, shifting his weight onto one foot, arms still folded. His voice takes on that slow, teasing drawl. “You just asked me what I wanna do, doll. Thought I got to decide? Y’know, birthday and all that.”

You just started this distracting thing and you are already messing up. Great.

You scramble for a way to walk it back, to keep him here without making it obvious. “Yeah, you know, I just-” You glance around as if the answer is hidden somewhere in the room. “Why don’t we stay inside?”

Bucky watches you, eyes narrowing just slightly, trying to puzzle you out. He doesn’t look suspicious. But there is a curiosity in it.

“Why?” he drags the word out, tilting his head. “Something wrong with ice cream? We could also go get some tacos maybe-”

“No! Nothing’s wrong with ice cream.” You force a laugh, waving your hand dismissively. “I just figured we could chill here for a bit.” You bite your lip, then continue. “We could bake you a cake?”

You would love to face-palm yourself right now.

Why would you even say that?

There will be plenty of cake at the party. Cake that’s already been ordered, picked out, baked yourself, and waiting across the hall. And yet, here you are, offering something completely unnecessary, completely ridiculous.

God, you are terrible at this.

Bucky’s blue eyes are on you, considering, lips parting, about to say something.

Panic rises.

“Or not,” you blurt, stepping forward too fast, too sudden, hands coming up in a vague, dismissive gesture. “Yeah, maybe not. That’s dumb. Forget I said anything.”

You shift where you stand, fingers twitching at your sides. You don’t get nervous around Bucky - at least, not like this. But something hot and uncomfortable starts to creep up the back of your neck.

A slow smirk pulls at Bucky’s mouth as he watches you with so much amusement in his eyes, enjoying whatever the hell this is turning into.

“You alright over there, doll?” he asks, voice warm, teasing.

You scoff, rolling your eyes, trying to keep your cool. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure?” He tilts his head, a lock of dark hair falling into his eyes. “Cause you’re actin’ a little funny.”

You open your mouth, a retort or something like it ready, but Bucky suddenly leans in just a fraction, gaze sweeping over your face like he is searching for something. And yeah shit, you need to shut this down. Now. Or you’ll be a hot mess on the floor.

“Just forget it.” You shrug and then move away from him, toward the fridge, suddenly very interested in whatever’s inside. “You want something to drink?”

You don’t look back at him immediately, don’t give him a chance to see the way you feel your face warm up. Instead, you grab two small bottles of orange juice, shoving one in his direction as a distraction.

Bucky takes it easily, but that amused smirk does not waver a tiny bit. He is still watching you.

Bucky is no idiot. And if you’re not careful, he’s going to catch on fast.

You twist the cap of the bottle a little forcefully, the plastic groaning in your grip. The cold of it seeps into your palm, but it’s not enough to steady the way your heart is beating a little too fast. Taking a sip of the juice, you try to swallow past the lump in your throat.

He has always been observant. Even more so when it comes to you. You wish, just this once, that he'd be a little more dense.

“You gonna tell me what’s up with you today?” he asks, voice colored with curiosity, dipping just enough into concern that you flinch internally.

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

It’s defensive, but all it does is amuse him. His lips curve, his brows shoot high, the lines on his forehead creasing in exaggerated surprise.

Leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest, his own bottle loosely held in one hand, he tips his head back and studies you. “That how we’re playin’ it, huh?”

You shrug, taking another sip of your juice, using the movement as an excuse to break eye contact. But you know it does not deter him.

Bucky makes a thoughtful noise, shifting his weight. “Y’know,” he drones out, tone lazy but eyes sharp and smirk sly. “Usually when people get all cagey like this, it means they’re hidin’ something.”

You shoot him a hopefully flat look. “Wow, Barnes. That’s some real detective work. You want to get a notepad? Maybe a magnifying glass?”

His smirk widens. He seems thoroughly entertained. You don’t like it.

“Depends,” he teases, leaning in just a fraction. “Do I need ‘em?”

Your pulse spikes. Bastard.

With an obvious eye roll that unfortunately lacks the conviction you tried to portray, you cross the room, shoulders set, and let yourself drop into the armchair where your bag still rests with a heavy thud. The cushions soften the impact. Trying to feign the usual comfort you feel sitting here, you tuck one leg under the other, leaning back. Your hands tighten around the still cold bottle of juice.

Bucky doesn’t move right away. He is still standing by the counter, bottle in hand, eyes never leaving you.

“Do you want to watch something?” you ask, reaching for the remote, already trying to steer this back into safe waters.

Bucky exhales through his nose, humor lining the corners of his eyes. His stance is easy and relaxed, but he looks at you like he knows something is off.

“Is this me deciding?” he muses, voice smooth. “Or are you just gonna tell me no again?”

There is no accusation in his tone, just that familiar Brooklyn drawl that makes everything sound like an inside joke.

He finally moves, dragging his body toward the couch. He doesn’t plop down like you did. He settles himself with intent and leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his entire focus trained on you like you are the most interesting thing in the room.

You swallow.

“You’ll get to decide,” you promise, trying for nonchalance.

Bucky glances at the dark TV screen, then back at you.

“Nah,” he claims. “Let’s talk.”

Your stomach drops.

Bucky never lets things go when he is curious. You see the spark in his eyes, the glint of amusement, the way the corners of his mouth twitch with that smirk. He knows you are acting weird. Maybe he doesn’t know why, but he sure as hell knows something is up and he is going to dig.

You inhale deeply, fighting the urge to groan. But all you do is force a casual shrug, stretching your arms over your head before letting them drop back into your lap. “What do you want to talk about?”

Your fingers fidget with the label on the bottle, a nervous little movement you don’t mean to make. Bucky’s gaze flickers down to your hands and you freeze, immediately stilling them, letting the bottle rest in your lap and shoving your hands between your thighs.

His eyes snap back to yours, lips curving up.

“You,” he says simply.

You roll your eyes, feigning playful annoyance, because if you don’t, you might actually combust on the spot. “Oh, come on,” you scoff.

For the next few minutes, you actually manage to let a conversation drift to normal things. The familiar back-and-forth. You talk about classes, you being annoyed at that one professor who has a habit of trailing off mid-lecture, forgetting what he is actually supposed to talk about. Bucky tells you about his brutal morning training session that left half the team groaning like old men.

You bring up his next baseball game, the one you won’t be able to make because of an assignment, and Bucky whines.

He doesn’t just complain a little but rather goes on about it for minutes on end. Arms flailing, huffing dramatically, groaning like you just told him his dog died.

“You could just skip,” he protests, lounging back into the couch.

“I can’t just skip, Bucky.”

“But I need my lucky charm,” he laments, throwing his head back against the cushion as if this is some great tragedy.

You roll your eyes but there is warmth rising in your chest. “I’m sorry, Buck. But I did come to all your games last month.”

“Yeah, which is why you owe me,” Bucky retorts, sitting up again, gesturing with his hands. “I hit a homer 'cause you were there. What if I suck without you?”

“I’m sure you’ll survive,” you laugh, but Bucky grumbles under his breath, not quite over it.

It starts to feel normal. Easy. You begin to believe that you might actually pull this off. That you can keep him here, keep him occupied, long enough for your friends across the hall to finish setting up.

But then a loud thump echoes from the hallway.

Your spine goes rigid.

Bucky’s head snaps up, his grin replaced with a furrowed brow.

Another thud.

Yeah, so, that was that.

You fumble for your phone and type out a quick text to Sam.

Y: What are you guys doing out there?

The reply comes almost immediately.

S: Just keep Barnes inside.

You would love to curse loudly right now. Because thank you for nothing, Sam.

Bucky is already standing.

“What are you doing?” you ask, standing up as well, your voice perhaps a little sharper than usual.

Bucky glances at you briefly. There is a tiny bit of concern in his eyes. “There’s something goin’ on out there.” He gestures toward the door. “Think I should check. Might be Miss Nelly.”

Something clenches in your gut.

Miss Nelly, the sweet older woman who lives next door to him and Steve. The one they always help carry groceries up the stairs. The one who has trouble with her hip sometimes. If Bucky thinks she might have fallen, or perhaps tried to carry something on her own, of course, he wants to check.

But that is not what is happening out there.

You rush to step between him and the door. “Let me check.”

Bucky shakes his head. “You wait here, doll. I’ll be back in a sec-”

But you don’t let him finish.

You throw the door open and basically slam it shut behind you before he can follow.

Yes, that was perhaps a little rude. Yes, that will probably only make him more suspicious. Yes, you could have come up with something better. But you certainly did not have the time to think about what exactly.

Right outside, Sam and Steve are standing there - in front of the open door to Sam's apartment where a chair lays with its backside on the floor - wide-eyed, looking about as guilty as two kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

You would have laughed at the sight if not for the fact that you just slammed Bucky’s own apartment door basically in his face without an explanation.

“What the hell are you guys doing?” you hiss, voice low, exasperated.

Sam lifts his hands in a calm down gesture. “Listen-”

“No, you listen,” you snap, whisper-shouting, barely resisting the urge to grab them by their collars and shake them. “He’s two seconds away from walking out that door.”

Steve grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck. “We, uh, we miscalculated.”

“Miscalculated?” you repeat, eyes narrowing.

They both exchange a glance.

You sigh in frustration. “Where’s Nat?”

“Out with Bruce getting drinks,” Steve answers, folding his arms. “Wanda, Clint, and Laura are inside, decorating.”

“Look,” Sam starts, raising a brow. “We’re bustin’ our asses for this dickhead, and you’re the one who came up with the whole thing in the first place.”

“That’s not-”

“So you gotta do your part. Go back in and stall him some more” A grin spreads across his face and he waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I don’t know - offer him a good time.”

Your eyes narrow, hands on your hips. “Sam.”

Steve sighs, shaking his head, but there is an unmistakable smirk tugging at his lips.

You glare at them both, spinning on your heel before they can make this worse, yanking the door open and stepping back inside the apartment.

Bucky is exactly where you left him.

Arms crossed. Eyebrows raised. Lips parted slightly, caught between confusion and suspicion.

He is wearing that what the hell was that expression.

You swallow and shut the door more forcefully than necessary, the sound echoing slightly.

Bucky doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just fixes you with a stare so focused, so piecing, seemingly able to look right through you. It makes you shift where you stand, suddenly hyper-aware of every nervous tick in your body.

“Alright,” he starts slowly, carefully, eyes falling to the door before turning back to you. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Not Miss Nelly,” you quip, attempting a light and assuring tone.

It does not work.

Bucky still doesn’t blink. His jaw works. He doesn’t buy a damn thing you’re trying to sell him.

“No, doll.” His voice is lower now, thoughtful, putting together a puzzle in his head. “What’s going on with you?”

You try to press down the lump in your throat.

“You’re actin’ real weird.” His words aren’t harsh, not even accusing. Just observant.

He cocks his head slightly.

Why did the others think you could withstand the way his eyes root you to the spot without flopping down to the ground as a puddle.

You are so screwed.

You push yourself out of the conversation, walking over to the armchair again and trying to find something to keep you busy while plopping down.

“It’s nothing, Bucky.”

Your fingers curl around the juice bottle, bringing it to your lips, but the cold liquid doesn’t do much to cool the heat crawling up your spine. Your thumb works at the label, picking at the paper until it peels away in small, curling strips.

Bucky blows out a breath, rubbing a hand down his face before slowly making his way over to you.

Crouching in front of you, he braces his forearms on his knees, his eyes intently locked onto you.

The sudden closeness forces you to suck in a breath and your fingers tighten around the bottle in your hands.

His expression shifts again, humor creeping into the smirk on his mouth. “Doll,” he starts, voice light, amused. His hands slide up to rest on either side of your chair, effectively caging you in. “Did you plan somethin’ for me?”

Shit.

Your next inhale is a little hesitant. The air thickens. “No.” It sounds too stiff.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. He is smirking so wide. Enjoying this so much, the way you squirm in your seat before him.

You push forward, shaking your head. “No, Buck. I did not.”

“You sure?” He almost laughs.

“Yes, I just-” You are floundering, drowning in your own words. How can you save this now?

“I’m nervous.” Well, at least that’s not a lie.

Bucky’s expression softens immediately, his amusement fading into something quieter. He straightens up, tilting his head tenderly. His full attention is on you.

A gentle crease in his brows forms. “Why are you nervous, sweetheart?” His voice is softer now, lower.

And guilt hits you.

How do you get out of this?

But, hell, he is so close, too close. His eyes are so blue, too blue. His gaze is so intense, too intense. You are feeling hot, too hot - your brain isn’t working, it’s overheating, and your mouth is suddenly moving.

“Because.” Shut up, shut up, shut up. “Because I think we need to talk.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

The entirety of Bucky shifts and you just want the ground to eat you up right this second.

Because now he looks so worried. So genuinely concerned.

You feel yourself start to sweat. Where is this going? Why can’t you stop this? Why did you even start it?

Bucky’s face drops to a frown so deep, lines are forming. A hand of his moves, palm landing lightly on your knee.

“We can talk, doll.” His voice is even softer now, barely above a murmur. “Is something wrong? You alright?”

You just stare at him.

Your heart is hammering.

What the hell are you doing?

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as your fingers keep worrying at the torn label, peeling off strips that crumple beneath your fingertips. It’s the only thing you want to focus on right now with Bucky’s proximity and his intense gaze.

But then his hands replace the bottle and he grasps your fingers, wrapping around them and stilling their fidgeting.

Something electric rushes through your veins so quickly, you couldn’t catch it if you tried.

This is getting way too serious.

Too intimate in a way that sends your pulse skittering up your throat.

You feel like a deer caught in headlights, your body tensing up, lungs forgetting how to work properly. Because this is veering dangerously off course, heading straight for a conversation you’re not sure you’re ready to have. You never thought you’d ever be ready.

But you started this. You walked straight into it with your own words, and there is no backing out now. So you might as well be honest now.

No time like the present.

Bucky must feel the way your hands begin to tremble in his hold, because he adjusts again, shifting closer, his knees pressing against the base of your chair. His thumbs trace over the backs of your hands. His frown deepens.

Why does he have to be so worried? It would make things so much easier if he remained casual and easy. But really, that’s how Bucky always is. Worrying so fast when it comes to you. You can’t really blame this on him now, can you?

His voice drops lower, soft as a whisper. “What is it, sweetheart?” His eyes are full and searching. “Talk to me.”

Air hitches, stalling between your ribs before pushing forward in a rather trembling exhale. Your lungs barely feel full. Your eyes dart away from his, searching the room, the floor, anywhere but him.

“Did I upset you? Is it something I did-”

“No!” you rush out, hastily. “No, you didn’t do anything, Buck.” God, now he even goes that far. This is bad.

Bucky softens a tiny fraction, but he keeps sweeping his eyes over your face, latching on the details, trying to study you, trying to read what this is about. “You can tell me, doll. Always. Whatever it is,” he coos so sweetly, and it makes you want to cry.

How do you even start this?

You open your mouth. You’re certainly not ready to climb the whole mountain, but perhaps you can try a small hill.

“Do you-” You swallow, trying to sound as if you are simply reminiscing. “Do you remember that time after your game last year when it started pouring the second we left the stadium?”

Bucky blinks at the sudden turn. Confusion enters his features but the worry only deepens. “What?”

You push forward, gaze fixed on the arm of your chair as if it might give you the courage you need. “You gave me your jersey, even though I already had a jacket and you were the one soaking wet-”

Bucky’s brows pull further together, his head shaking slowly, not knowing what to do with your words. “Doll-”

“You walked me all the way back to my apartment.” Your voice turns quieter as if you are speaking more to yourself than him. Perhaps you are. Saying those things out loud makes them seem so much more important. “And then you got sick for three days.”

His hands squeeze yours gently. “I mean- Yeah, I remember.” Confusion also settles in his tone. “But what’s that got to do with-”

“I don’t know,” you cut in quickly. “I just-” You exhale a deep sigh. “I think about that a lot.”

Bucky says your name like it is something delicate. Something that might slip away if he is not careful.

“Look at me, please.”

You try, but it’s hard.

It means staring into those impossibly blue eyes that see too much, that strip you bare without even trying, that try to coax something out of you, you didn’t even plan on letting go.

But you force yourself to lift your gaze and it is worse than you expected.

He is watching you with an intensity that makes you stop breathing. His stormy eyes are so full of concern, so desperate to understand what is going on in your head, searching every inch of your face.

His lips are parted slightly. His breathing is sharper. Uneven.

“What’s going on, hm?” he coaxes, so softly, so full of patience you don’t deserve. “What’s this about? You still feelin’ guilty?”

Your heart plummets like a stone.

“Doll, there’s no need to, alright?” His hands squeeze yours, grounding, reassuring. “We talked about this.”

God, why does he have to be so good?

His voice is so warm. Warm like sunlight, like home. It makes the sting behind your eyes grow stronger.

You don’t want to cry.

You don’t want to feel this way. Don’t want to ruin his fucking birthday like this. This is getting so out of hand right now, but what should you do? You are so tangled up in trying to figure out what to say, things you are too much of a coward to finally admit out loud.

Bucky notices your struggles. He sees them. Plain on your face. His thumbs brush over your skin in careful strokes. “And you took such good care of me.” His tone lightens, trying to pull you out of whatever hole you’re sinking into. “Remember that part?”

You nod, swallowing and swallowing but the clump of emotions stays stuck in your throat. “Yeah.” Your voice comes out flat, like you are detached from it. “I do. Sorry for bringing it up.”

Bucky’s lips press together, and then he sighs so deeply, his chest rises and falls profoundly.

“Doll,” he murmurs, straightening up, arms beside you tensing as though he is holding himself back from doing something. “That’s not what you wanted to talk about.”

He’s right.

“Darlin’, please,” he urges, and god, the way that word falls from his lips makes you shudder. His voice is barely above a whisper now, full of something genuine, something tender, something that makes him sound like he wishes you would just talk to him, and it makes you want to shrink down to something he can’t see anymore. “What is it?”

You could lie. Again.

You could laugh it off, steer the conversation away, keep pretending.

You could drag this out further until the others are ready, leaving him worried and slightly upset.

You could tell him the truth about the party.

Or you could finally come clean about the feelings you have held in your heart for so long. Feelings for your best friend.

Drawing in a breath, you straighten slightly. Your hands, still held in his, still shaking, squeeze back. His eyes never waver from your face, tracing the contours of your features.

You clear your throat, but it doesn’t help much. “Uhm,” you croak. “I- I wanted- I need to tell you something.”

His fingers twitch around yours. His features fall into a deep concentration. He doesn’t rush you. Just watches. Waits.

And god, his eyes are pools you never learned to swim in.

You look away, at the wall behind him. “I’ve been wanting to tell you this for a while now, I guess. But-” You inhale a quivering breath. “But I was afraid. Because I don’t know how you’ll react.”

Bucky doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His chest rises and falls deeply, almost mechanically. There is something almost spellbound in the way he stares at you, completely locked in, completely yours. The only sign that he has heard you is the subtle press of his fingers against yours.

His head dips in a nod for you to go on.

You wet your lips. “I, uhm-”

But then something catches your attention.

The door to Bucky’s and Steve’s apartment opens.

Painstakingly slow.

You stiffen.

Bucky is still so enamored with what you were saying, he doesn’t seem to notice at first. His back is to the door.

You see heads peeking through the small gap, cautious, bodies frozen in an awkward crouch as if that makes them less noticeable.

Steve and Sam.

They are trying to slip in without a sound, their movements so unbelievably slow, exaggerated. They resemble cartoon characters sneaking through a heist.

Sam motions at you wildly, gesturing at Bucky, at himself, at the hallway, mouthing something like distract him! Keep him busy.

They almost make it, but Bucky catches the small reaction of you, the surprise. His senses are too tuned in to every little thing about you and with his brows knit together, he shifts to glance over his shoulder.

You don’t think about anything.

Your hands rip from his, and before he can turn fully, before he can see those two idiots, you grab his face.

Bucky jolts, startled, his breath hitching audibly. His skin is warm beneath your palms, the sharp angle of his jaw fitting perfectly against your hands. His wide eyes snap back to you, dumbfounded, searching.

He blinks at you. Then blinks again. Then simply stares.

His lips part slightly, breath brushing over your skin.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

This is close. Too close. Closer than you’ve ever been. Well, but not closer than you’ve let yourself imagine. But having him here in reality is something else entirely.

Sam throws you a thumbs up over Bucky’s head and a wiggle of his brows and the both of them disappear from sight into the hallway.

But you just made this worse.

And you are still holding his face between your hands.

Bucky’s lashes flicker, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t fight it. Just stares at you like you’ve done something earth-shattering, like you’ve just rewritten every unspoken rule between you in a single, desperate motion.

Your pulse is a drum against your throat.

You see Bucky’s pulse thunder in his neck.

But he doesn’t move. You don’t move either.

He doesn’t breathe. You don’t know if you do.

He watches you. You watch him back.

“Doll?” Bucky practically breathes the question.

You swallow hard. Opening your mouth doesn’t help with finding words, so you shut it again. Slowly, you pull your hands away from his face.

But Bucky still doesn’t move.

His breath is still broken, his lips still parted, his brows still slightly drawn, stuck somewhere between surprise and something so deep, you’d be falling endlessly.

He is leaning in just the slightest bit, as though his body hasn’t quite caught up with his mind, not even realizing he is doing it.

And you hate the way your chest aches at the look in his eyes.

There is so much all at once and the more you stare, the harder it gets.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, dropping your gaze.

But there is movement in your peripheral.

Steve and Sam are creeping back out of the hallway, lugging something that looks like Bucky’s speaker system from his room.

And god help you, they are still moving at a snail’s pace, their motions so exaggerated, so painfully slow and obvious that you want to scream. You grit your teeth.

Fortunately, Bucky is still just staring at you, stunned.

The two are just about to reach the door, so close to getting through this ridiculous charade, when Sam’s end of the box bumps against the shoe shelf.

The sound isn’t loud, but it’s enough. Enough for Bucky’s head to instinctively turn toward the noise. Enough for his body to shift just slightly.

Your brain short-circuits.

Like completely.

Totally.

Lacking any sense.

Not only do you pull his face back.

You pull it in.

“Kiss me,” you blurt, and it’s not soft, not sweet, not anything carefully planted - it’s desperate, panicked.

Bucky’s whole face just goes wide, pure shock filtering out anything else.

Another bump.

You’re not sure Bucky even heard it, but your lips crash onto his with urgency.

Bucky freezes.

And when you say freeze, you mean freeze.

Every muscle in his body turns to stone. His hands flex before going rigid, floating in the air. His breath stalls. His spine goes straight, and the grunt he lets out - so low and gravelly, caught deep in his throat - reverberates into your mouth.

But behind him, Steve and Sam go as still. Dead silent.

You can feel them watching, their eyes practically bulging out of their skulls.

For a full few seconds, nothing happens.

But then, there is a shift. You don’t see it, but you know it. The way their disbelief turns into something smug - something amused and downright delighted. You feel the way Sam’s mouth probably stretches into that toothy and knowing, cocky-ass grin. You feel the way Steve simply looks happy.

You don’t pull away.

Instead, you wave one frantic hand behind Bucky’s back, motioning wildly, trying to get them to move.

You open an eye to see them still staring, Steve blinking rapidly, Sam grinning like a fool, nudging Steve.

But then, finally, they start creeping out of the room again.

They are gone now.

Bucky still isn’t moving.

He’s not breathing.

He’s not reacting.

And the tension stretches so tight, you swear the air could snap in half.

Because this isn’t just a distraction anymore.

This isn’t just a cover-up.

Your lips are still on Bucky’s.

Your hands are still gripping his face.

And his are trembling where they hover near your knees, as if he wants to touch you, wants to move, but his brain is still struggling to catch up with what is happening.

Then the tension snaps.

Bucky exhales against you.

It’s not just a breath - it’s a surrender. A sharp and shuddering exhale that stirs against your lips, warm and tentative, as if he is trying to feel what is happening, trying to understand the shape of this moment.

His hands flex and twitch against your legs, but he is hesitant, as if waiting for something, waiting for you to pull back, waiting for this to be some kind of mistake.

But you don’t pull back.

You don’t want to pull back.

And that’s when he melts.

He sinks into the kiss, his body softening, folding inward toward you. His fingers slide up your legs, brushing tenderly against the fabric of your pants before settling on your hips, cautious, like he doesn’t want to break the moment, doesn’t want to take too much.

Then, his lips move. It’s a slow, searching motion, testing the waters, trying to figure you out. His mouth is warm, his lips so much softer than you imagined. And hell, did you imagine.

He makes a sound - low and unsure, a hum deep in his throat that vibrates against your lips. His movements are careful, almost disbelieving. Like he is afraid this will disappear if he lets himself want it too much.

But then something changes.

Your nails lightly run over his neck, thumbs over his jawline.

And you feel the exact second the hesitation snaps.

He pulls you in.

His hands tighten, fingers digging into your hips, pulling you forward to the edge of the seat, into his chest, his grip growing needy, desperate. He seems to have been starving for this, like something in him has just broken loose.

The kiss turns deeper, heavier, a push and pull of breath and movement. He kisses you with searching urgency, trying to memorize the exact shape of your mouth, the way you feel pressed against him, the way you taste.

His lips part, just for a moment, and then he dares to press in a little more, tilting his head, fitting his mouth more firmly against yours.

He makes another sound - this time rougher, needier - a groan that slips through the space between you.

You can feel the want in the way he kisses you, in the way he angles his head to take more, to taste more, and damn if it does not overwhelm you.

The way his fingers tighten their hold, his thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of your shirt, needing to feel your warmth.

And the way he breathes you in, each exhale shaky, each inhale sharper, like he is drunk on this, on you.

Your hands find purchase in his hair, fingers tangling in the strands at the nape of his neck, and the second you pull just so slightly, he makes a sound.

A gravelly noise that shoots straight through you, heat curling at the base of your spine.

He is kissing you like he can’t help it anymore. As if he has been waiting for this exact moment, for you, for so long that he’s past the point of fighting it.

You thought he’d pull away. You thought he’d startle and demand an explanation, eyes sharp with suspicion, voice laced with confusion. But he doesn’t.

His lips only press more firmly against yours, his nose sweeping against your cheek, his chest rising and falling unevenly, breathing erratic as if he is just as lost in this as you are.

Your heart is hammering so violently in your chest, you think he must hear it, must feel it where your body is pressed to his. Your hands are slightly trembling, sliding to curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding onto him. Because you have to hold on. You have to anchor before you fall, before you slip too deep into the intoxicating pull of him and lose all sense of self.

But maybe you already have.

Because he is kissing you as though he’s afraid this is a dream, testing the edges of reality with every careful, exploring movement of his tongue and lips.

He tastes like something warm, something safe, something like the orange juice you two have been drinking, something wholly Bucky. Every press of his lips, every brush of his tongue against yours, is stealing a coherent thought from your mind.

This was supposed to be a distraction. This was supposed to be a lie.

But hell, it’s not.

It’s everything you’ve ever wished for.

When you pull away, both breathless and panting, his forehead stays against yours.

Your pulse is so fast, so fluttering, and you know he can feel it, the way it thrums in your chest, in your throat, in the slight tremor of your fingers still curled loosely in his shirt.

His hot and shuddering exhale fans over your lips and it’s maddening how much you want to taste them again, how much you want to fall right back into him.

You open your eyes.

His are already on you, so close, so intent, so devastatingly blue that they don’t help at all in trying to regain a healthy breathing rate. There is something in them, something soft and devoted, something awed, like he can’t quite believe you are real, that this is real.

A shiver works its way down your spine, leaving goosebumps in its way and Bucky sees it. He feels it. His grin widens, slow and boyish almost, something that makes him look young and light, like something is lifted off his shoulders.

Your name is a breath that leaves his lips with the kind of care reserved for wishes made on falling stars.

It sends another shudder through you, and his grin turns brilliantly wide.

“That the present you were talkin’ about earlier?” he breathes, voice still hoarse, still dazed.

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. Smiling. Grinning. Like a fool. God, you can’t stop. It’s lifting your cheeks and making you feel giddy in a way you haven’t felt in so long.

“No,” you whisper back, voice airy.

“Don’t matter,” Bucky’s voice is full of affection, of something certain. His hands slide up, one cupping your jaw, thumb skimming over your cheek, the other finding the nape of your neck, fingers weaving into your hair. Holding you there. Holding you close. “Best damn present I’ve ever gotten.”

His tone is so sincere, so full of adoration, that your breath turns upside down, and you can’t do anything but feel the way butterflies are dancing in your stomach.

Heat floods your face and Bucky’s fingers flex against your skin, his smile turning impossibly brighter.

His eyes are shining with something you don’t think you’ve ever seen in them before. It’s breathtaking. It’s promising. It’s worshipful.

It’s everything.

You guess you owe him a little bit of an explanation.

There is guilt pooling in the hesitation before you speak. “Buck?” you start, voice quiet.

“Yeah, baby?” he drawls, and the way the new nickname rolls from his tongue so seamlessly makes your next inhale shatter midway, breaking into uneven pieces. You almost feel like choking.

His voice is so full of warmth, so soft, so fond. He is smiling at you and his eyes are sparkling as if you’ve just handed him the world. He is kneeling in front of you, patient and content, as though he’s got all the time in the world if it means spending it with you.

Something dizzying rushes through your veins, sparking at the base of your spine. You have to take a moment, a single, shaky pause to shove the giddiness down for later, to not let it explore the wide landscape of your heart and mind.

You clear your throat, shifting slightly in your seat, still at the edge of the armchair. Your chest almost brushing against Bucky’s. “I, uh- I do have something planned for you.”

Bucky is beaming. His amusement spills over into something so brilliant and blinding. His entire face lights up, so open, so full of adoration that it makes a feeling of pure bliss explode in your chest, sending delightful shivers down to your toes and hell, you don’t think you can handle it.

“Oh, do you?” he muses, dragging the words out slow and teasing. There is something beneath the syrupy sweetness. Something like mischief. His brows raise, eyes glinting, his lips twitch, and you know he is about to be a menace.

Tilting his head, Bucky feigns deep thought, but his eyes stay on you at all times. “Would that involve two idiots tryna sneak around behind my back?”

You blink at him.

Bucky’s grin turns wolfish and he bites his lip to suppress a laugh.

“You were actin’ all off from the beginning, doll. Knew somethin’ was up,” he states, voice a little softer, until he turns on his playful teasing voice again. “Flawless execution, sweetheart. Didn’t notice a damn thing.”

Groaning loudly, you press your hands to your face and Bucky lets the laugh out. It’s full-bodied and wholehearted. His chest shakes, his shoulders lift, his body tilts into it. And it’s such a good sound, such a lovely sound, so rich and free. It makes your own lips curl despite the frustration of the ruined surprise.

Bucky reaches up to gently pry your hands away from your face. His grip lingers, thumbs tracing over your knuckles, his touch so easy and natural.

His expression gives way to something soft. He bites his lip again, before bringing your hands up and kissing them softly, twinkling bright blue eyes trained on you and the deep flush that spreads along your cheeks.

Perhaps Bucky Barnes finally has a reason to start celebrating his birthday.

“But oh baby! Your smile.. Felt like warm sunshine after a heavy storm.. Overdose of it, is still not enough for me..”

- Zankhana

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blackcatner00 · 1 month ago

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FIC RECS (Part 16) :)

Hey guys, so here it finally is. The CEO!Bucky Rec List. Sorry its taken so long for me to get this out, I really have just been feeling not so hot. So it took me a while to get it done. BUT its longer than usual to make up for they delay. Reading these made me feel a lot better, so I hope you guys like it! :)

(smuts are denoted with a ***, theres a lot of them haha)

Seguir leyendo

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blackcatner00 · 1 month ago

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real people

chapter three

18+

you're popular among horror fans. he's well-respected among film critics. though you work in the same industry, you couldn't be more different - but your managers think a pr romance is just what your careers need.

warning: actor!bucky x f!actress!reader, mature themes, some thor x reader, fake dating, enemies to lovers, angst, slut shaming, unwanted sexual advances, just a touch of fluff.

series masterlist

Sunlight peaks in through a gap in the curtains and bounces off your silver bracelet. You move your hand further down, silently cursing yourself for not properly covering the windows last night. When you pull the duvet off your body, the big arm wrapped around your waist tightens.

"No," The muffled voice comes from behind you. "Not yet."

You let out a sigh, turning your head back to face him. "I've gotta leave soon, Thor," You say. "I need to get ready for the premier."

"Couple more hours," He replies groggily, moving his hand up and pawing at your boob. "Couple more rounds?"

"Not today," You say firmly, managing to ease out of his grip enough to sit up. "I need to look absolutely perfect tonight."

"Come on," He grumbles, looking up at you with half-shut eyes. "You look perfect no matter what."

You roll your eyes, swinging your legs off the bed. "Sweet doesn't look good on you, Thor," You tell him with the sheets held up to your chest.

With one fell swoop and a burst of energy, he snatches the duvet from you, grinning as your naked body is revealed to him. "And nothing looks good on you, honey."

Slowly, you begin to walk backwards towards his en-suite. Thor sits up, not even bothering to try to look you in the eyes. A few months ago, you would have found this a lot more exciting, but for some reason it seems the novelty of sleeping with him has worn off. Maybe it's because his divorce has been finalized, and the thrill is gone. Are you a bad person?

"Want me to order breakfast?" He asks as he reaches for his phone on the bedside table.

"No, thanks, I'm gonna shower and leave," You tell him bluntly. "No time to eat."

"Damn, you really are excited about this premier, huh?" He asks with a raised brow while scrolling through his phone.

"Duh. This is like... my Game 7 of the NBA Finals," You say, trying to explain it in basketball terms so he understands. "Now, shut up and let me shower."

"Without me?" He asks while standing up, revealing his impressive bare body to you. His dick's at half-mast, making you stop in your tracks. When he notices you looking at it, he chuckles. "C'mon, honey. Want me to fuck you against the shower wall?"

Maybe the thrill is still slightly alive.

"Over here, guys!"

"That's it, nice big smiles!"

"How about a kiss for the camera?"

Bucky's arm is snaked around your waist, his hand firmly holding your hip as if it comes naturally to him. It's starting to shock you less when he touches you, and now it just feels like any other role you've played before.

After walking the carpet, you're beckoned over to the press teams with their microphones and cameras.

"Here's the couple everyone's talking about!" Nina from Access Hollywood says with a wide smile. "This is your first red carpet together - how does it feel?"

"It's great!" You reply eagerly, smiling sweetly up at Bucky. "It's really nice to have his support tonight. I'm so very excited about this film."

"Now, you both look incredible. Did you help each other pick your outfits tonight?" She asks you.

"Oh, I love Y/N in black, so that was my only input to her outfit," Bucky answers smoothly before looking down at his suit. "And she picked this - she has a much better eye for fashion than me, so I just do as she says."

You laugh softly, resting your hand on his chest. "Well, you'd look good in anything, so it isn't too hard to dress you," You reply with a wink.

"How sweet," Nina gushes. "Bucky, are you excited to see your girl in action tonight?"

"Absolutely; I love all of her work, and I'm sure I'll love Sixth Night too," He replies, lying through his teeth like a politician. "And I know how hard she worked on this film, so I'm excited for the world to see it, and I'm incredibly proud of her."

His words make you cringe, but you do your best to keep a happy face on.

"That is so lovely," Nina says, before turning to you. "Y/N, are you a fan of Bucky's work?"

"Definitely," You reply immediately. "I've seen all of his films multiple times, but his performance in Sunset Lake was actually one of the main reasons I got into acting."

Bucky looks slightly surprised at your answer, though he plays it off well.

"And what a show that was!" Nina says with a grin. "Is it safe to say that Bucky was your childhood crush?"

With a laugh, you shrug. "He might've been," You say coyly.

"How sweet!" She says. "Alright, last question, I promise- is there any truth to the rumor that we might be seeing you two on screen together soon?"

"Is that a rumor?" You wonder aloud. "It's the first I'm hearing of it."

Bucky wraps his arm around your shoulder and pulls you closer. "I would be honored to work with Y/N," He says.

While Nina thanks you for your time, Pepper rushes over to whisper in your ear, "Alright, let's get a few solo interviews in."

Bucky is ushered away and leaves you to continue speaking to the press, thankfully about the film and your work rather than a fake relationship. About 30 minutes later, it's time to head inside for the screening, and you're surprised to see Bucky is still here.

"Thought you'd make an excuse and leave before having to watch me act badly for 2 hours," You say bitterly as he takes a bag of popcorn in a themed bag from the steward.

He puts a few pieces in his mouth before replying to you while the two of you walk into the theatre. "I like some of Hill's work, so I'll give it a shot," He tells you. "It's also in our contract for me to be here, and it probably wouldn't look great if your loving boyfriend left your big premiere before the film even started."

With a hum of agreement, you nod. "So, you're finally gonna see one of my films," You say with a raised brow. "Though you could've fooled me with that interviewer earlier; I almost thought you really were proud of me."

He snorts at that while eating more popcorn. "It's called acting," He says dryly, before lowering his voice and coming closer. "Hey, I just want to make sure you'll be okay later..."

Confused by the sudden concern he seems to be showing, you frown. "What are you talking about?" You ask him.

"With these films, and these big directors, so much ends up on the cutting room floor," He begins with a look of pity. "So, when you see that your screen time is around three minutes in total, don't be upset - be glad you got at least that."

You grit your teeth together and are in half a mind to cuss him out before you remember you're in a very crowded room. "You're a prick," You settle on saying lowly with narrowed eyes.

In the theatre, you're seated between Tony and Bucky. They greet each other warmly, having worked together before, while you take your seat and steal Bucky's popcorn.

"Great to see you, man," Tony says with a grin as he shakes Bucky's hand. "Hey - congrats on getting a chance with Y/N. She played hard to get with me the whole time we were filming."

Bucky just lets out a dry laugh, choosing not to comment.

"I know it's not real, but you never know; she might give you a chance if you play your cards right," Tony continues with a smarmy grin on his face as he sneaks a glance at you. "Bucky's a nice guy, baby, he deserves a little sugar, don't you think?"

"Shut up, Tony," You utter, glaring up at him.

"Don't be like that!" He says with a laugh as he sits down next to you and wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you in for a tight hug. "You know I'm only kidding."

"Whatever," You say flatly, pulling out of his grip. "It's about to start."

Bucky sits down on the other side of you and steals back his popcorn, to which you gasp with offence. He rolls his eyes and reluctantly places the popcorn between the both of you, like a child being forced to share.

Maria Hill, the director, stands up and says a few words, introducing the film before it begins. You're usually a little nervous before a screening, naturally, but something about the fact that Bucky's about to watch you work for the first time has you on edge. He's already made his mind up about you being talentless, so he's going into this with a negative mindset and will likely focus on everything you do wrong. You wouldn't be surprised if he has a list of notes for you that he'll smugly read out while the credits roll.

Having already watched the film at the private screening for cast and crew, you're pretty confident you did a good job. The Sixth Night is set in the 1700s and sees Tony as Elias Brown; the leader of a small village being terrorized by an unknown being that leaves its victims bludgeoned and bloody. You play his unassuming wife, Mary, who wants nothing more than to leave the suffocating village and move to Philadelphia where he always promised to take you to.

After a grueling, dread-filled couple of hours, it is revealed that Mary herself is behind the deaths, driven by her desire to escape and the feeling of being trapped by Elias.

During your big scene; the monologue where the twist is revealed, you can't help but look over at Bucky. You've seen this scene before and will be able to see it again, but you'll never get the chance to witness his reaction to seeing it for the first time.

"You don't know how it feels to be bound in place, to be pressed in so tightly you can't breathe," Mary says. "I was meant for more than this village, with its men who fear the dark yet keep their wives in it. You pin me down and leave me here to rot. You call it love."

With his lips parted, Bucky watches the screen intently. He seems enthralled, and there's a hint of shock on his features, which is exactly how you wanted people to feel at this moment. Is he actually enjoying your performance?

"You've been trying to keep me safe, Elias, but who will keep you safe from me?"

At the end of the film, your character walks over Tony's lifeless, bloody corpse and out into the dark night. As the credits roll, the theatre bursts into applause. You're taken up to the front with Tony, Maria, and the rest of the cast to give the crowd a bow.

Once that's over, you walk back out into the lobby, and you're followed by Tony who pulls you over to quiet spot with a sly look on his face. "I forgot how sexy you were in that," He says with a smirk. "You got me rock-hard in that last scene, babe. What do you say to a quickie in the toilets?"

Taken aback and disgusted by his proposition, you physically move backwards. "What the fuck?" You ask lowly, wondering if he's kidding.

"Come on," He says between laughs. "You know I'm friends with Maximoff. He told me all about what it was like working with you on set. Why didn't I get that treatment, hmm?"

"Shut up, Tony," You grumble, wanting nothing more than to go home and never have to speak to him again. Though he's always been a flirt, he's never been a dick.

"Don't be a tease," He says bluntly, keeping a hand wrapped around your wrist. "It's not like Barnes is actually your boyfriend. Come home with me."

Managing to pull your wrist out of his grip, you glare at him and say, "No."

"We can go out the back, no one will see," He says, completely ignoring you. "And even if they do, it's only more publicity for you, isn't it?"

"What is your problem tonight?" You ask, looking at his dilated pupils. "Are you high?"

He lets out a sigh, clenching his jaw for a second. "You fuck everyone else you work with. Sue me for wanting a slice of the pie you seem to so happily be handing out."

"What?" You spit, abhorred by his words.

"That's how you made your name, isnt it?" He asks you, taking your wrist back and placing your hand on his crotch. "By fucking men like me."

Having heard enough, you rip your hand from his wrist and slap him across the face. It doesn't matter to you at all if anyone saw, but when you spin around to storm away, you see Bucky watching you from afar. Letting out a huff, you rush out of the theatre and make your way to the car park out back where people are filing into fancy cars.

Your phone buzzes just as you rest against a cold railing. When you take it out, you see a message from Thor. He's sent you a picture of yourself on the red carpet earlier tonight.

Thor

Fuck. If I'd had known you were gonna look this good, I wouldn't have let you leave.

Come back to mine once you're done. My bed misses you.

It's the last thing you want to hear right now, so with a frustrated grunt, you push your phone back into your purse and decide to let the cold air calm you. You watch as Instagram influencers and other C-Listers leave with big smiles on their faces. You should be the happiest person here tonight, not them. This movie was a huge deal for you. You've never really allowed yourself to be proud of you before, and you were hoping you'd receive the same sentiment from your colleagues.

"Everyone's asking where you are."

Bucky's voice pulls you back into the present, and you sit up with a slight jump. Looking over at him, you nod. "I'll head back in in a sec. Just needed some air."

He comes closer and you almost recoil, not wanting him to mention that he saw you slap his friend or that he thinks you did a terrible job in the film.

"Hey, I got more than three minutes," You say, wanting to get in before he gets the chance to insult you. "So suck on that, Barnes."

With a chuckle, he sits next to you. There's a few beats of silence between you before he turns to face you. "You were incredible," He says simply, and it's the most genuine tone you've ever heard him use when talking to you. "You made some really great choices. Choices I wouldn't have thought to make, but were perfect."

You've lost count of how many times you've felt shocked tonight. Is this a dream? "Are you being serious?" You ask him.

"As a heart attack," He says, keeping his eyes on yours. "You're good, Y/N. Much better than I gave you credit for."

You're waiting for him to pull the rug - to burst into laughter and tell you that he wishes you could see the look on your face, and how pathetic you are for believing he could ever respect your craft.

"So... are you gonna apologize for being a dick?" You wonder.

"Don't push it," He returns bluntly, before standing up and turning to leave.

"Does this mean we're friends?" You yell as he walks away.

Without turning around, he replies, "Not in the fucking slightest."

i no longer have a taglist, follow @kinanabinksupdates and turn on notifications for updates.

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blackcatner00 · 1 month ago

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Plump & Ripe

Pairing: Chubby!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Smut. Unprotected Sex. Some fluff. Slight Angst. A Pinch of Body Insecurity. Size kink. Use of pet names.

Summary: On a routine visit to the fruit shop, Bucky ends up with more than his usual goodies.

Word Count: 7.4k.

note: This is one of the works I'm submitting for the @avengers-assemble-bingo event for Bucky's 108th birthday, running throughout March. The prompt was "Plums". It was supposed to be a cute and fluffy fic, but it turned into pure filth instead. I'm sorry -not-

She looked up from the counter, and a welcoming smile instantly spread across her lips when she saw who had made the doorbell chime.

“You’re late. You’re lucky I set this bag aside when the distributor came this morning because they’re all sold out now.” She lifted a small paper bag from the shelf behind her, placing it on the counter between them. The deep violet of the plums peeked through the crinkled opening, and their smooth skins caught the golden light that filtered through the shop’s front windows.

Bucky stood just inside the doorway, a little tense as his fingers fidgeted with the zipper of his jacket. “Sorry. Something came up and... couldn’t make it earlier.” He mumbled.

That ‘something’ had been him forcing himself out of bed after three days of avoiding the world. Everything felt heavier these days, his body, his thoughts, even some goddamn things that weren’t so before. But he was here now, and that was better than nothing.

She leaned her elbows on the counter. “No worries. I know you’d never miss plum day on purpose.” She tried to tease warmly.

Right. One of the rare occasions he’d missed plum day was when he went on that stupid mission, the so-called ‘walk in the park’ that turned into a bloodbath of agents and ended with him being taken again by the same people who’d tormented him for nearly 80 years. Only this time, they didn’t just want their precious pet back, they wanted it better.

In five days of captivity, they not only just strapped him to a modernized version of that damned chair. Oh no, they’d injected him with a cocktail of drugs that messed up his body in ways he was still discovering, even a year later. Like his fucked-up metabolism.

His eyes flicked to the bag, and his mouth twitched just slightly. “You know me too well on that aspect,” he muttered, reaching out to grab the bag.

She watched him carefully. “Do you need anything else?”

He hesitated, shifting his gaze to the baskets of apples lined up near the wall. “Yeah… green apples.”

She nodded, moving around the counter to grab a paper bag. As she started picking the crisp, bright green apples, she spoke over her shoulder. “I got a new kind in this week. They’re a mix of green and red, still sour but with a sweet twist. Figured you might like them, so I’m throwing one in for you to try.” She dropped a smaller, two-toned apple into the bag, the colors blending in a swirl of muted red and pale green. “No charge.”

His lips quirked, just for a moment, the closest thing to a smile she’d seen from him in weeks. “Thanks.” He said gruffly.

She twisted the top of the bag, folding it neatly before placing it on the counter beside the plums. But she didn’t step back, and her fingers lingered on the edge as if debating something. Her teeth caught her bottom lip, worrying the skin.

Always perceptive, Bucky narrowed his eyes. “What is it?”

Her head jerked up, eyes widening. “Huh?”

“You look like you’re trying to decide whether to say something or not.” He crossed his arms, leaning his weight on one leg. “Tell me.”

She huffed a laugh, embarrassed. “It’s... not very appropriate.”

One eyebrow shot up. “I’ve heard worse.”

She bit her lip again before glancing toward the back room. “I was just wondering if you could help me with a couple of crates. The distributor was in a hurry, and he just tossed the merchandise back there. It’s kind of a mess... hard to move around.” She gave a half-shrug, sheepish. I’d do it myself, but they’re actually pretty heavy.”

He followed her gaze, and his expression softened. “That all?”

“Well... yeah,” she admitted, heat creeping up her neck. “You already helped with the shelves last week... and the cooler the week before. I just... I don’t want you to feel like I’m taking advantage or something.”

His features softened even more, as he huffed, twitching his lips in a half-smile. “I wouldn’t help if I didn’t want to. Show the way.”

She gestured to the door behind the counter -the only door, really- and he shot her a look. She shrugged, grinning. “I know, I know. Real hard to find.”

He followed her through the doorway, ducking his head slightly as they entered the cramped back room. His steps faltered as his eyes took in the scene. Stacks of boxes and wooden crates were scattered haphazardly across the floor, some leaning precariously against each other. It was like the distributor had been in a damn race to get out of there.

His mouth pulled into a deep scowl. How the hell did that asshole expect her to move this on her own? Where were the manners nowadays? He grumbled under his breath, weaving between the clutter as he started rearranging the crates into a more orderly stack. He made sure to place the heavier boxes at the bottom, the lighter ones on top, within easy reach for her.

She leaned against the doorframe, watching as the chaos turned into something more manageable. “God, I’ll kidnap you and put you on my bedside table.”

His head snapped up, brows drawing together. “Uh?”

She blinked, a faint heat creeping up her neck. “Oh, it’s just... a saying we have. You know, to cherish something.” She waved a hand, brushing off her embarrassment. “Forget it. Thank you, really for always helping.”

He chuckled. “Pretty sure your poor bedside table can’t handle me anyway.” His tone was dry, self-deprecating, like he was almost daring her to argue.

But her brain had short-circuited somewhere around ‘bedside,’ and before she could think better of it, the words just tumbled out: “But my bed sure can.”

He froze, fingers clenching around the edge of a crate. For a second, he didn’t even breathe. “What?”

She cursed inwardly. Did she… did she actually say that aloud? Oh my god. She could feel her soul leaving her body, and her eyes darted down as her brain scrambled for something -anything- that could sound similar. She fumbled, words tripping over themselves. “I- I said... I wondered if... if you can open a can.”

Bucky blinked, his expression shifting from shock to confusion. “A can?”

She nodded furiously, feeling her face burn. “Yeah. A big one. I have... with peaches. And I don’t have an opener, so I thought maybe...” Her eyes flicked to his metal hand, then back to his face.

They stared at each other, the silence was thick and heavy. “You want me to open... a can of peaches.”

Her chin lifted defiantly, even as her face burned. “Yes. A big one.”

He looked at her, then tilted his head, and his lips twitched slightly. “That so?”

“Yup. I figured you’re more than capable and I... really wanted to try them.” Her voice was firmer now, though her face was still in flames.

Bucky watched her for another moment, narrowing his eyes like he was trying to figure her out. Finally, he huffed, low and almost amused. “Alright then. Bring it over.”

She nodded quickly, grateful for the excuse to turn away from his piercing gaze. Her heart was still hammering against her ribs, and her hands trembled as she rummaged through a cluttered shelf. Eventually, she found the can half-buried behind a jar of jam, with its bright label slightly faded. Two forks were grabbed from a drawer without much thought, and her fingers clenched around them as she tried to calm herself. When she turned back, Bucky was stacking the last of the boxes, his back to her.

Her eyes lingered on his body for a beat too long, and her mind flashed back to her stupid, impulsive words. But my bed sure can. She almost groaned out loud, the embarrassment creeping over her anew. She was never going to live this down.

Clearing her throat, she approached him, holding out the can. “Here. I... uh... figured we could share. Since you’re helping me out and all.”

He turned, and his gaze dropped to the can before lifting to meet hers. His expression was neutral, but his eyes held a glint of something she couldn’t quite place. “Peaches, huh?”

She swallowed, nodding. “Yeah. They should be good. Sweet. Soft, too... uh, juicy” The words tumbled out before she could stop them, and her face burned all over again. God, why did she have to say it like that?

Bucky just stared at her for a second, flicking his eyes to her lips before his mouth twitched. “Alright.” His voice was a little rougher, a little lower. He took the can from her, popping a metal finger through the lid and curling it, crumpling the metal until it popped off.

He handed it back, licking his finger for a brief moment and she could swear she could have a stroke. “There you go. Good thing at least I’m good as a can opener.”

She furrowed her brow, and the playful glint in her eyes faded. “Don’t do that.”

His shoulders went rigid. What did he do to upset her? “Do what?”

“That,” she said, “Sell yourself short. That... self-deprecation thing you always pull.”

His jaw clenched, and his eyes drifted away from hers. “Just saying the truth.” Almost unconsciously, his gaze dropped to his midsection, to the slight curve that hadn’t been there before. To the proof that his body was failing him, that even with all the enhancements, he was broken.

“Bucky,” she said, with a softer tone but no less resolute. “You’re a damn Avenger. Half the days you come in here, you’re bruised and battered because you fight for people who can’t fight for themselves. You protect them. That’s incredible.” Her hand gestured to the neatly stacked crates behind him. “You’re kind... and good. Don’t diminish yourself.”

His eyes snapped back to hers, a flicker of surprise breaking through his usual calm but hard expression. He wanted to deflect, to brush it off with a sarcastic remark. It was easier to joke than to acknowledge the weight of her words. But the way she looked at him, made the words stick in his throat. His fingers tightened around the can, and the metal creaked under his grip. “Yeah, well... sometimes it doesn’t feel that way.”

She stepped closer, her eyes never leaving his. “Our own perceptions sometimes lie. Doesn’t make it less true.”

He stared at her, and his defenses faltered. The familiar cynicism was there, clawing at him, but her words were louder. His mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You always this stubborn?”

She crossed her arms, lifting her chin defiantly. “Only when someone I care about is being stupid.”

The air grew still. She seemed to realize what she’d said a second too late, eyes widening before she looked away. “I mean... you know... as a customer. And a... friend.”

He cocked an eyebrow, tilting his head just slightly as if he was trying to get a better read on her. “A friend to put on your nightstand.”

Her eyes snapped to his, caught off guard by the teasing lilt in his voice. “Sure.”

He leaned against the stacked crates, crossing his arms over his chest. His jaw worked, like he was chewing over his next words. For a heartbeat, he thought about letting it slide, about keeping his mouth shut and pretending he hadn’t heard. But the thought of not knowing twisted his gut in a way that made him reckless. “Did you mean it?”

Her heart skipped, the peach suddenly feeling too heavy on her tongue. She forced herself to chew slowly, buying time. “What?”

“The... bed.” His gaze pierced in that way that made her feel stripped bare. “Did you mean it?”

Oh. So he had heard her.

Her mind raced, instincts screaming at her to laugh it off, to deflect with a joke or change the subject. But he just stood there, watching her, waiting. It was infuriating how still he could be, how his silence demanded more than words ever could. His eyes didn’t waver, his face was impassive, but there was something tight in his stance, something almost vulnerable in the way his fingers tapped once against his arm before he caught himself, stilling the movement.

She paused mid-chew, the peach now a lump in her throat. The hell with all. “What if I did?”

His expression didn’t change, but his posture did: his shoulders straightened, and his arms uncrossed just slightly. He took a step closer, and the room suddenly felt a lot smaller. “Then I’d say... you’d better be sure.”

She swallowed, heat blooming up her neck. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

His lips twitched, the ghost of a smile as he closed the space between them. “I figured.”

His hand came up slowly, hesitantly, like he was giving her every chance to pull away. But she didn’t move as his fingers brushed her cheek, rough callouses skimming her skin. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, and she couldn’t help but lean into it, never breaking the eye contact.

His thumb traced her cheekbone, and his gaze softened as his fingers curled on the back of her neck. Her pulse quickened, and she could feel her heartbeats echoing in her ears, but she didn’t dare look away. Not when his eyes were so impossibly blue, locked on hers with a focus that stole her breath.

She parted her lips, in a silent invitation, while her hand found its way to his chest, curling her fingers into the fabric of his jacket.

For a moment, he just looked at her, his face so close she could feel his breath on her lips. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and his eyes darkened, “Tell me to stop if this is not what you want.” he murmured, but his hand didn’t move.

She shook her head, tightening her fingers on his jacket. “Not a chance.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and his lips crashed into hers, firm and demanding, as he fisted her hair and pulled her closer.

She responded instinctively, pressing her body into his as her hands slid up his chest, wrapping around his neck. He groaned against her mouth, circling his vibranium arm on her waist.

The world around her faded, the cluttered storeroom, the lingering scent of the peaches, everything disappeared until there was only him. His warmth, his strength, his mouth moving against hers with a hunger that made her knees weak.

She sighed, threading her fingers through his hair, and he responded by deepening the kiss. When they finally broke apart, both breathless, she ran a hand along his slightly rounded cheek, tracing its curve with her thumb with a tenderness that made something clench on his chest.

“You are so damn handsome.”

His gaze widened slightly, surprise flickering across his features before something else settled in. Cocky 40s Sergeant Barnes wouldn’t have agreed. In fact, he wouldn’t have dreamed of seeing himself like this, heavier, slower, tired.

He swallowed, as the weight of her words pressed against years of ingrained self-doubt. She exhaled, shaking her head with a small, knowing smile. “I can see the gears turning inside your head, you know?” Her fingers lingered against his skin, warm and sure. “And, in a courageous and embarrassing -but it seems necessary-confession, I must say that I like this version of you. A lot.”

His body tensed beneath her touch. Of all the things he expected, this wasn’t one of them. People -some- admired him for what he could do. No one ever said they liked him like this.

He searched her face, looking for doubt, for anything that suggested she was just saying it to make him feel better. His throat felt tight. “You don’t have to say that.”

Her brows furrowed, and her fingers pressed just slightly into his skin. “I told you earlier that I mean what I say. You’re a soft wall of muscle.” She bit her lip, as her eyes drifted over his shoulders, his chest, lingering just long enough to make his pulse quicken. “And I like big men, so...”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, utterly at a loss. That... wasn’t what he expected. Not at all.

She felt the heat on her face but didn’t look away, just kept caressing his cheek. “In my eyes, you’re better than when I first knew you.”

His heart skipped, the words settling heavy and warm somewhere behind his ribs. “Better?” His voice was low, rough, like he was forcing the word out. “How?”

Her thumb traced his cheekbone, and she felt all the heat in her body rush to her face again. She looked away, sensing her bravado faltering. “God, you’re going to make me say it. This is so embarrassing.” She took a breath, meeting his gaze again. “Sexier, Bucky. You look better to me because I find your bigger body more than appealing. Manlier. Is that enough clarification for y-”

She didn’t get to finish. His mouth crashed again against hers, more heated and demanding than before, as his fingers tightened at her waist, pulling her flush against his body.

A low growl vibrated in his chest, his lips moving hungrily over hers, and she barely had time to gasp before his tongue slid past her lips, tasting, claiming. Her back hit the wall as his body crowded hers, and she didn’t care, didn’t want space, didn’t want air, didn’t want anything that wasn’t him.

His heart pounded in his chest, blood roaring in his ears. Her words echoed in his mind, looping over and over again. Sexier. Manlier. More than appealing.

A rush of masculine pride coursed his body, fierce and hot, like lightning in his veins. She wanted him like this, wanted him bigger, broader. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed to hear that, how deeply her praise soothed the bruised ego he hadn’t even admitted having.

She felt his growing erection pressing against her hip, and she gripped his shoulders, feeling him beneath. There was nothing soft about him, not in the way he kissed her, fierce and unrelenting, not in the way his body surrounded hers, hard and unyielding.

He tore his mouth from hers, with ragged breathing, eyes dark and wild as they bore into hers. “You like this?” His voice was rough, deeper than before, and his words dripped with hunger. “You like me like this?”

She swallowed, her pulse fluttering wildly. “Yes. God, yes.”

His lips curved into a grin, that old cocky sergeant slipping through the cracks of his armor. “Good,” he growled, as his mouth descended on hers again, sliding down his hand to grip her thigh with bruising force as he hitched her leg up around his waist, pressing himself against her. His mouth was at her ear, his voice a low, gravelly murmur that sent shivers down her spine. “Because I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t think about fucking you raw under this slutty green apron every damn time you hand me my plums.”

Her brain stuttered, eyes widening as she processed his words.

His hips rolled, grinding his hardon against her tummy, and she felt every inch of his cock, hard and wanting, and god, she couldn’t help it, she whined. A desperate, needy sound that escaped her throat before she could bite it back.

His eyes darkened, his pupils blown wide as his lips curled again into that smirk. “Always with a little extra product, always checking on me.” His teeth scraped her jaw, flicking out his tongue to taste her skin. “Thought you were just sweet, just nice. Turns out you were trying to fatten me up for yourself, huh?” His words were teasing, but his tone was rough and possessive.

He rocked his hips again, a slow, deliberate grind that had her gasping, her fingers digging into his shoulders as heat coiled tighter and tighter in her belly.

“Bucky-” Her voice was a breathless plea, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to find words, tried to get a grip on herself, but his mouth was on her neck, sucking a hot, wet mark just above her collarbone, and she was gone, utterly, completely gone.

“You like that, huh?” His teeth grazed her skin again, his metal fingers tightening on her thigh, holding her in place as he ground against her. “Like knowing you drive me crazy? That every time I leave, all I can think about is coming back here, bending you over that counter, and fuck you right there, maybe squishing a fucking orange just to watch the juice dripping down your ass?”

Another whine slipped out, her body arching into his as her hips rolled instinctively to meet his. His words wrapped around her, filthy and raw, and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel.

His lips trailed up to her ear, his breath hot and ragged. “So tell me, sweetheart... how long have you been thinking about me ruining you right here in your little shop?”

“If... if we’re about to speak on hard numbers...” She tried to tease, but the words came out ragged, crumbling under the hard suck he planted just behind her ear. Her body shuddered, another whimper escaping before she could stop it. “I’d say... the first time you came here. You’d just moved in and didn’t... didn’t even have pans to cook. Remember?”

His mouth paused on her skin, lips curved against her neck. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Came looking for fruit and you ended up selling me that tray of already cut vegetables to make soup. Lent me that steel jar to boil ’em in.” His tongue flicked over the mark he’d made, soothing the sting before he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. “I thought you were too damn trusting. What if I didn’t come back?”

She let out a breathless laugh, curling her fingers on his biceps. “I saw your hand. You forgot the gloves that day... and I figured... the Winter Soldier wouldn’t steal a steel jar.” Her lips twitched, and a spark of mischief lit her eyes. “If you did, well, the loss was on me. But if you didn’t...” She trailed off.

His eyes darkened, and his grip tightened on her thigh as he pressed her harder against the wall. “If I didn’t?”

She swallowed, feeling her heart hammering against her ribs. “Then... I would have set some points with a handsome man.”

“Sneaky,” he muttered, brushing her lips, a teasing, fleeting touch. “You were setting a trap for me from the start.”

Her fingers slipped into his hair, tugging just enough to earn her another low, hungry sound from him. “Can you blame me?” she whispered, her lips barely an inch from his. “You were brooding and grumpy... and so damn gorgeous.”

His eyes flashed with something wild and primal sparking in them. “And now?” His voice was low and dangerous, his metal fingers flexing on her thigh, holding her in place. “Now that you’ve got me? This bigger, grumpier version?”

She didn’t hesitate, running her hands over his broad shoulders. “Now?” She leaned in, grazing his bottom lip with her teeth before she pulled back. “I’d say It was a pretty good investment.”

His lips were into hers again, swallowing her gasp as his body pressed into hers, heavy and hard and perfect. He kissed her hard, his mouth rough and hungry while rocking his hips against hers, and she moaned, digging her nails into his scalp as she arched into him. He tore his mouth away, with ragged breathing, his eyes pinning her in place as they locked with hers. “Last chance, sugarplum” His voice felt vulnerable beneath the heat. “You want this?”

She held his gaze and pressed herself against him, rubbing her breasts against his chest enticingly. "I want you to ruin me, papa bear"

He froze. Every muscle in his body went taut. His eyes widened, and his pupils blew wide as her words penetrated his fogged brain. “...What did you just call me?”

Her heart plummeted. Oh god. Why? Why did she have to let that slip out now, of all times? She could feel her face heating up, a wave of mortification crashing over her. “Um... uh...” She looked away, curling her fingers nervously into his shoulders. “Too soon?”

For a heartbeat, he was silent, his jaw tight and his chest heaving as he processed it. But then a low, guttural sound escaped him, somewhere between a groan and a growl. His head dropped to her shoulder, pressing his forehead into her as his body shuddered against hers. “Fuck,”

She let out a shaky breath, her heart pounding so hard she swore he could feel it. “S-sorry. I don’t... I don’t even know where that came from, I-”

He lifted his head, eyes dark, pupils blown. “Don’t.” His voice was rough, firm. “Don’t take it back.”

Her mouth went dry, and her body arched instinctively into him as his grip on her tightened. “You- uh... liked it?”

His lips curled into a feral grin, grazing her earlobe with his teeth before he growled, “You have no idea.” His nose brushed her cheek, his lips a breath away from hers. “Say it again.”

Her heart skipped a beat, face flaming. “I-” She hesitated, but the way his body trembled, the raw need in his eyes, the way he was holding her like he was afraid she’d vanish... it shattered any scruple she had. She leaned in, brushing his lips with hers as she whispered, “Ruin me, Papa Bear.”

He swore under his breath, crashing his mouth into hers again with bruising force. His hands gripped her tighter, possessive, desperate, and she moaned, opening up to him, letting him in. His tongue swept over hers, hungry and demanding, and she melted, her body molding to his as he consumed her.

He broke away just long enough to start tugging at her apron. “Take it off, or I’ll-”

The faint chime of the bell at the front door echoed through the storage room, hitting them like a bucket of cold water. Her eyes widened, and he stilled, with his fingers curled around the knot of her apron. The door to the storage room was wide open, and the front door? Neither of them had bothered to close it since none of this was supposed to happen.

His jaw clenched, and he lifted a finger, pointing at her with a look that could melt steel. “Don’t move.”

She barely had time to blink before he was striding out of the storage room, with his hair slightly mussed and crumpled clothing. He rounded the corner to find an elderly woman standing uncertainly by the counter, clutching her purse tightly in her hands.

His expression softened -just a bit- as he forced a strained smile. “It’s closed.”

The woman’s brows knitted together. “Oh, but I just wanted to-”

“Lemme accompany you out, yes?” He cut in, his voice dripping with forced politeness. “An emergency came up, and she’s... not here. I just stopped by to lock up.” His words were rushed, his body practically blocking the doorway.

“Oh, I see...” The woman glanced around, clearly confused but too polite to question him. “I’ll come back tomorrow then.”

“Good idea,” he agreed, already guiding her toward the door, hovering his hand protectively behind her back as she shuffled out. The door shut with more force than necessary, as the chime echoed sharply in the now-empty store. He twisted the lock, and stood there for a moment, with a rigid back, shoulders rising and falling with each heavy breath.

In a flash, he was back in the storage room, locking his eyes on her with a hunger that made her knees weak. He didn’t say a word as he closed the distance between them, and his fingers went immediately to the buttons of her blouse, his mouth trailing kisses over every newly exposed inch of skin.

He almost groaned when he saw her bra clasp at the front. “You’re a fucking menace,” he muttered, more to himself than to her, before popping the clasp with an impatient flick of his fingers. The fabric fell away, and his mouth and hands were on her before he could think: Palms warm against her bare skin, squeezing just hard enough to make her arch into him, a breathy moan escaping her lips. He latched his mouth to the delicate skin just above her collarbone, swirling his tongue, teeth scraping, tasting the salt of her skin.

She was driving him insane. Every little sound, every shiver, every way her fingers gripped his shoulders and pulled him closer.

Her hands were just as eager, fumbling with the zipper of his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. She hesitated for a heartbeat when her fingers grazed his belly, flicking her eyes up to his. But there was no discomfort there, only hunger. Her pupils were blown, her lips parted, her breathing ragged. Her fingers splayed over his stomach, and the warmth of her touch sank into his skin even through the fabric of his shirt.

He kissed her harder, deeper, pressing her back against the wall as his body settled heavily against hers, his bigger form pinning her in place. She gasped, hitching her leg around his waist again, pulling him closer, grinding, her hips against his, and he nearly lost it.

His lips trailed lower, over the swell of her breast, and his stubble grazed her sensitive skin as his tongue flicked over an already pert nipple. She cried out, her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him there as her body arched beneath him, desperate, needing more. He was only too happy to oblige, closing his mouth around her, suckling greedily as his hand moved to the other, kneading, teasing.

“Bucky... please...” Her voice was a broken whisper, as her nails dug into his shoulders and scalp, and her body writhed against his.

He dragged his mouth back up to hers, capturing her lips in another bruising kiss, slipping his hand beneath her skirt, teasing the edge of her panties. “Want papa bear to touch you, sugarplum?” he growled, rough and low, “Want me to prep you open nice and deep and then ruin this little pussy?”

His words made her shiver, and her whole body tensed at the need in his voice. She could barely breathe, could barely think, as her mind spun while his fingers danced along the delicate lace of her panties, teasing, taunting.

“Yes,” she breathed, her voice trembling, her hips rolling instinctively toward his touch. “Yes, please.”

A low, satisfied growl rumbled from his chest, “That’s my good girl.” His fingers hooked under the fabric, dragging her panties down slowly, deliberately, grazing his knuckles on the sensitive skin of her thighs. He wanted to savor this, to watch her come apart for him.

He lifted her easily, her back hitting the wall as her legs wrapped around his waist. The feeling of her pussy against his stomach made him swear under his breath, his head dropping to her shoulder again as he struggled to hold on to the last shreds of his self-control.

His metal fingers pressed her hips into the wall, to accompany his body, pinning her in place as his flesh hand slipped between her thighs. She was already soaked, and he groaned, feeling his cock throbbing painfully against his jeans. “So fucking wet for me... all that from just a little talk?”

Her head tipped back, hitting the wall, lips parting in a breathless gasp as his fingers found her clit, circling lazily, teasing only to dip them lower, slipping them inside her, stretching her, pressing his thumb down on her clit.

He watched her face as he started to move his hand, pumping slowly, deliberately, curling just enough to make her shudder. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her mouth falling open in a silent cry as her hips rocked against his hand, chasing every thrust, every stroke.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. “Such a greedy pussy, taking everything I give you.” His teeth grazed her earlobe. “You’re mine now.”

Her body clenched around his fingers, a whimper escaping her lips, and her nails dug into his shoulders as she held on, tightening her muscles as he pushed her closer to the edge.

“Gonna come for me, sugarplum?” His fingers started to move faster, harder, while his thumb circled her clit mercilessly. “Gonna fall apart on my fingers before I even get to ruin you properly?”

Her whole body tensed and her head snapped forward, pressing her forehead into his as she shattered with a force that stole her breath.

“That’s it... that’s my girl,” he whispered, slowing his fingers, easing her down from the high, brushing his lips against hers in a surprisingly tender kiss.

He adjusted his grip on her body, grinding his clothed erection against her, letting her feel how hard he was, how ready. “And now, I gonna give you what you wanted,” he growled.

He slid his fingers out of her and fumbled with the zipper of his pants "look at the mess you did here, all this cream on my zipper." she just moaned and grind herself against the back of his hand, thrilled by being pinned to the wall by his weight alone and his vibranium hand on her asscheek.

“Bucky... please...” Her voice was breathy, broken, and her body trembled as his metal hand squeezed her ass, holding her exactly where he wanted her.

He hummed, while his fingers continued to play with the wetness she’d left on his pants, dragging her up his length, letting her feel every ridge, every pulse under his denim. “You’re so needy for me, sugarplum,” he murmured, his voice low, rough. “So wet, so… ready.”

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, her mind was blank with need as he finally spread his thick thighs squatting a little, and sat her on them, tugging down his zipper, and freeing his heavy, leaking cock. He wrapped his hand around himself, and his eyes never left hers as he stroked once, spreading her slickness all over his length. “You see this?” he growled. “This is what you do to me.”

She bit her lip, her eyes locked down, watching him slowly pump himself, zeroed on the pornographic sight of his cock glistening with a mix of their arousal.

Seeing his heated gaze he leaned in, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. “You made this mess... now you’re gonna take responsibility for it”. It was all the warning he did before hooking the back of her knees on his forearms, and pressing his hands on the wall, surging forward, burying the fat head of his cock in her entrance, pushing himself inside her in one slow, stretching thrust.

Her mouth fell open, and a choked moan escaped her lips as he filled her, inch by agonizing inch. Her back arched against the wall, fingers scrambling for purchase on his arms, nails digging in as her body stretched to accommodate him.

He was relentless, his eyes locked on her face, watching every flicker of pleasure, every gasp, every shudder as he sank into her, slow and merciless. “You feel that?” His voice was a rough whisper, his breath hot against her ear.

She could only nod, as he pressed his hips in even deeper, against hers, burying his cock to the hilt. “Bucky... oh God...” Her legs trembled, thighs spread wide over his forearms, helpless to do anything but take everything he gave her.

He groaned, dropping his head to her shoulder, grazing her skin with his teeth as he fought to keep himself in check, to keep from losing himself in the incredible heat of her body. “Fuck... you feel so damn good... driving me crazy, sugarplum.” His words were rough, and breathless, his control slipping with every second he stayed buried inside her.

Her walls quivered around him, tightening instinctively, pulling him in, holding him close. “Bucky... move... please...” she pleaded, trying to roll her hips to create some friction, to ease the maddening stretch.

He didn’t need any more encouragement. His fingers almost dug into the bricks, and he began to move in slow, heavy thrusts that made her whole body rock against the wall. Each time he withdrew, she felt the loss, felt the emptiness, and each time he filled her again, her world shattered a little more as she felt his cock stretching her, filling her, owning her. “Oh God...”

He could feel himself losing control, as his thrusts grew harder and faster, pinning her like a ragdoll against the wall, relishing the needy moans and whimpers escaping her lips.

A hand flew to his head tugging his locks as he wrecked her. “Fuck Papa Bear… you feel so good, so heavy, so… fucking… big, you turn me on so much.”

Her praise wrapped around him, squeezing him just as tight as her body did, and his head spun with primal satisfaction. He groaned, as his cock throbbed and pulsed inside her flooding her with precum, and growing even harder inside her. “Yeah? You like this thick Bear covering you, pinning you, breeding you full?”

Her head thudded back against the wall, as she tried to tighten her legs against his forearms, to arch her body to join his thrusts, digging her nails into his shoulders. “Yes, yes, god, yes... love feeling you like this, love how big you are...”

“Fuck, sugar” his bruised ego drank her words like a man dying of thirst. Each confession went straight to his cock. He could feel her body yielding to him, taking everything he gave, and it made him lose his rhythm, made him rut into her like an animal, making her back slide up and down the wall with every hard thrust.

He lifted his arms to spread her wide to take him deeper. Her cries only grew louder, more desperate, and he couldn’t get enough of it. “You’re mine now, sugar plum. Fuck, ‘m gonna fuck you so good you’ll never look at another man again... gonna make sure you remember this every time you close your eyes.”

She whimpered as he buried his face in her neck, nipping her sensitive skin. “Bucky... Papa... please... don’t stop...” she pleaded, curling her fingers into his hair.

His mouth curved into a half smile against her throat. “Not planning to, sugarplum.” He rolled his hips, grinding deep, making her back arch and her legs quiver. “Not until you’re dripping with me... not until you’re so full of my cum you can’t stand.”

Her body convulsed, one hand remained fisting his hair and the other dragged her nails on his broad back, “Fuck! Yes, I want it so bad...”

He lost whatever thread of control he had left. His thrusts grew brutal, punishing as his cock stretched her, pounding into her with a force that bordered on savage. He watched her face contort with pleasure, as the base of his cock ground deliciously against her swollen clit. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, and her eyes rolled back as he drove into her, harder, faster. “You’re gonna take it all... every drop... you understand?”

She could only nod, her words were lost to the raw, consuming pleasure.

He was so close, muscles tensed to the point of aching, his breath ragged as his cock throbbed, his balls tightened, ready to spill. But he held on, watching her, waiting, needing to see her fall apart first.

“Come on, doll... give it to me... come all over my cock... let me feel it...” he growled, as his wide shoulders caged her in. “Bet you’ve never been this full before. Never had someone this big ruin you like this.”

Her nails raked down his back, desperate, her eyes rolling back as she tried to meet his rhythm but was utterly at his mercy. “F-Fuck, Bucky... so... so big...”

“That’s right,” he rasped, a savage grin flashing across his face. “Too big for this pretty little pussy, huh?” he lifted her higher and marked every word with a harder thrust.

Her entire body seized up before she felt herself shatter, arching against his body and squeezing him, milking him so tight he finally let himself go.

“That’s it... make a mess... make a fucking mess for me, doll... fuck!” his cock jerked, pulsing, as his release came hot and violent, spilling thick ropes of cum inside her. He kept grinding his hips, pressing himself as deep as he could, stirring his load inside her until it was too much to contain. The excess bubbled out around his shaft obscenely, warm and sticky, dripping down her thighs and landing on the floor.

He nipped at her collarbone, a lazy smirk curving his lips as he gently withdrew them from the wall. He eased her thighs down just enough to let her hook them around his waist, and his eyes flicked to an old chair in the corner of the room. Without a word, he began to move with steady steps despite the lingering tremors in his muscles. As he walked them over, each stride pressed him deeper inside her, drawing soft whimpers from her swollen lips.

Reaching the chair, he sank down heavily, the wood creaking beneath their weight. She straddled him, still nesting him deep inside her pussy, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, tangling her fingers on his hair. His hands settled on her hips, keeping her pressed close, unwilling to break their connection just yet.

His head fell back against the chair, closing his eyes for a moment as he let himself breathe. “You feel... too damn good. Could stay like this all day...”

Her fingers started to brush his hair gently. “Then don’t move... Just stay. You made sure that no other clients visited today." She slightly pinched his stubbled full cheek. "And... is not fair you didn’t remove any of your clothes besides your jacket in all this ordeal."

He huffed out a low laugh, that rumbled against her chest. “Yeah? That bother you, sugarplum?” His hands slid up her back, splaying wide as he pressed her tighter against him. “You wanna see all of me?”

Her fingers tightened in his hair. “I think it’s only fair,” she murmured, a teasing lilt to her voice. “I wanna see what I’ve been getting my hands on... what I’ve been wanting.” Her eyes dropped pointedly to his still-clothed body, darting her tongue out to wet her lips.

His eyes flicked away for a beat, and his shoulders tensed a little. There was a moment, a fleeting second where his hands stilled on her body, where his fingers dug just a little too hard into her waist. Old doubts echoed in his mind, flashing to his reflection in the mirror, the soft curve of his belly, the heft in his chest that wasn’t just only muscle.

But then she moved, running her hands up his chest, her eyes wide, pupils blown as she whispered. “I want to see you, Bucky.”

His heart thudded hard, but he felt himself relax, the tension ebbing away as he let out a slow, shaky breath. “Alright, sugarplum,” he murmured. “You asked for it.”

In one swift motion, he gripped the hem of his shirt, muscles flexing as he pulled it over his head and tossed it aside. He forced himself to sit there, exposed, waiting for the flicker of judgment, for her gaze to catch on his soft middle, or the faint stretch marks on his hips.

But her eyes were wide with interest as she took him in. Her hands roamed over him, tracing her fingers on his skin, lingering on the scars, the old wounds. She palmed his chest, brushing her thumbs over his hardened nipples, and his muscles jumped under her touch.

“Better?” his voice rough, his eyes heavy-lidded as he watched her explore him.

She bit her lip, as she kept worshipping him. “Better... but I’m not done yet.” She added as she trailed softly the scarred flesh where his prosthesis joined his body with her tongue.

His cock twitched with interest inside her, still hard, still nestled so deep. His hands gripped hard on her waist and his eyes narrowed. “You’re playing with fire, sugarplum.”

She smirked, rolling her hips slowly and deliberately. “Then burn me up, Papa Bear.”

Taglist: @civilbucky @blythesarchives

Dividers by:@/cafekitsune

1K notes · View notes

blackcatner00 · 1 month ago

Text

In too deep

Pairing: Fuck buddy!Bucky x Reader

Summary: After Bucky calls, and you come running, you end up locked in his bathroom, trying to get rid of the evidence that something hasn’t gone well this time.

Word Count: 7.4k

Warnings: 18+ (mdni) blood; descriptions of sex; feeling pain during sex and not saying anything; friends with benefits; mentions of periods; mutual pining; miscommunication; self-doubt; self-loathing; worried!Bucky

Author’s Note: This is my first time writing something more suggestive. It is not outright smut, but there’s lots of talk about sex, so if you are a minor, please stay away. And if you are not, then I hope you enjoy and I'd be happy to know what you think ♡

Masterlist

You are bleeding.

The sting between your legs is sharp. Like a wound still weeping after the blade has been pulled away.

The yellow light above the mirror of Bucky’s bathroom hums and flickers slightly, ghostly shapes of shadows draping against the walls.

Your breath is shallow.

The bleeding won’t stop.

With toilet paper in your hands, you press your trembling fingers against the inside of your thigh. It soaks, leaving your skin warm and sticky. The scent of iron is in your nose.

You know your body. You know how it shifts and bends beneath pleasure, how it aches in the aftermath and you know that this is different. It’s wrong.

A breath shudders out of you at the pulsing pain.

Bucky is still in his bedroom.

Probably waiting for you to come out and leave.

That’s how it’s always been.

He calls, you come, you make him feel good, then go.

He never asks you to stay. Not really. He asks you to come over, to press your lips against his, to carve his pleasure into your skin, but he never asks you to stay thereafter.

But you still keep running. Every time.

The sting flares up again and you clench your fists against your thighs, your body curling inward on instinct.

You don’t know how long you usually take to freshen up, but it certainly takes too much time right now.

You don’t want to be a burden. You want to be something simple, something easy.

But fuck, it hurts.

You glance down again, lifting the hem of your shirt you pulled over quickly before retreating to the bathroom. Crimson smears against your skin, staining the inside of your thighs and you curse under your breath.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you exhale slowly.

You need to get up. You need to clean yourself up, put on your clothes, and walk out of his apartment like nothing happened. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter.

The thought is a sour taste on your tongue.

Bucky had a bad day. That’s why he called. That’s why you came. That’s why you let him take and take, why you let yourself pretend it was more than just relief and release.

And now, you are bleeding in his bathroom, barely able to stand, barely able to breathe without wincing.

Your fingers grip the edge of the sink as you haul yourself up. The room tilts for a moment, and you grip it tighter, knuckles whitening.

You look in the mirror. You look ruined - cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, lips swollen from kisses.

You press your hands to the cool porcelain.

One more breath.

Then another.

Then you reach for the toilet paper again, dabbing at the blood, pretending you don’t see the way it just keeps coming. Pretending it’s not seeping through the white thin fibers. Pretending it doesn’t matter.

Because if you want to keep coming back, it can’t.

It’s not like he hasn’t been nice to you.

Bucky is always nice.

You were friends first, after all.

Before the weight of need, before his hands started lingering a little longer, before the heat and the fleeting contact.

Things had been easy, light, and simple.

You had inside jokes, late-night conversations that bled into mornings, you even cooked together - well, you cooked, while he hovered, occasionally stealing a bite, occasionally setting the table with that soft little smirk. It was comfortable. Safe.

Until he kissed you one day. So many weeks ago.

It was an accident. Or maybe it was inevitable.

You were both drunk. You were both in a good mood. There is not much you remember about that night. All you remember is how close you two were and that all your friends from the party were gone already.

You remember the way his knee had brushed yours, sitting on his couch, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you. And then you remember that he did. He kissed you. And your heart stuttered, his breath caught, he hesitated for a second, giving you a chance to pull away. You didn’t. You should have.

Because there was no stopping from then on.

You left the moment you woke up in his bed to him snoring in your ear and leaving drool in your hair.

But you keep coming back when he calls.

He is careful with you, always. Slow and attentive. He never lets you leave without asking if you are okay, without pressing a bottle of water into your hands, without brushing his fingers against your wrist as if needing something. Maybe a reminder that this is real. Maybe something that’ll hold him back from saying something.

But today was different.

He didn’t ask you how your day was when you walked through his door. Didn’t wait for you to slip off your shoes, to drop your bag onto its usual spot by the couch. Didn’t even give you a chance to breathe before his hands were on you.

He had you pressed up against the wall next to his door and claimed your mouth in a searing kiss that almost tasted desperate.

His fingers curled around your waist and pulled you to him so tightly, you felt every single one of his ragged breaths against your chest, the tension thrumming beneath his skin.

Then he lifted you, carried you over to his bedroom, and basically tossed you onto his bed, his body following. He pressed you down, caging you in, his weight and scent and whole behavior dizzying you.

There was no hesitation. No slow unraveling. No playful touches and teases meant to draw things out. It was pure and unfiltered need.

His hands gripped your hips so firmly, not enough to leave bruises, but hard enough to tell you that he needed this.

He fucked you like you were the only thing on his mind.

He fucked you like you were the only thing keeping him here.

He fucked you like it’s you he craved.

He fucked you like it was making him blind.

It did.

Because he didn’t see the way you gritted your teeth, the way your nails dug into the sheets beneath you, the way the dull pain at the beginning began to sharpen, spreading with every of his hard thrusts.

His face was buried in the crook of your neck, lips tracing the curve of your skin, his breath warm and heavy against your pulse.

He was lost in it, consumed by the feel of you, the way you were wrapped around him, the way your body clenched.

Normally; his weight, his deep groans, the heat of him, his sheer presence pressing you into the mattress would be grounding, would be something good. Something addicting.

But it wasn’t today.

Because the pain only grew.

The stretch felt wrong - too much, too sudden. He gave you time to adjust, asked if you were ready with that husky tone of his, and you only nodded. You lied.

You thought you were able to push through the pain and that it would soon turn to pleasure. But that wasn’t the case, and every snap of his hips only had you fighting to keep from flinching.

Your breath stuttered as he shifted, angling deeper, hitting something that made you gasp. It must have sounded like pleasure to him because he then groaned into your hair, but it was a sound stemming from startled pain.

You felt that deep, bruising pressure that shot up your spine, making you bite down hard on your lip to refuse a cry to slip out that would surely make him stop out of concern.

You only squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will it away. But it didn’t.

It kept spreading, kept tearing, kept building with every thrust.

You know you should have said something.

You know you should have told him to stop, to slow down, to give you a second to breathe.

But then he panted against your neck, breathing into your skin how good you feel, whispering praises and words that sounded a little too affectionate for the kind of arrangement you are having and you felt him let go of whatever was plaguing him.

So when he checked in again, asking if you were alright, you nodded once more. Forcing your lips into a shape that could resemble a yes, and you felt him shudder, felt his grip on your waist tighten as he dived into you again, lost in the feel of your walls.

And you let him.

Because you didn’t want to ruin this.

Because this is what he needed, what he asked for, and if you had told him to stop, what if it changed something? What if it broke that thing between you? What if he would have ended up being disappointed? Unpleased? What if he stopped calling?

So you swallowed the pain. You kept biting your lip and tried to focus on his breathing, the warmth of his skin, anything but the way your body protested, the way the ache morphed into something unmanageable.

You still don’t stop bleeding.

It’s not your period.

You had your period last week. It’s what kept you away from him, what had you say no when he asked you to come over. The thought of bleeding on his sheets, on him, was enough to make heat run along your neck, mortified at the very idea.

But Bucky had just shrugged, voice low and unbothered when he told you he didn’t mind.

But you did, so you declined. And when he asked you, soft and caring, if there was anything he could do for you, you declined as well.

There is a limit to his affections you can take. A limit to the sweetest things he can tell you, the lovelies things he can do for you, and the softest ways he can touch you because you believe none of them mean as much to him as they do to you.

So you stayed home, curled in your bed with a heating pad, ignoring the way you ached for something that had nothing to do with cramps.

And now, here you are, bleeding anyway.

God, you hate this.

Thankfully, the blood started coming when you already sat down on the toilet. When your thighs pressed together and you felt the wetness along the sharp sting that made your breath catch.

But you tell yourself it will stop soon. It has to.

You just need a few minutes - just long enough for your body to calm, for the pain to fade into something tolerable. Long enough to clean yourself up and pretend like everything is fine.

You take another breath, pressing your palm against the cool porcelain of the sink. Your time is running out. You can’t stay here too long or Bucky will notice. You never take this long. And you certainly can’t let him see this. Can’t let him know. Can’t let him ask questions you don’t want to answer.

A knock comes. Soft and firm, rapping against the wood of the bathroom door. Once, twice, before his voice follows, rough but laced with something gentle. Careful.

“Hey, you alright in there?”

Your stomach drops. Shit, you took too long.

You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling sharply, trying to keep yourself from spiraling. You force your voice to steady, to keep the waver out, to sound normal.

“Yeah,” you call back, trying to make it sound light, breezy, unbothered. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Silence. Just for a second. Then, another knock, a little firmer this time, a little more insistent.

“You sure?” Bucky’s voice carries through the door, and there is something new in it now. A crease in his tone.

You can practically hear the way his brows furrow, the way his jaw ticks, that little frown tugging at his lips and deepening the line between his eyes.

Normally, you would think it’s cute. Normally, you would have to suppress the urge to press your finger to that little divot and smooth it out like your touch could unravel the tension in him.

But right now, thinking about it only makes your pulse halt, makes you feel like there is something thick and choking in your throat.

Bucky shifts on the other side of the door, his voice lower, softer when he speaks again. “Do you need-”

Panic flares in you. “I’ll leave as soon as I’m done,” you blurt out, too fast, too sharp. “Just- just give me a minute.”

There is a beat of silence.

The air in this small bathroom seems to be thinning out. You stare at your own reflection in the mirror, at the wide eyes, the parted lips, the tension in your shoulders that pulls them up.

“You don’t gotta leave, doll.”

It’s quieter. His words are careful, almost hesitant, but there is something insistent in them too. Him trying to piece something together.

“I just-” He exhales, and you hear the way he scrubs a hand down his face, the way he shifts his weight from foot to foot, like he is trying to keep himself still, trying to keep himself from pushing open the door and looking at you. “Is everything alright?”

It’s the way he asks, the way he lingers on the words, like he already suspects the answer but is hoping - praying - you will say or do something to prove him wrong.

And you want to. You want to smooth it over, to push away his worry before it sinks too deep, before it turns to annoyance or impatience. But before you can get a single word out, he keeps going.

His voice turns tighter. Faster. His knuckles still seem to rest on the door.

“Are you hurt?”

Your breath stays caught in your throat.

“Did I-” He stops. Starts again. “Did I hurt you?” The words rush out of him, like he can’t stop them. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You open your mouth, but he still continues talking.

“Shit,” he exclaims, as if it hits him square in the chest. His voice dips lower, rawer, tinged with something like guilt, something thick and pressing. “Doll, was I too rough?”

You can hear it all in his voice - the worry, the guilt, the panic, that desperate need to fix something before it even fully breaks. And there is no impatience, no annoyance, none of the things you were afraid of.

You should have known, but somehow you keep lying.

“No, Bucky,” you say, and you hate the way your voice wavers, the way it doesn’t sound that much convincing. “Don’t worry.”

The door handle rattles.

“Doll.” Bucky’s voice is closer, pressed right up against the other side of the door, low and urgent. The knob jerks in his grip, testing it, trying to keep his touch gentle but unable to stop himself. “Can you let me in?”

You swear you can hear your own heartbeat, a dull, thrumming thing pounding in your ears.

“I’m fine, Bucky.” The lie stumbles out too fast, but you don’t know what else to say.

The knob shakes again, this time harder. “C’mon,” he breathes out, and you hear the strain in his voice, the way his words come tighter. “Please, doll. Just open the door.”

You don’t move. Your knees are weak.

“Fuck.” He is frantic. His breath is ragged and sharp. You hear him shift, pressing more of his weight against the door as if he is fighting the urge to force it open. “Y/n, I didn’t mean-” he stops himself, and you can almost picture his hand running through his hair, his jaw clenched tight, his brows pinched together so deeply. “I didn’t mean to be rough with you. Fuck, I- I swear, I-” His voice falters, cracking on something heavy.

You swallow hard, but your throat is closed up and it can’t pass through cleanly. “You weren’t rough, Bucky,” you try to assure him.

But he only lets out a troubled sound. “Yeah?” His voice turns gravelly. His tone turns desperate. “Then why the hell won’t you open the door?”

You can’t answer that. You can barely stand, gripping the sink so hard you feel your fingers might start to cramp. The pain flares up again and you grimace.

“Doll,” he tries again, his voice frenetic. “Please, let me see you.”

The door handle tugs again.

“I need to see you.”

You blink rapidly, trying to keep the frustrated tears from welling up your eyes.

“Bucky-”

“Please.”

That word is laced with a plea so deep, you feel it in your bones.

“Buck, I need a second, okay?”

You force a slow inhale through your nose as you rip off another wad of toilet paper and press it between your legs. The crimson smears against the white. You do it again. Again. Until there is nothing left to wipe away and nothing more is coming. For now.

Your thighs sting where you rub at the dried streaks, the skin tender, hypersensitive. You force yourself to ignore it. You just have to get out. That’s all. If you can get out of his apartment before it starts bleeding again and without crumbling to the floor in pain, there is nothing to worry about.

“You’re scarin’ me here, baby. Please. I need to see you. Need to make sure-” His voice catches.

You toss the balled-up paper into the toilet, reaching blindly for the handle, flushing it down, and cutting Bucky’s desperate words off for a moment.

The pain gets worse, dragging along your nerves and making you lose your balance slightly. You grip the sink again. Your vision goes dark for a short second. The floor is cold beneath your bare feet.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to be rough with you. Y/n! I- I needed you, and I got lost in it, and fuck- I didn’t-” he chokes out, not able to continue. His words sound like a confession.

You grit your teeth, twisting the faucet of the sink too hard, too fast. Water rushes out, scalding against your skin as you scrub your hands, scrubbing at the blood, scrubbing at the proof, as if that will make it disappear.

Your lungs feel too tight, too small to hold enough air. Your heart beats against your ribs like it wants out.

You don’t know if it’s because he went too deep, or too hard, or if something inside you just wasn’t ready for him, but it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you don’t let it show.

On the other side of the door, Bucky exhales vehemently.

His fist knocks twice again before curling around the door handle. “Baby, please let me in.”

“I’m fine,” you call out, but it doesn’t sound right.

Bucky’s breath shudders out.

You try to straighten, try to compose yourself, and open that door to pretend you are fine, but a sharp, searing pain rips through your lower abdomen and you gasp. Your vision swims and the ground beneath your feet feels wobbly, shifting like it might fall out from under your feet.

Bucky’s breath is rough and broken through the crack beneath the door. His palm presses flat against the wood, a low thud that makes your stomach churn.

“Y/n,” he warns, voice low, but so incredibly distressed. So incredibly worried. “If you don’t open this door, I swear to God-”

Your legs give out.

It’s not a full collapse, but it’s enough. Your knee buckles and you stumble, hip knocking hard into the edge of the sink before you pitch sideways, shoulder crashing into the shelf beside you.

The impact rattles the whole thing.

A bottle of cologne topples over, then a razor, then something heavier - a glass jar filled with cotton pads - shattering on the tiled floor with a violent crack.

“Alright, I'm coming in.”

Bucky doesn’t wait for permission.

The door bursts open with a bang, the hinges groaning under the force of his shove. He is on you in an instant, all broad shoulders and frantic energy, filling the small space with his presence before you even have time to react.

Bucky’s hands find you - not grabbing, not pulling, just there, at your back, your arm, holding you together, holding you up before you can fully meet the ground.

His breathing is uneven, his chest rising and falling too fast, and the sight of him nearly knocks you off your feet once more.

His eyes are wide, pupils blown, that storm of worry you have heard in his voice through the door now a full-blown hurricane.

“What’s goin’ on? Doll, what is it?”

You don’t answer. Instead, your own gaze shifts to the glass jar at your feet, fractured lines spiderwebbing through the surface from the fall.

Your chest tightens. Your throat locks.

“Shit, Bucky, I’m so sorry.”

You barely recognize your own voice - thin, trembling, too damn weak. You grip onto him, the shirt he must have pulled over when you disappeared into the bathroom, and you hate it. You hate how bad of a burden you are to him right now, when all he wanted was to let off some stress of the day.

But Bucky doesn’t even seem to hear you.

He doesn’t seem to see anything else than you. Doesn’t look at the glass, doesn’t blink at the mess.

His eyes are on you.

And the way he is looking at you makes something inside you crack even deeper than the broken jar at your feet.

His eyes are sharp and they trace over you, cataloging everything.

He doesn’t just look at you, he dissects you. His gaze maps every inch of your body, searching, calculating, reading between the lines of what you’re not saying.

The way your shoulders are drawn tight. The way your chest stutters on each inhale, as if even breathing is too much right now. The way you clutch at him, your knuckles white, not even trusting your own legs to hold you up.

You swallow hard, shifting your weight in his hold, and the pain flares again, enough to make your body involuntarily tremble. You clamp down on a wince, but he notices.

Bucky’s jaw is tight.

You tug at the hem of your shirt, yanking it lower, bunching the fabric between your fingers as if that will do anything.

Bucky’s gaze snap to your movements. He narrows his eyes, drinking you in with an intensity that makes you want to shrink.

“Doll,” he lets out, voice hoarse and rough, like the single word is punched out of him.

His hands skim over your arms, your waist, searching.

Then he stills.

His fingers twitch against your hip. His shoulders stiffen.

His gaze drops.

The storm behind his eyes turns feral.

You know what he is seeing.

You feel it before you even look down - the slow, unwelcome warmth trailing down your inner thigh.

The blood.

A single, thin ribbon of red against your soft skin.

For a second there is nothing. No sound. No breath. Just his stare.

“Jesus Christ.”

His voice comes in a way you’ve never heard before. It’s rather a harsh croak of sound than his normal voice.

You try to move, do anything to shift his focus, to stop the way his grip on you tightens as if he’s afraid, in pain himself.

But the second you move, another sharp pang shoots up your core, stealing what little breath you have left and you gasp.

Strong arms wind around you tightly, pulling you into his chest firmly.

“Bucky-”

“Hush.”

It’s not an order. It’s not a demand. It’s a plea, soft and urgent and broken, whispered against your hair as he holds you like you might break. No, like he might break.

“You’re hurt.” There is an aching note of guilt hanging between each syllable. It’s so thick and pronounced, you wince. “Fuck- I hurt you.”

You shake your head against him, trying to swallow past the lump in your throat. “No, Bucky, you didn’t-”

“Don’t.” His voice breaks on the word. His grip tightens, his fingers pressing into your skin. “I hurt you. God, fucking hell, I hurt you.”

His grip on you is firm, but not rough.

His arms cage around you, holding you as if you might slip right through the cracks of his fingers if he lets go.

Large fingers press into your hip, your thigh with a feverish desperation, enough for you to feel the slight tremble in them.

His breathing is so ragged, like he’s been running. Chasing something he’s already lost.

He is shaking.

A whisper of his lips presses to the side of your temple, lingering. A contrast to the way he has been claiming your mouth moments before.

It feels like he is pressing his regret into your skin, hoping you’ll absorb it.

“I'm so sorry,” he breathes. It’s hoarse. Nearly choking.

You hear the fracture in his voice, something splitting open inside him.

Another kiss, this time on your forehead. Another apology, spoken in the warmth of his mouth against your heated skin. Another kiss, soft, like he’s praying to you, trying to breathe the apology into you.

“Shit- I'm so sorry, baby.” The words rasp out of him, broken, spilling into your hair, against your forehead, over your cheek.

His hands won’t stop moving. You feel them everywhere - gliding over your back, skating down your arms, searching. For what, though you are not sure. A sign that you’re okay? Proof that he hasn’t broken you?

But perhaps he has. Just not in the way he fears right now. Not in a way that bruises or cracks like a bone, but in the way that has you swallowing down the shame rising thick in your throat.

You don’t want him to see you like this.

It’s humiliating. It’s too much. The way he is looking at you is making you lose control over your limbs and you really can’t afford that right now.

Heat pools beneath your skin, then it vanishes, leaving you cold, your body not able to decide whether to fight or flee.

He gathers you and lifts you in the air, pulling you to his chest. He does it slow. Careful. Looking at your face for any indication that he hurt you some more.

With that, he walks you out of his bathroom.

You should fight him, tell him you can walk, but you’re not sure you can. Your legs are trembling in his hold, unsteady, and the deep throb of pain is still biting at your insides.

And Bucky is holding you like you are the most important thing he ever carried.

You whimper in pain and his hold tightens instinctively. His hands shake against you.

You hate the way your stomach spins in on itself at the thought of staining him. At leaving blood on his clothes, on his skin, on his belongings.

But Bucky does not seem to care at all. He does not seem to think about that at all.

None of it seems to matter.

Only you.

He sits you down carefully, on the edge of his bed. The very same one he just fucked you raw in. His hands hover even after he lets go, still gripping at your waist, brushing along your arms, your knee.

Then he takes off.

You can hear the frantic rustling - the opening and shutting of drawers, cabinets, his movements fast and panicked.

And when he returns to you, he is kneeling in front of you with a damp cloth.

He doesn’t speak at first.

Just opens your legs slightly, with gentle hands, for better access and begins to swipe. Soft, slow drags over your sensitive skin, barely any pressure at all, afraid even the slightest touch might make this worse for you.

But the thing is, he is already making this worse.

Not in the way he thinks.

Not in the way that physically aches in your body but in a way that fills you with something barely manageable.

Bucky is not annoyed, or exasperated at this turn of events. He is not disgusted. Not even a little.

He is not wincing at the blood smearing on your thighs, isn’t hesitating when it stains the cloth, and also might stain his hand, the sheets on his bed. He just keeps wiping. Keeps caring. Keeps frowning with that expression of utter concern and remorse.

And this hurts so much more.

It would have been easier if he had been an asshole about it. If he had sighed in annoyance, rubbed a frustrated hand over his face, and told you to just go if you were gonna act weird. Maybe you would have been able to handle that.

But Bucky Barnes is anything but an asshole.

He is kneeling before you, hands still cautiously wiping at your skin. Each motion is so slow, painstaking, like an artist restoring a ruined masterpiece, knowing no stroke of his hand can undo the damage.

His touch is soft, but his body is anything but.

His spine is a pillar of strain, each muscle wound so tightly, even the act of breathing seems like an effort to him, like something he must force past the knot in his chest.

His jaw is hard, teeth pressed together in a pressure you can almost hear.

Rigid shoulders don’t really move with his breaths, as if the guilt inside of him has turned to iron and settled deep in his bones.

Every inch of him seems to be screaming with the need to undo something that has already been done.

His blue eyes are flooded with regret. With something heavier than guilt, something closer to self-loathing.

It feels like he is bleeding grief.

And it would have been easier if he didn’t care so much.

Because if he was indifferent, if he brushed it off, if he let you go, then at least you could pretend this didn’t mean anything. At least you could convince yourself that this arrangement was just that - an arrangement. A convenient thing. A way to feel wanted without asking for more.

But this makes it impossible to lie to yourself.

This makes it impossible to stop falling for him over and over again.

And that is what really hurts, what dives deep into your insides to carve out a room and stays there.

His fingers brush over your knee as he cleans.

And then, after a long, silent moment, he speaks.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His voice is rough. Not accusing. Not angry. Just wounded. Pained.

He lets out a sharp breath, his throat bobbing as he swallows thickly. He looks away for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut as if blocking out what he did to you.

His gaze flicks back up to yours and the way he looks at you nearly takes you apart.

“Why didn’t you stop me, doll?” His voice breaks, as if it physically pains him to say it. “I- Jesus, I- why didn’t you tell me?”

You shake your head, your throat tight, trying to find the words. Trying to explain. But the shame, the embarrassment make it hard to pull in a full breath, making it impossible to speak.

Bucky waits.

And again, that makes it worse.

Because he is patient with you, even now. Even when he desperately searches you for something, when he looks like he wants to rip himself apart with his bare hands.

He is still waiting for you, waiting for you to think about your answer.

You push past the lump in your throat and force up something. “I didn’t want to ruin it,” you admit quietly.

His brows pull further together, face twisting. His hand stays on your knee. “Ruin what?”

You exhale shakily, your fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “For you,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want to ruin it for you. I just- I wanted you to feel good.”

Bucky might have stopped breathing in front of you. Might have just died and come back in the same second.

A sound leaves him. You can’t make out if it is a word or something else, but it is deep and gravelly and it slams into your chest like a fist.

His head dips forward, his hands flexing into fists on his thighs before he drags them over his face. The stained cloth lay discarded.

He shakes his head, not believing what he is hearing. Not even knowing what to do with himself.

He looks at you again. His eyes are darker now. So full of pain.

“Doll,” he breathes, and the way he says it - like it hurts him, like it breaks him - have you staring at him helplessly. “You think I’d rather you suffer through it? That I’d rather have you- have you just take it? That I’d rather get off than-” He stops. He has to stop. His breath hitches in a gasp. His fists shake. “Fuck.”

You can’t look at him.

You want to. But you can’t.

Because he is too much.

Because he is everything.

Because he is making it impossible to pretend like this isn’t something more than what it is.

There is a deep, pulling sensation in your stomach, a hand reaching inside and twisting and turning everything around.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out. Your bottom lip trembles and you fight against tears welling up in your eyes.

Bucky moves instantly.

He is on you in a heartbeat, as close as he can possibly get, as if he could crawl into your skin if it meant keeping you from hurting.

His head shakes, frantic, desperate. “No, hey- no.”His voice sounds like it has been dragged over broken glass. Fractured.

“Don’t apologize, baby. Please, don’t.” He cups your face, his palms warm against your skin. He forces your eyes to his, refuses to let you look away, refuses to let you hide in your shame.

His brows are pulled together, his jaw is tight. His entire body vibrates with something fierce.

“Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who is. I’m the one who needs to apologize.”

His thumb catches a tear.

His hands tighten, like he can physically hold all of you.

“God, I gotta apologize, baby,” he breathes, and the sheer pain in his voice has your heart pounding. “I shouldn’t have- I should’ve never let you think this was all it was.” His fingers flex against your face and he drags in a breath that seems to hurt him.

His forehead almost touches yours.

“I should’ve told you,” he croaks out, words something like a confession. “That first night. That next morning. Should’ve told you then. Should’ve never let you leave thinkin’-” He stops himself, his eyes so blue, so damn intense, burning into yours with something so vulnerable it has your ribs crack open.

He regains a firmness in his voice when he speaks next.

“I should’ve never let you walk out thinkin’ you were just some good time to me.”

You choke on your next breath.

Your mind blanks.

He shakes his head, like he hates himself.

“I thought-” He exhales and rubs a hand over his jaw, his stubble rasping against his palm. “You were gone so fast that first time, baby. So fast. And I- I thought maybe that’s how you wanted it. Maybe that’s all it was for you. It broke my heart, but hell, I thought that’s all I was gonna get. And I didn’t wanna risk it. Risk losin’ that with you.”

You didn’t feel your lips part. You just know that they are gaping.

Words are lost on you.

Bucky’s hands slide down your arms, squeeze at your elbows, needing to ground himself, needing to feel you solid beneath his fingers. His thumb brushes over your pulse point, as if trying to memorize the beat of it.

His voice lowers. Softens.

“But I can’t do this anymore.”

His fingers tighten.

“Not- not like this.” He swallows hard. “Not when it’s hurtin’ you. Not when I-” His throat tries to work around the words, his gaze searching. “Not when I’m hurtin’ you, and giving you the impression you’d just have to take it. That you couldn’t tell me to stop when you need me to.”

His voice splinters.

You stare into the glossy sheen of his eyes and only see sincerity and the utter despair he is in.

Something pushes against your ribs, trying to carve out space where none existed before. A deep heat blooms low, not the kind that you knew to ignite in the dark between tangled sheets and intertwined limbs, but something slower, something deeper.

“I left that morning because I thought it’s what you wanted, Bucky.” Your voice wavers, but you hold his gaze, watching the way his entire body tenses, the way his brows draw together.

Your hands move to his shirt, nails pressing into it, eyes moving away from his, but he keeps them on you so firmly.

“I was scared,” you admit quietly. “I was scared you would wake up, look at me, and regret it. That you’d think it was a mistake. And then, you never asked me to stay-” You swallow hard, blinking rapidly to slow the tears. “And I thought that meant I was right. That you didn’t want me to.”

Bucky’s eyes go wide.

He looks broken.

His body jerks forward as if you hit him. His mouth is parted and his lips are trembling. His throat works words up.

You watch as something dark and agonizing moves through him. He blinks fast, breathes in sharp, and exhales even sharper.

Then he shakes his head, over and over again, lips moving to a curse he doesn’t speak out loudly. His hands adjust themselves on your skin.

“You thought I wanted you to leave?”

The sheer disbelief, the sheer devastation in his voice makes your chest cave in on itself.

“I-” You try to answer, try to explain, but he continues.

“No. No, sweetheart, no.” His hands slide down, gripping your arms, your hands, begging you to listen. “I never- Fuck. I never wanted you to leave.”

His eyes are wild, urgent, stormy.

“I wanted you to stay. Every damn time. But I thought it’s what you wanted.” His voice hitches, his shoulders rigid with tension. “You were gone so fast, doll, you didn’t even-” He swallows, his expression shattering. “I figured you didn’t wanna wake up next to me.”

You feel everything crack open inside you.

Your pulse hammers in your throat, in your wrists, in your ears, in the very tips of your fingers, both in a wild and certain way.

“You never told me to stay,” you whisper.

Bucky’s face contorts in pain.

“I was terrified,” he breathes, his forehead pressing against yours. “Terrified that if I asked, you’d tell me no. And I- I couldn’t-” He exhales a profound breath, shaking his head. “I couldn’t stand hearin’ that, doll. I couldn’t stand losing even the little of you I had.”

Something harsh tugs at your chest, making it hard to breathe.

You had it all wrong.

And so did he.

You want to laugh, maybe, or cry, or press your hands to his face just to make sure this moment is real, to make sure he won’t take back what he just told you.

You let out a shaky breath. A finger lifts gradually and brushes against his jaw. He leans into your touch like he is starving for it.

“I always wanted to stay,” you whisper, voice breaking.

Bucky’s breath stutters, his fingers twitching against you. His lips are parted.

With a long and drawn-out breath he moves to cup the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair, holding you to him.

His lips press against your forehead, once, twice, a third time, his breath warm and unsteady against your skin.

“I fucked up,” he mutters, voice thick with regret.

You shake your head, but he won’t have it.

“No, baby. I shoulda told you from the start. I should’ve never let you walk out that door.” Another kiss. Another released breath. “But you ain’t walkin’ out now. Not this time. Not ever. M’ not gonna let you.”

His voice is low and rough, filled with something sore.

“You’re stayin’ right here.”

You pull him in, needing him closer, needing his arms around you and his warmth against you.

And Bucky melts.

Completely, he folds into you. His arms wrap around your body, pressing against the small of your back, fingers digging in like he needs to feel you.

He buries his face into your hair, leaving kisses there, his breath strained against your scalp. He smells like soap, like something faintly sweet, like safety.

His hand smoothes over your back, tracing slow and grounding patterns, memorizing every inch of you, needing you to be okay.

“How do you feel, baby? You still hurtin’?” he whispers against your temple.

Your stomach flips at the care in his voice. How much he wants to know. How much he needs to know.

You hesitate for a second, words sticking to your tongue.

Bucky pulls back slightly, enough to look at you. His eyes sweep over your face, over every tiny micro-expression, over every little glimmer of pain you can’t quite hide.

His gaze drops lower, assessing you, thoroughly. The bleeding seems to have stopped and relief washes over his features. But it’s fleeting.

“I’m okay,” you assure, even though the soreness still lingers, the ache still exists beneath your skin.

Bucky gives you a warning look.

“It only hurts a little.”

Bucky closes his eyes for a beat, and when he looks at you again, you get uneasy. It seems he wasn’t quite done with confessing things.

“Please don’t do that again, baby. Don’t ever put me before you like that. Don’t ever let me hurt you just ‘cause you think it’s what I want. I could never feel good at the cost of your hurtin’.”

His face is twisted with pain, the idea of you suffering in silence unbearable to him.

He is looking at you like you are everything.

“I promise, Buck,” you tell him reverently. Softly. “But I really am okay.”

“Doll.” His voice is low, firm. “We need to get you checked out. We ain’t just sittin’ on this and hopin’ it’s fine. We’re going to the ER.”

You sigh.

“Bucky-”

“Not up for discussion,” he retorts, shaking his head. There is tension around his mouth, pulling it taut. “We’ll let a doc check you over, and gonna let ‘em tell us you’re okay. And if you’re not, we’re gonna figure out what to do. But we won’t ignore this, sweetheart. Not when it’s you. Not when you’re in pain and bleedin’.”

Your chest is filling with something warm, something fond, something that hurts and heals all at once.

Still, you try. “It’s better now, Buck-”

He doesn’t even let you finish.

He is already moving, already reaching for clothes. He grabs a new pair of his boxers for you to pull on, seemingly not caring about the remnants of blood that will stain them, along with sweats and one of his hoodies.

And before you can argue, or can even fully process what he is doing, he dresses you in those clothes and immediately lifts you into his arms when he is done.

His hands are strong, gentle, so cautious, one cradling your back, the other under your knees. He holds you like you weigh nothing, but also like you are the most precious thing in the world.

You let out a startled noise, but Bucky shushes you tenderly, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple.

“I got you, baby,” he soothes, voice so warm and full of something so achingly deep you don’t know how to hold it.

But you try to.

Because you want to.

“Real love doesn’t meet you at your best. It meets you in your mess.”

- J.S. Park

2K notes · View notes

blackcatner00 · 1 month ago

Text

New Year, New Possibilities

Bucky A/U

Summary: You and Bucky own competing bakeries/cafes. Bucky once worked for you but he abruptly left to start his own business, never telling you what his plans were. Now, he needs your help with a situation. Will you forgive him for leaving you and help him? or tell him to kick rocks?

Content warning: Language, tension at the beginning between reader and Bucky, baker Bucky, FLUFF.

A/N - Happy New Year everyone! I just wanted to say a quick thank you to all the readers here and for your continued support, likes, re-blogs, and comments throughout the year. I read them all and truly appreciate them. I'm looking forward to 2025 and everything that is to come! I have lots planned for my Bucky stories, so stay tuned!

“All I’m sayin’ Buck is that the venue cancelled, the caterers went out of business, and we have no food including the cake and no place to get married.” Steve groaned as he sat down in front of his best friend.

Bucky thought about it and looked at Steve.

“Before you gloat and say, ‘I told you so’, I know, you told me so.”

Steve moaned and plunked his head on the table and groaned.

He was always so dramatic.

Steve was Bucky’s best friend, and he was getting married to Peggy. Bucky, who owns a café and bakery called The Vintage Oven, offered to help with some of the appetizers and to make their cake.

Since he was going to be in the wedding party as the best man, Steve didn’t want him working at his wedding, so he found someone else to do it. Turns out, the caterers he hired folded, and the venue was double booked, so the wedding was bumped from the venue’s calendar. Steve and Peggy planned a Christmas Eve wedding which was only a few weeks away.

Just as Bucky was going to respond, Peggy walked into the bakery and spotted her fiancé with his head on the table. She walked over and sat down, petting Steve’s arm.

“You heard about the news?” She looked over at Bucky.

“Yeah, that’s too bad.”

Bucky sipped his latte. His bakery and café were bustling with the busy holiday season.

“I can help you, you know,” he shrugged.

Peggy smiled at Bucky and Steve groaned.

“I don’t want you working,” he mumbled into the table.

Peggy shushed him and he popped his head up.

“You can’t do it all on your own Buck.” Steve looked around.

Bucky was already busy with the holiday season with custom orders, catering requests, and parties he was supplying appetizers to. He was going to have to stay up late and burn the candle at both ends if he was going to help his friend with food and wedding duties.

“I can do it, leave it to me Steve.”

“You can always get Y/n to help.” Peggy gently added.

Bucky grumbled as he sipped his drink and Steve thought about it.

“Yeah Buck, that would be perfect. With her cakes and desserts, and your appetizers and snacks, this could work.”

Steve took out his phone and was frantically typing on it.

“You just need a venue.” Bucky piped up.

He was starting to get mad anxiety over asking you for help.

“Oh, that’s what I came by for. Mayor Fury has a contact at the historical society. Said their re-furbished library is now ready for functions,” she sounded hopeful.

“I thought that wasn’t going to be made public until the new year?” Steve asked.

“Guess we get to be the first ones to celebrate it then?”

Peggy patted Steve on the shoulder. Peggy was on the town council and knows a lot of people.

“I thought you wanted Christmas Eve as your wedding date?” asked Bucky.

“We do, but nothing is available for that night on short notice, so we switched to New Years Eve.”

Peggy looked lovingly at Steve as he smiled at her and brought her hand up to kiss it.

Bucky watched his friend, and his fiancé dote on each other. He wished he had someone he could come home to, but sadly, he doesn’t. He's been so focused on his café and bakery; he hasn’t had time for a relationship.

“Do you mind asking Y/n for help? If you two tag team, I’m sure the food and cake will be amazing!” Peggy beamed at Bucky.

Bucky thought about it. Sure, why not ask his former boss whom he left and didn’t tell his plans to open a competing business with the knowledge and skill he gained from her if she wants to work with him on a last-minute New Years Eve wedding. She wouldn’t mind at all he internally rolled his eyes at himself.

He hadn’t spoken to you or seen you for over a year. Not since you kissed him, and he left the very next day without a word.

Peggy’s phone dinged, and she glanced at it.

“Oh, I’ve got to get going, meeting has been changed to an earlier time. I’m so excited Steve!” She gushed at Steve and kissed his cheek before she left the café.

Steve turned and looked at Bucky.

“Are you sure you’re ok with asking Y/n? It would mean the world to Peggy, and I don’t want to disappoint her.”

Steve eyed his friend. Bucky gulped and nodded.

“I’ll head there and talk with her.” Bucky assured his friend.

“It’ll work out. I know Y/n will say yes.”

“I know, and I hate what happened. You really screwed her over.” Steve watched Bucky who shrunk down in his seat.

“Don’t remind me,” he groaned and rubbed his eyes.

“Let me know how it goes. If it doesn’t work, Peggy and I will just head to a beach and elope.”

"Yeah, that’s not going to fly with her family who have flights from England booked to come here. They’ve already had to change them once; I don’t think they want to change them again.” Bucky reminded him.

“Crap, you’re right.” Steve remembered.

“Whatever punk. Just be nice to Y/n. It’s been a while, who knows, she may be happy to see you.”

“Not likely jerk, but I’ll text you after I talk to her.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Bucky shuddered to himself as he watched Steve leave.

There hadn’t been a day when Bucky didn’t think of you. Not only because he was competing with you for business, but because he still adored you.

You hadn’t officially been on a date or anything, but you kissed him on his last day at your bakery. Well, you didn’t know it was going to be his last day, it just happened. He still thinks about that kiss and how it burned into his mind at how amazing it was. He feels like a jerk for abandoning you, but his realtor had told him he had to move on his space, or it was going to be sold to someone else.

With the funding from his bank locked into place, and his business was legally registered, he didn’t want to waste another second. He had wanted to tell you numerous times throughout his days of working with you, but he chickened out every time, knowing how you’d react to him leaving you. He also couldn’t control some of your customers leaving you for his place, and being the second bakery and café in town, the competition was going to be intense.

He had always wanted to open his own place up and he knew he didn’t have a chance of living his dream if he stayed with you, so that’s why he started looking for places of his own. He never wanted to leave you, but this was something he wanted to do for himself. He thought you were an amazing, smart, professional, creative, and an overall great business owner. The fact that he had a raging crush on you only complicated things.

When you kissed him in your back storage room, he knew it was wrong, but you had both been flirting with each other for a while, and he couldn’t hide his feelings any longer. He just wished the timing was better back then, then perhaps things would be different. He thought about you and smiled to himself. Would the timing be better now? What were you up to in your personal life? He thought about you a lot and a small part of him secretly hoped you were still single as he worked up the courage to head to your bakery to see you.

🥳🧁

“Be right with you!” You called from the back room.

You wandered out and stopped dead in your tracks.

“You!” You glared at your customer.

“Hey,” he gave you a lame wave.

“Come to steal my ideas and recipes? Scope out the competition? Or just leave again without a word?” You spat at him.

He shuffled his feet a little.

James ‘Bucky’ Barnes was standing in your bakery, looking a little stressed and uncomfortable and not at all like the devilishly handsome confident man he is. Wait, no, he’s a jerk, yeah, a big giant jerk. A big, broad shouldered, blue-eyed, dark wavy-haired jerk who can bake and kiss like nobody’s business.

Dammit.

You gave him a job when he first got to town in your bakery but after a year of working with him, he opened his own bakery a few blocks from your shop and took a lot of your ideas with him, not to mention customers and possibly your heart. He never once apologized to you, and you’ve been battling with him as top bakery in your town ever since.

“Hi Y/n,” he blushed a little.

“What do you want?” You glared at him.

“Well, I was hoping you could help me…”

You kept glaring at him.

“…With a business opportunity,” he quietly added.

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“You? Need MY help for a business opportunity?” You snorted.

“Well, it’s kind of a last-minute emergency.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. It must be some emergency if Bucky was standing in your bakery.

“Go on.”

“Umm, Steve...remember Steve? Anyways, he’s getting married. And well, his venue was double booked so they cancelled their wedding, their caterers went out of business, and they’ve been scrambling ever since. They had their heart set on a Christmas Eve wedding, and well, there aren’t any last-minute venues, so they changed it to New Year’s Eve. The mayor has a space they can use.”

“That’s a sad story Bucky, too bad I don’t care,” you deadpanned.

Bucky huffed out a breath and took a step towards you.

“Y/n, come on. We’re both busy with the holidays but I was wondering, well, if I do the appetizers, maybe you can do the desserts and cake for it? Help me out? For Steve?” asked Bucky.

“Really? You really think I have time for that?” You waved your arm around your bustling bakery.

“Well, no. If it helps, neither do I, but Steve’s stuck and since he’s my best friend, I thought I could help him, but I can’t do it alone and I need your help too,” he shrugged.

You thought about it and did kind of feel bad for Steve.

“New Years Eve?”

Bucky nodded.

“Desserts and a wedding cake?” you confirmed.

Bucky was nodding like crazy.

You sighed.

Of all the things you didn’t think you’d be doing today, checking your calendar to help Bucky out wasn’t even in your top 100 of possibilities.

“Let me check my schedule. I know I have a few other cakes to make and be delivered for New Years Eve.”

You wandered to your back office to check your calendar, not realizing Bucky was following close behind. When you stopped at your desk to grab your order book, he bumped into you.

“Oof,” you fumbled, almost dropping your book.

“Careful.” Bucky helped you balance.

He was holding your arms still, so you shrugged him off and cleared your throat.

“Thanks,” you mumbled and flipped to the week of New Years.

“Still using an old planner for your orders?” Bucky smirked at you.

He was always trying to get you to modernize a few things you did at your bakery, starting with your ordering system, or lack of one. You looked at him and glared.

“It may be old, but it works for me,” you grumbled.

“I can put you in touch with my contact who handles my electronic ordering system…”

You glared at him making him put his hands up in surrender.

“Or not.”

You went back to your book.

“Hmm.”

You scanned the pages and saw you could accommodate Bucky’s request. You let out a sigh and looked up at Bucky. His bright blue eyes were laser focused on you.

“Fine, I’ll help you,” you grumbled out.

Bucky’s eyes went wide, and he rushed over to give you a hug.

“Thank you thank you thank you!” He repeated while squeezing the life out of you.

“Do I get any sort of idea of what to make?”

You cleared your throat as Bucky released you.

“Oh right, yeah. I’ll talk with Steve and Peggy, and we can meet to discuss in a few days.”

Bucky was ecstatic, you were going to help him.

“Fine. Let me know when.”

You wrote some notes in your book to block some time for your baking. You stood in your office awkwardly looking at anything other than each other.

“Well, I should go.” Bucky pointed to the doorway and took a step back.

You watched him leave your office and exhaled.

“You ok?” Wanda poked her head in to check on you.

“Great,” you muttered and rubbed your eyes with your hands.

🥳🧁

You stood outside the Vintage Oven and glowered at it.

“Damn, it’s nice.” You muttered while you opened the door to your meeting.

You walked in and it smelled amazing. The Christmas baking was in full force as well as some savory options from the café; your mouth was watering while you scanned the tables. The dark wood floors, black tables, brick walls, and bright artwork made the space homey.

“Y/n?”

You saw Steve sitting with Peggy.

“Hi Steve.”

You walked over, and he got up to give you a big hug.

“Been a while. You look good.”

“Thanks,” you smiled.

“Thank you for meeting us here,” he said, releasing you.

“You remember Peggy.”

Peggy got up and hugged you too.

“Hello. We really appreciate you doing this for us.” She sat back down, and you smiled awkwardly.

“It was no problem,” you quietly said.

Just as you opened your notebook, Bucky sat down next to you.

“Hi.”

He also had a notepad and pen.

“Going old school today?”

You pointed at his pen and paper.

“Tablet’s charging,” he winked at you making your stomach flutter.

You rolled your eyes as Steve and Peggy began telling you what they had envisioned.

“Seems simple enough. Three-tiered wedding cake, ivory buttercream with piped flowers in varying shades of purples, pinks, and blushes.”

You went over the wedding cake details again.

“Flavours?” You asked.

Steve looked at Peggy and she shrugged.

“Whatever you think, we’re not picky.”

“I’ll think of a few flavours and email you some options to decide. If you want to pop in and try some samples, let me know.”

“We’re good, we trust you.” Steve smiled wide.

They had given Bucky their appetizer choices the previous day and he was making notes on the different desserts you were going to have so they matched what he was planning on doing.

“So that settles it then?” Bucky asked while you finished writing.

“We have to get back to work but thank you for meeting us.”

Both Steve and Peggy got up to leave.

“No problem.” You smiled as they left the café leaving you alone with Bucky.

“Do we have to meet for anything?" asked Bucky looking hopeful.

You looked at him and shrugged.

“I don’t think so... I have everything I need.”

You looked through your notes again.

“Well, if you need me for anything, let me know.”

Bucky looked a little disappointed you didn’t want to meet with him.

“So, you’re in the wedding party then?”

“Yup, best man.” Bucky blushed a little while you nodded along.

“I’ll have a few of my team there helping. I’ll prep most of the work the day before, and then they’ll take over the day of.”

Bucky smiled proudly at his staff.

“Sam will be there running things.”

He pointed to a man who was boxing up an order for a waiting customer.

“Glad you have a good team with you.”

You were generally happy for Bucky, it still hurt you that he abruptly left you, but you were proud of him in a weird way.

“Well, see you then.”

You awkwardly said and got up from the table. Bucky rose and helped you with your chair.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“See you later.”

“Bye Y/n.”

Bucky stayed standing at the table while he watched you leave. The minute you got out onto the street, you turned into a small alcove and leaned against the brick wall, taking a deep breath. The man still affected you after all this time.

The closeness to him and small smiles he was sending you during that meeting did some things to the walls you had built up from him. You composed yourself and shook it off, heading back to your bakery to make clearer notes and form a menu for Steve and Peggy’s New Year’s Eve wedding.

🥳🧁

Christmas Eve was busy in the store, and you were pleased everyone was happy with their orders. You spent most of the week prepping, baking, and packaging things with your team while the Christmas rush was in full force. You are pretty sure the orders for this year were more than last, you could feel it while you smiled at yourself. Your mind briefly wandered to Bucky, and you were curious at how he was doing during this time.

Was he just as busy as you? Was he spending time with a special someone on Christmas? You scowled at that thought.

He never mentioned anyone while you were there but there wasn’t a time to talk about that. You internally scolded yourself for letting your thoughts run away from you. You quickly scanned your busy bakery and smiled at yourself.

Opening your bakery was one of the best things you had ever done when you noticed a delivery driver standing in front of you.

“Hello. How can I help you?” You were a little embarrassed, he saw you day dreaming.

He smiled and held out a large flower arrangement.

“This is for you.” He handed you the container and left the shop.

“Who are those from?” asked Wanda your assistant.

“No idea.”

You loved flowers and getting flowers in general. Usually a few of your long-time customers gave you arrangements during the holidays so you found the card and opened it.

Your mouth fell open as you read it:

Dear Y/n, these are for you as a thank you for helping me with Steve and Peggy’s wedding. I know things didn’t end the greatest with us, but I am hoping to connect with you after the wedding in the new year. I hope you still adore getting flowers, and I thought of you when I saw this bouquet. Have a Merry Christmas and we’ll touch base in a few days.

Bucky xoxo

“Oh!” You gasped a little then put the card down like it was going to combust.

“You ok?” Wanda asked, picking up the card to read it.

“OH!”

Her eyes bugged out of her head.

“What does this mean?” she asked.

“No idea.”

Your face was red at the thought.

“I think he still likes you.” She shrugged and went back to serving a customer.

Your heart raced at the thought.

Sure, you kissed him a year ago, but this didn’t mean anything right?

He was just being nice and thanking me for helping him out. Right?

“Ugh, so confusing.”

You groaned and unpackaged the beautiful holiday bouquet to display on your counter.

🥳🧁

You were in your office planning out some desserts for the wedding when you heard footsteps approach.

“You have a visitor!” Wanda called to you in your office.

“Probably that supplier,” you muttered to yourself while you made your way to the front.

Standing in your bakery was Bucky.

“Oh,” you blurted out.

“Hi.” He smiled warmly at you.

“Hello.”

You fidgeted with your apron strings.

You hadn’t seen him since the meeting with Steve and Peggy before Christmas.

What is he doing here?

“Did you have a nice Christmas?” he asked.

You thought about it and shrugged.

“It was good. You?”

Bucky shrugged and said the same thing.

You stood in front of each other, looking around.

“So, what can I help you with?” You finally asked.

“Oh, right. Um…"

He looked around, almost like he had forgotten why he was at your place, but his eyes softened as he saw the bouquet he got you, still looking healthy.

“Um, well…” he rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit he still had.

“I was wondering if I could make use of your ovens? Mine are being repaired and I don’t have the capacity to make this order and my regular stock. I was hoping I could use your workspace for the wedding?”

Bucky Barnes was asking ME for help?

You quickly glanced outside to see if there were any flying pigs in the air on Main Street.

“Oh, well…” you looked around.

Your space wasn’t huge, but your equipment was top of the line and in perfect working order.

“Ok,” you shrugged.

Bucky’s eyes lit up.

“Thank you!” he beamed.

“Ok. We can set up a schedule when you’re here so I can tell my staff.”

“Ok, I’ll be by later then with a few things,” he said.

“Sounds good.” Then he turned and left.

“That was weird.” Wanda snorted next to you.

“I know right?”

“He’s into you.”

“What?” You blushed hard, grabbing a cloth from the counter to wipe down even though it was perfectly clean, you needed to do something with your hands.

“He’s into you, I can tell. I’ll bet his ovens are working perfectly fine.” She smirked at your flustered state.

“Wanda, he left me and if I can remember, he was always particular about his equipment and always made sure it worked fine. He was always fussy like that.”

“Yeah, I’m sure his equipment works just fine,” she joked making your face the colour of a tomato.

“So, you really haven’t seen him or talked to him in a year? He just left?” She asked.

“Yeah, a year ago.”

“He’s obviously sorry and feels bad. Making up that story about his ovens is genius to get closer to you”.

You thought about it. You never talked to him about anything, you just flirted and teased each other daily. It was when things got serious the night before he left when you kissed him. Sure, it was forward, but you couldn’t help yourself.

For weeks after he left, you berated yourself for throwing caution to the wind and just going for it, thinking it was the kiss that made him leave. When you found out he opened his own place, your anxiety turned into fury as you stalked his website and found he was doing similar things to what you did, no doubt stealing your recipes and ideas for his new customers.

You psyched yourself up to confront him numerous times in those first few months but never went through with it. The energy and hassle weren’t worth it and after the newness of his place being opened, your business steadied with your usual regulars returning.

Then time just got away as you got busier and more into catering weddings and events, with your wedding cake orders growing and growing, you never had the time to visit him, until now.

🥳🧁

“Hey!” Bucky knocked while walking in the back door.

“Hey.” You cleared out an area where he could prep his food.

“This is your space. I have cooler space in that one set aside for us to use. The other one is for the shop.” You pointed to the second cooler next to the other.

“Ok.” He placed some things down and looked around.

You saw him unpack his knives as he set them up and started sharpening them. The arm porn you were witnessing was enough to make you close your thighs together as his sleeves were rolled up on his forearms while he worked.

Get it together!

“So, if you need anything, just holler” you pointed to your workspace and started prepping.

“Will do,” he smirked to himself.

He may or may not have purposely worn a long sleeved henley so he could roll it up and show off his arms to you. Something he remembered you liked looking at.

“Front is locked, floor mopped, cases stocked.” Wanda called from the hallway.

“Thanks Wanda, have a good night!”

Bucky was quietly working alongside you. You heard the back door close and continued with your baking pans, getting them ready for the following day. You looked up and saw Bucky was making some dressings and prepping his vegetables.

The appetizers he was planning on doing sounded amazing, so you snuck glances at him every so often to see what he was doing. He moved with precision as he chopped, stirred, poured, and mixed the ingredients he was working on.

“Tomorrow, I’ll be using the oven,” he pointed to your oven.

“Go for it. I usually use it in the morning but it’s available later in the day for you.”

“I remember.” Bucky smiled and started packing his workstation up.

“So, I’ll be over around the same time. Sam is handling things back at my place.”

“With the ovens?” You asked.

“Hmm? Oh, right, yeah, the ovens.” Bucky nervously packed his knives.

Wanda was right.

“So, goodnight then,” you smiled.

He grabbed his knives and stood by the door to the kitchen.

“Are you leaving too?” he asked.

You looked around.

“Probably will stay for another hour.”

Bucky let out a huff and sighed.

“What?”

“I can’t leave you here,” he pouted.

“Why not?”

“At night? Come on Y/n, I should at least walk you to your car or something.”

“Bucky, I’ve been coming and going from here for a long time. Nothing is going to happen to me,” you assured him.

He stood there staring at you.

“Besides, you should check in with Steve for your best man duties.”

“Fine.”

He reluctantly took a step into the hallway. You followed to lock up after him. He turned to ask you something, not realizing how close you were when you bumped into him.

“Oh!”

“Sorry.”

His hands came down to your hips to steady you. A shockwave rocked you at his warm touch. It felt nice. He held you for a moment before letting go.

“Goodnight then.” He took a step and walked out the door.

“Night.”

You waved at his back while he walked down the alley to the main street. You locked up and when the door was closed, you leaned against it and sighed. Having Bucky close to you again was unnerving to you, but you reminded yourself why you were doing this.

You were helping a friend, that was it. In no way were you getting together with Bucky and adding feelings into the mix, that would cause more issues while you walked back to your station to finish your work.

🥳🧁

The day before the wedding, Bucky was in your kitchen, earlier than usual since he had the rehearsal reception in the evening. He moved about your kitchen with ease, making sure to prepare his food so it was not only easy to transport, but easy for Sam to set up at the venue.

Steve had asked him numerous times throughout the week if he had managed to talk to you about everything, but Bucky just shrugged him off. Now wasn’t the time to bring that up. The longing glances and blushes you shot his way were telling signs your heart was starting to unthaw itself from what he did a year ago.

“Do you have everything then?” You asked Bucky.

He looked over a few of his racks of food that were wrapped tight and ready to be delivered.

“Think so. Sam and the rest of the team will be by tomorrow to get this.”

“Ok.”

“What time are you going to be at the library?” he asked.

“Steve and Peggy invited me to the wedding last minute, as a thanks for helping them,” you shrugged.

Bucky had no idea they did that, but it didn’t stop the butterflies he had from rising at the thought he would get to spend a bit of time with you tomorrow.

“Y/n?” Bucky asked.

“Yes?”

“Well, I just…I just wanted to say thanks for helping me. It means a lot you did this for me, but also Steve and Peggy.”

You softened a little and nodded.

“You’re welcome.”

“I also just wanted to say how sorry I am at how things ended…”

“Bucky…”

“No, I have to get this out. I-I should have told you my plans all along. I was grateful you gave me a chance and hired me with little experience, so I wanted to thank you for that. I had always wanted to have my own place, and when I was planning for it, everything happened so fast, I didn’t have time to tell you…” Bucky looked anguished, but he composted himself.

“I guess I just wanted to say I’m sorry about leaving you. I never intended to steal your recipes, or customers. I did do quite a few different things, stayed away from most of your unique desserts, and I always send people to you if they’re looking for something you make since I can’t do your recipes justice, but yeah, that’s – that’s all I wanted to say. Well, that and in the new year, I was wondering if we could work together on a few things. I have some ideas…”

Bucky rubbed his arm with his hand and shrugged.

You stood there watching him.

“Thank you,” you finally said after letting his words sink in.

He looked at you and smiled.

“I’m sorry for being so harsh to you earlier,” you mumbled making Bucky chuckle.

“I’d probably have been the same,” he admitted.

“And I would like to work with you in the new year,” you smiled at him.

A collaboration between your two places would be awesome as you started thinking of the possibilities.

You didn’t notice how close he got to you, but he was now standing right in front of you.

“I-I still haven’t forgotten about that kiss,” he whispered.

Your cheeks were flaming.

“Oh, right, THAT.”

You played it off.

“Pfft, yeah…well...”

Bucky took a step towards you, so he was now close.

“I still think about it.”

He reached out and tugged your apron string, something he used to do a lot when he worked for you. You chuckled and said “Well, it was a good kiss,” you admitted.

Bucky still held onto your apron, running his fingers on the ties. Your heart was beating fast as you watched his skilled fingers trace the string, up and down as he moved them. Shivers erupted on your skin while his hand moved from the strings to your sides. You could feel the warmth of him through your shirt and it felt electric as he traced the sides of your shirt.

“Y/n? Can you come here for a minute?” Wanda called making you step back from his reach.

Dammit.

You cleared your throat and straightened.

“Be there in a sec!” You yelled down the hall.

“Well, I should go…”

Bucky cleared his throat and pointed to the doorway. He took a few steps towards it, but he froze and turned around.

“Save a dance for me tomorrow?” he asked.

You stood rooted in place, thinking about his words.

“Ok,” you whispered.

He smiled and wished you a goodnight before he left your kitchen.

🥳🧁

The wedding day was a hectic one for you. Not only did you have the wedding desserts and cake to finalize, but your regular orders and deliveries had to be made and sent out. To say you were ran ragged was an understatement while you finished prepping the macarons for the wedding.

“What are you wearing tonight?” Wanda asked.

You had scoured your closet over the past few days and had no idea what you were going to wear.

“Not sure yet.”

Her eyes bugged out of her head.

“What do you mean? The wedding is in hours!”

She was starting to make you panic.

“I know!” You grumbled while one of your delivery drivers came and took the last of your desserts for the wedding.

“I think I have that black dress…”

“What one?” Wanda thought about it.

“The short lacy one? I wore it in the fall for that terrible blind date Scott set me up with.”

“Oh right, Peter Quill, the weirdo who flipped into a song and dance at the drop of a hat,” Wanda giggled.

“Please don’t remind me of my terrible dating life.”

“What life?” Wanda mumbled and wiped down a counter. You gave her the stink eye.

“Anyways…I think I’ll wear that one and some heels. It’s comfortable enough if I have to jump in and fix anything that got messed up in transport.”

Wanda looked around your quieting bakery and said, “You should head home and get ready, I got this,” she nudged you to your office so you could leave.

“Fine, fine.”

You grabbed your purse and wished your staff a Happy New Year. The bakery was going to be closed for a few days so everyone could have a break from the busy holiday season, and you were looking forward to the rest.

🥳🧁

You got to the library and let out a “Woah” as you looked around. It was an old historic library with deep dark wood trim, gleaming hardwood floors, large picture windows that overlooked the city skyline, and the sconce lighting gave the effect of glowing candlelight. Fresh flower centrepieces and candles were placed on the cocktail tables and there was a large fireplace that centered the room.

You wandered over to where the ceremony was going to be held and smiled to yourself. The venue was intimate and cozy while you took your place. You saw the groomsmen walk out and you blushed hard, seeing Bucky in a black tux. He looked devilishly handsome while he stood next to Steve.

You could see him looking around the room. His eyes met yours and you could see the small smile that played out on his pink lips as he spotted you. Peggy walked down the intimate aisle and before you could blink, was officially married to Steve, who looked adoringly at his new bride while they walked back up the aisle to the cheers of the warm crowd.

You had to jump in and help with some of the desserts but was completely fine with it. The cake only suffered a little minor damage in transport that was easily fixable. You lurked over the tables and re-positioned some of the trays as you saw Bucky out of the corner of your eye while he circled the room and spoke to some of the staff. Even in his tux and at his friend’s wedding, he gave off commanding boss energy and you were all for it.

Over the past few weeks, you have come to enjoy spending time with Bucky in your kitchen and after his apology and confession of wanting to work together, your feelings for him started to surface. If anyone at the beginning of the year told you this is how you would be spending your new year’s, you would have had them committed.

You perused the event space, looking at all the books that were shelved, wondering what kind of stories and adventures were hidden within the pages when you were tapped on your shoulder. You turned and saw it was Bucky who was standing there with two champagne glasses.

“Hi.” He handed you a glass.

“Hi.” You gladly accepted the bubbly liquid.

“The food looks amazing.”

You pointed to a passing server whose tray was half full.

“Thanks. The dessert table looks wonderful, and the cake, it’s beautiful.” Bucky beamed at you.

“Thanks.”

The night was starting to creep into midnight, many couples were dancing, laughing and talking with each other. Steve and Peggy swayed on the dance floor while looking lovingly at each other.

“Would you like to dance? You promised me you’d save one for me?” You playfully rolled your eyes and watched as Bucky offered you, his hand.

“Sure.” You smiled while your stomach flipped.

Dancing with Bucky in the darkened room while candles flickered, and the city lights sparkled was a special feeling. The possibilities of the new year and what was to come were something you were now looking forward to as you swayed to the music in his strong arms.

“Gather around, the countdown is starting!” Someone called while everyone swarmed the dance floor.

“Oh!”

You looked around as people jostled and stood on the dancefloor with their noise makers and hats, many surrounding the newly wed couple as they watched a small clock that was projected on a wall. Bucky held you close to him, the flower on his lapel was being somewhat squished into your face, but you didn’t mind at all.

“Sorry.” He leaned down and whispered to you.

“It’s ok,” you shrugged.

“10, 9, 8…”

You looked up into his bright eyes and smiled while he watched you.

People were shouting along to the countdown and laughing.

“5, 4, 3…”

"Happy New Year,” he whispered in your ear.

“2, 1…HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

The crowd cheered while you watched fireworks being lit off in the distance.

“Happy New Year Bucky.” You squeezed him tight making him smile.

People were kissing each other as Bucky looked around. You could see his cheeks flushed as he still held you close.

“What, no kiss?” You teased.

He snapped his head back to you and he smiled, leaning down. You met him halfway and kissed him, wrapping your arms around his neck as he held you tight to him.

Yeah, if anyone told you at the start of the year you would be kissing Bucky Barnes at his friends wedding on New Year’s Eve, you would have told them they were being ridiculous. Now? You smiled into the kiss and hugged him tight, excited at what was to come.

🥳🧁🥳🧁🥳🧁🥳🧁

181 notes · View notes

blackcatner00 · 1 month ago

Text

I love you, I'm sorry || Bucky Barnes x reader! au)

Summary: James loved his wife, his son, and the life he had. However, lately he begins to remember his days as a sought-after bachelor in the past and all the opportunities and experiences he wasted.

One night, a magical being appears to him, who offers him to fulfill a wish, which will change his life completely.

Author's note: So i had this idea for a long time ago and i thought it'll be fun to see where this is going. This is some kind of au, where reader and Bucky are married. The magic being is Doctor Strange.

P.S: I love Bucky, and i know he will never do this 💌

《tags: angst, Bucky being a jerk, fluff, married life, arguments, curse words, a character that decide to step in 👀》

Bucky was tired.

He didn't know if he was tired of the long work day he had in the office, or if he was tired of returning to the routine. Sometimes he began to think what would happen to his life if he had made different decisions.

Don't get him wrong, he was sure of what he had chosen: he loved his son Theo, the sweet 5-year-old who looked up to him with a twinkle in his eye every time they spent time together. Bucky thought it was one of the best things that had ever happened to him. On the other hand, the job he had was good, considering that he must maintain a house, a family, pay the bills, put food on the table everyday and treat himself, his son and especially to his wife.

His dear wife Y/N, who had always been there for him. Who he loved with all his might. He can still remember the first time he met her. Well, the first time he actually saw her. Bucky used to be a heartthrob even back in the days when he went to college. He had a certain reputation with the ladies and never committed himself to a relationship; the black haired man wanted to enjoy his single days as much as he could. That's what he thought until he met Y/N, the sweet girl with glasses who helped him with exams and congratulated him every time he got an A. She had bewitched him from head to toe with her noble heart and sweet aura.

He had it all.

But he also had everything in the past.

A life without worries or bills to pay, girls who fought for his attention or to sit next to him in classes, a group of friends whom he still saw, but without seeing much because of their tight schedules. And well, he didn't want to sound like an idiot, but he didn't have anyone to send him to wash the dishes or change diapers. Plus, he always had someone to have a good time with, if he needed to... de-stress.

It wasn't that with Y/N he didn't want any of that now. But he felt like the flame had gone out since she spent most of her time taking care of Theo, the house and resting from expecting her second child on the way.

Shaking off those thoughts of his head, James takes the keys from his pocket and begins to open the door to be greeted by the excited screams of his son, Theo.

"Daddy! You're finally here." Theo throws himself at him and Bucky reciprocates his hug.

"Hello champion" Bucky ruffles his hair and looks into the boy's blue eyes, who look at him adoringly "You didn't cause your mother any problems, did you?"

The little boy shakes his head.

"I helped her clean up the mess after I drew something for you," he mentions.

Bucky raises an eyebrow and looks at him softly.

"Yeah? I want to see it" Bucky says and the boy runs off to look for the draw.

Bucky sighs and puts his coat and briefcase aside to loosen his tie. All he wanted to do was finish the paperwork he needed by tomorrow without fail, take a shower, and sleep.

"Doll, where are you?" Bucky asks, running his hand over his face in frustration.

"In the kitchen!"

Bucky walks to the room and watches as his wife stirs something in the pot. The aroma of food invades the man's nostrils and his stomach growls with hunger. Y/N puts the spoon aside and hugs him lovingly, making sure her bump doesn't crush against the man's body.

“I missed you,” Y/N murmurs against his lips. Bucky accepts it and hugs her.

"Mhm. I'm really tired," he says barely. Y/N frowns and pouts.

"Long day at work?" He nods.

"And I still have to finish the paperwork," he mentions, rolling his eyes. Suddenly, a crazy idea - which he's sure young Bucky would like - occurs to him, he raises an eyebrow and lowers his hands to his wife's butt. "I was thinking that as long as I do the paperwork, and Theo falls asleep... I don't know, we could have fun in the office room."

Bucky starts kissing her neck, to which Y/N giggles. She sighs and moves away from him a little.

"I have to finish doing the laundry and help Theo with his homework," she excuses herself. Bucky grimaces and can't hide the discontent on his face "But maybe later we can..."

"No, it's okay," Bucky says sharply. "I'd better take my plate to the office and eat there."

"Honey, I..."

“It’s okay, Y/N.” And with that, he grabs his plate of food and takes it to his office to lock himself in and not go out again.

"Theo!" Bucky exclaims.

His temperament overwhelms him, especially when he sees the drawing that his son had given him for him to appreciate. He had appreciated the gesture, since Bucky loved when his son drew him, but the man hadn't liked it at all when Theo decided to paint on the reports he had to correct for tomorrow.

Bucky enters the boy's room and he is surprised to see his father angry approaching him. He had never raised his voice at the boy like that, not even when he got into trouble. Y/N follows him when she hears the commotion from the bathroom.

"What happened?" the woman asks calmly. Bucky shows his sheet to the boy.

"Why did you draw on my work report papers? Why did you come into my office, Theo?" Bucky asks, about to lose his cool.

Theo purses his lips and his eyes fill with tears.

"How many times do I have to tell you not to come into my workspace without permission? Damn it!" Bucky screams and the little boy runs into his mother's arms.

"Bucky, this can be fixed, but please don't be so hard on him," Y/N asks, holding the child's head in her belly, in a motherly way.

Bucky shakes his head, laughing unamusedly.

"I have to hand these papers in tomorrow, Y/N! I'm going to have to stay late looking over them," Bucky says angrily. "Theo doesn't have to do this thing where he comes into the office and draws on my papers."

Theo starts to sob.

"I'm sorry, Dad," he says, choking back a cry.

But when James sees this, the man lets out a sigh through his nose and closes his eyes, trying to calm down. The black-haired man crouches down to the child's height and opens his arms. Theo hesitantly approaches him and lets his father's arms wrap around him.

"Oh, champion..." Bucky whispers "I'm sorry"

Y/N watches the scene. She knows his husband is under a lot of stress.

"Do you promise me you won't do it again?" Bucky says looking at the boy, who nods his head and sniffles. The man wipes his tears and smiles slightly. "Good boy. Sorry for yelling at you."

Bucky starts tickling him and the boy laughs in his arms. Y/N laughs when she sees the scene and touches her belly.

“Theo, you have to finish your homework and brush your teeth before going to sleep,” Y/N reminds him.

Theo nods and proceeds to look for his notebooks so his mother can help him. Bucky stands up and looks at his wife with a tired face.

"I have to finish this," he says and she leaves him, caressing his cheek before they both go to do their chores separately.

Bucky can't help but think about how tired he is as he goes to his workspace and locks himself in until he finishes the paperwork.

What would his young self be doing if he hadn't had children?

If he hadn't had Theo and his second baby on the way?

When Bucky comes out of the bathroom in the room he shares with his wife, he drags his feet across the soft carpeted floor and falls onto the bed, while his wife applies cream to his belly, which has grown quite quickly, indicating that there are a few weeks left to see their son be born.

The man just wants to sleep, because he must get up early. He turns off the light on his bedside table and lets his head fall back onto the pillows. He hears a playful giggle from his wife and notices how she turns off the light and approaches him, to begin kissing his neck and caressing his chest with her hand.

"Hi" she whispers.

She continues kissing his neck and Bucky lets her for a moment, even when he feels his wife's hand go down to his boxers. But he doesn't feel like continuing this, he doesn't know why. Maybe it's tiredness or... he no longer feels that way for the woman who caresses his manhood.

"I don't have the energy to continue, doll," he whispers, pushing her away from him and turning his back on her.

"Oh, I'm sorry..." she says, feeling embarrassed.

She raises the sheets until they cover her chest and looks at the ceiling. The truth is that she had also realized that something was distant between them, ever since she gave him the news that they were expecting another child together.

It's like Bucky doesn't see her with the same adoration as before and that makes her feel insecure. Especially when she didn't feel pretty or sexy with the pregnancy.

She closes her eyes, preventing another tear from falling, falling asleep.

Bucky can't.

He keeps thinking about what his life would be like if he hadn't married Y/N.

He loved her, yes. But he was bored of playing the role of the worried, caring, gentle and loving husband. He needed space.

He needed air, so he gets out of bed and watches the figure of the woman sleeping with one hand on her belly. Bucky leaves the room and goes downstairs to grab a beer from the refrigerator and go out to the backyard and sit on the bench to watch the starry night.

"Fuck" he mumbles.

He can't admit it.

No.

But....

"I wish I could go back to my past life" he wishes and takes a sip of his beer.

"Are you sure it's what your heart truly desires?" A voice surprises him.

"Fuck! Shit!" Bucky curses.

He stands up from his spot and notices a man floating in front of him and points the bottle at him, ready to defend himself.

"Who are you? What are you doing in my house?" James looks around and his eyes travel to the window of his room, where Y/N sleeps. "What did they do to my wife? My son?"

The man stops floating to walk on the grass in the yard. Bucky backs away on instinct and continues raising his bottle.

"James Buchanan Barnes" he says his full name, and danger scares him.

"How do you know my name?" He asks without believing it.

"My name is Stephen Strange, and I came here to grant you a wish" Bucky shakes his head, not believing it.

"Pff, sure. And I can fly" he says and raises the bottle, but Strange snaps his fingers and it disappears "What the hell...?"

"Now do you believe me?" Bucky swallows and thinks he's dreaming.

"Who the hell are you?"

"The man who can grant you your wish"

After explaining where it came from and why he was in front of him offering to grant him the wish, Bucky let out a heavy sigh and crossed his arms.

"So... you're saying that you can take me to another reality where I start my life again?" Strange nods calmly. Bucky grimaces. "What will happen to my life here? My job? My kids and my wife?"

Stephen replies: "If I take you to another reality, which in this case would be your past self, your life here will take a different direction. What you do there can completely change what happens here," he explains and moves his fingers to make a golden circle appear with scenes from Bucky's past appearing. The black-haired man approaches as if he were under a spell and remembers some things. "If you decide to go back and be in that reality, nothing you had here would be the same again."

Bucky smiles when he catches a moment where he was the most popular guy in college. Or when he dated Natasha, the most gorgeous woman in the school.

Bucky smiles falters when he sees Y/N studying with him for the exams. And when he carried his son Theo in his arms for the first time.

"Are you sure you want to leave everything you built here to go back to being the famous heartthrob Bucky Barnes?" Strange asks. Bucky swallows and finds himself in a dilemma with himself. On the one hand, he is bored with this domestic and routine life, he misses his life without ties and when he felt like he had everything in the palm of his hand. However, he loves his son Theo, his second child who is on the way and, above all, Y/N.

The woman he married. The woman he loved.

But right now, that didn't seem to care.

But Bucky wanted to have it all and more.

"Strange.... I want to go back" he decides after a moment.

"There will be no turning back," the magician warns him. "With a snap of my fingers, you will wake up in another reality and your life will be different."

And without hesitation, he didn't let himself be clouded by anything other than his desire to have it all again.

"I'm sure"

And Strange snapped his fingers, feeling disappointed once again in people's desire.

Bucky was having a blast.

So far he attended all the parties, went out more with his friends and could go on dates with any girl he wanted. He was taking advantage of that and more.

It was a starry and cool night and with his group they decided to go for some burgers where they always went to eat. Bucky's arm was around the shoulder of his former girlfriend, Natasha Romanoff. The hottest and most outgoing girl he had ever met.

"Today Bucky must buy the burgers" Sam says pointing his finger at him.

Bucky snorts and rolls his eyes in amusement, ignoring the strange emptiness he feels in his chest.

"I'll do it as long as someone deigns to come take our order," says the blue-eyed one, looking around in search of a waitress.

Everything stops in the moment for Bucky.

A couple of tables away was Y/N chatting animatedly with Yelena, Ava and John Walker. He knew John because the blonde was with him in his class. He was a jerk, but somehow he was in Y/N's group since he was dating Ava.

Y/N looks beautiful with her glasses.

When he had married her, he may have commented how funny she looked in them, and how the next day she had gone to the ophthalmologist to see if she could wear contact lenses. An idiotic comment on his part.

"Good evening, what are you going to order?" asks a deep voice coming to their table.

Bucky turns around and sees a boy with slightly long brown hair, below his ears. He remembers it because he was in Y/N's class. His name was Robert Reynolds.

The brunette had always tried to woo Y/N, even when she started dating Bucky. Even at their wedding, Bob was there with a hopeful and hurt look as he saw the girl he wanted marrying Bucky. The latter could only give him a victorious look when he kissed the girl to close their engagement.

"James...." the redhead shakes his arm. He reacts and turns to look at the boy who is looking at him expectantly. "What do you want to order?"

Bucky clears his throat.

"I want a burger and a soda," he asks, not really wanting to eat now. Bob notes it and gives them a flat smile.

"Coming right up, excuse me" he leaves and takes the menus from their hands.

Bucky follows him with his eyes to see how he leaves the menus on the table.

"Are you alright, Buck?" Steve asks him.

Bucky nods nonchalantly.

"Yeah, yeah. Everything's good"

After a few minutes, while Bucky looked out of the corner of his eye at the table where his wife was, Bob arrives with everyone's orders.

"Thank you," thanks Steve.

"Sure. Enjoy"

Bob leaves again and the black-haired man notices how he talks to the man at the cash register, taking off his apron, and then goes to Y/N's table. She smiles shyly at him and he sits next to her, putting his arm behind her shoulder. Bucky watches this scene in front of him with jealousy.

She was his wife. His Y/N.

"Bucky, are you sure you're okay? You seem angry" Natasha points out, stroking his hand. But he feels a different sensation, comparing it to when Y/N used to do it.

Bucky nods curtly.

"Why do you keep asking me if I'm okay?" He takes a French fry and bites into it. "I'm clearly okay!"

Bucky turns to look at the table and sees how the boys from the other table start walking towards the exit. He notices how Bob leaves his hand on Y/N's lower back and gets up from the table.

"Hey!" They turn to see him. He is frozen in place as he reacts without thinking. Y/N frowns holding Bob's hand.

"Um, the burger was good" he says in an attempt to save himself "Thank you".

John, Yelena and Ava laugh watching the reaction he had. Bob nods his head, looking at him strangely.

"You're welcome?"

Bucky stands for a few seconds before Natasha tugs at his jacket, asking him to sit down. The black-haired man watches as the other group leaves the restaurant, ignoring the rest's eyes on him.

"What is wrong with you?" The redhead asks him.

"Buck, you're acting strange" Sam says.

That's it. Strange.

Stephen could help him.

Bucky gets up again and hurries to chase the group.

"Sorry, i don't feel so good"

Bucky rushes out hearing the screams of his friends behind him, but he doesn't care.

He is a few meters away from Y/N who hugs Yelena, Ava and John goodbye. Those three go their separate ways, while Y/N returns to Bob's arms, who takes her cheeks and kisses her sweetly. Y/N hugs him around the waist and Bob imprisons her against him with his arms.

Bucky feels something in his chest and thinks about the wrong decision he made. He would have to be the one to kiss her. She married him. With Bucky she had a family. With her he had everything.

"Strange. Damn Strange, I need you to help me" he whispers.

"I told you the consequences and you still accepted," Strange says, seriously. "Just like everyone else."

Bucky sighs angrily and waves his hands in exasperation. "Yes, i know. But I regret this. I want to go back to my stupid job, see my son Theo again and meet my son who is on the way. And Y/N...." he whispers hurt "My Y/N"

Stephen shakes his head in dissaproval.

"Humans are all the same. They have everything in their hands and it's still not enough," he reflects. Bucky feels the desperation for his body "I can take you back, but not to go back. But so that you can see and learn from your own mistake"

Bucky nods desperate.

Strange snapped his fingers, and the go back to where it all started.

His house.

It's the same as when he left.

Only the yard is with more flowers and toys scattered around. Bucky felt the urge to pick everything up and wondered since when they had so many flowers. Y/N had told him how much she wanted to plant roses for the garden, but Bucky never liked the idea. Now there were flowers.

Bucky walks to the door and Stephen's voice stops him.

"Don't hurry," he says. "No one will be able to see us, so it's better if you come with me."

Bucky follows him and they enter the house, where the aroma of home-cooked food fills his nostrils. His eyes light up as he sees a child painting on the floor. His adorable face rises when he hears the keys to the door.

"Mom, daddy is here!" he exclaims. The next thing he sees surprises Bucky.

"Champion! I missed you so much!" Bob exclaims, receiving the child in his arms.

The black-haired man's face falls as soon as he sees Y/N receive him in her arms and kiss him lovingly. Like she did with him.

"Are you hungry?" she asks.

"I'm starving," he says over his lips. And he plays a little longer without his little son hearing "Maybe later you could give me my favorite dessert."

Y/N laughs sheepishly and punches him in the arm.

"Dad" his son intervenes. Bob ruffles his hair.

“Wait, why isn��t Y/N pregnant here?” Stephen looks down in shame.

"Today they are supposed to do it so that Y/N gets pregnant with a girl."

Bucky chokes a sob. Y/N always wanted two kids: a boy and a girl.

Bucky remembers that he wasn't all that excited to have a second child. He thought it was already a lot of responsibility with Theo, and a second would be chaotic.

But she looked so happy here.

"I guess I'm not coming back here, am I?" Strange nods.

"It was my decision. And I have to face it like a man," Bucky says. He sighs and looks one last time at the scene in front of his eyes. "He won't hurt her like I hurt her, right?"

Strange denies. "It wouldn't cross Bob's mind to change anything about his life with Y/N, here. It's more than enough"

And with that Bucky leaves with Strange feeling like a sword is stabbed into his chest.

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blackcatner00 · 1 month ago

Text

Rumors

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

The struggle of living in a small town, rumors run faster than the truth ever could.

“Nah, swear up and down, blue in the face, she was with Rogers last night.”

“Saw her car leaving Rogers’ drive around one this morning.”

“Your girl was with your best friend all night? Man, that ain’t right.”

Four years down the drain. The only woman he could ever love, caught with his best friend. World shattering news coming from around the small town they grew up in. Losing his best friend and the love of his life.

Packing up his truck he didn’t bother to say goodbye to anyone. Leaving behind his phone and no note of where he would be going.

Without waiting to hear the news.

Without confronting either of them.

Three years later

“Don’t forget to sign the card on the counter.” I call into the kitchen, at the two brothers making breakfast.

“On it!” Howie calls back.

“Sign my name too.” I hear Peter comment.

“We might be twins, but I’m not forging your signature asshole.” Howie retorts.

Shaking my head, I continue to grab up baby toys off the floor, tossing them into the toy bin on the edge of the rug.

“Ohhhhhh.” AJ coos at his uncles.

“Yeah, no cussing in front of the baby.” Peter scolds Howie. “Tell uncle Howie, he’s being bad.” Peter snickers.

“Naughty.” AJ agrees.

“Don’t teach him anything more damaging, I already have to explain the peeing outside thing to Miss. Ivy, he peed in her potted plants outside her shop.” I huff, coming into the kitchen with them.

Both my brothers cringe, AJ grins proudly.

Jet black hair cut short, dark blue eyes, chunky cheeks from baby fat still. He’s a smaller version of his father almost to the T. Aside from the darkness of his blue eyes.

The father that left town without a word. Without a second thought. Without knowing about him. Small town rumors and he split without even a goodbye.

Fuck Bucky.

He missed out.

I smile at my son. Who grins back.

“Momma, we, we, we go to Nana’s today?” He asks excitedly.

“We’re going to Papa’s shop and than you’ll go home with Nana tonight.” I nod, reminding him.

“Momma work tonight?” His head tips.

“Yeah, momma works tonight.” I sigh, shrugging. “But that means, I wake up in the morning and we’ll have a big family breakfast with your uncles and your nana and papa.” I remind him.

“I spend the night with Papa?” He lights up.

“Don’t you let him teach you no more bad habits. He’s still in trouble for teaching you to burp your ABC’s.” I give him a stern look.

“So gross.” Howie sighs.

“I puked on G.” AJ admits, his little shoulders coming up to his ears.

“We remember little man.” Peter chuckles.

AJ goes about eating his eggs and toast.

“No burping.” Howie points a finger at him. AJ sighs in disappointment. I snort into my coffee cups, rolling my eyes.

------

“How old is he now?” Gwen the other bartender grins at the photo on my phone.

“We’re turning three in two weeks.” I grin as I lock my phone and slip it into my back pocket.

“Feels like just last week Peter was running around with newborn photos and listing off his stats like he was the hottest rookie to come off the bench.” She laughs, grabbing three beers from the cooler.

“He still does that, let’s not pretend he didn’t want to throw a party cause AJ was successfully potty trained at sixteen months.” Shaking my head, I rinse the cocktail shaker out in the sink under the bar.

“I mean at least he’s not missing out on any love.” She gives me a soft smile.

Nodding slowly. Only a few people actually knew who AJ’s father was. Most people still decided to believe and fuel the rumor mill.

“Yup. Guess good enough is enough.” I nod, my tone slightly bitter. I can’t help it. I hate it, but I can’t help it.

AJ was missing out, because his father chose to believe the rumor mill of our small town instead of trusting me.

Friday nights I worked the night shift at the bar, to help pad out being a single mom and keeping my kid comfortable.

It’s a typical Friday in the bar.

A familiar laugh, slithers down my spine.

“Damn been a long time since we’ve seen your ugly mug.” Sam Wilson greets someone.

The laugh comes again. “Life was good without seeing your big ass forehead.”

My heart races, palms slick, my chest grows tight.

“Y/N?” Gwen is watching me. My whole body jumps, causing me to drop a beer bottle. It shatters, the noise gaining attention.

“Fuck.” I shuffle back.

My eyes connect with winter blue ones, watching me. Shocked to see me. A flicker of anger still there.

“Oh honey, are you okay?” My head snaps to the side. My mom, Pepper Stark stands in the opening to the back, with my son on her hip.

“Mom?” I blink at her.

“I know I normally call, but he had a full melt down about going to bed without a kiss from you.” She bounces AJ on her hip. He’s tucked against her.

“Oh I’m so sorry.” I turn hurrying to scoop him up.

“Always night, night kisses.” He mumbles, completely distraught.

“Yes, always. I know, I know.” I squeeze him to me, kissing him over and over on his cheeks and forehead. Finally, he starts to giggle as I sway with him.

“Better?” I ask him. He nods slowly, still snuggled into me.

“Who that momma?” He wonders, looking down at him, he’s peeked up, watching someone off to the side.

Looking over, I find what has my son’s attention, not what, but who.

Bucky.

Staring at us.

“Mom, take him.” I hurry handing back my son to my mother. “No more fussing, go to bed like a big boy for Nana.” I lean in kissing him. He huffs but nods.

“Night momma.” He pouts.

“Night baby.” I give a small wave as my mother hurries away with my son.

“Y/N?” He’s suddenly right at the bar. Sucking in a deep breathe. I shift to face the man that abandoned me and his son. His jet black hair a little shaggy, scruffy jaw line, and wide winter blue eyes.

“What do you want James?” I snap at him.

“Is that, that my son?” He points towards where my mother had been standing.

“No that’s my son.” I correct him.

“Y/N? Seriously.” He stares at me.

“Why don’t you go listen to the rumor mill to find out.” I sneer at him. I stalk away, leaving him standing there.

-------- Everything Peaches 9/21/24 @mo320 @ml7010 @kmc1989 @babizza @coley0823 @royal-sunflower @camelliasblossom @shinycupcakebaker @purpleeclipseeggsland @daughterofthenight117 @hisredheadedgoddess28

Bucky 'Fuck Me Up' Barnes: @jbbarnesgirl @kaylaphantomhive

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blackcatner00 · 1 month ago

Text

This is your boyfriend, Mom? | Beefy!Bucky Barnes x f!reader.

Pairings: Beefy Bucky Barnes x Single Mom reader. Themes: Bucky getting absolutely roasted by a six and half year old baby boy. Summary: Bucky comes over and meets your very protective son for the very first time. A/N: I'm in a phase where I like Bucky interacting with kids. . .🥲

The doorbell chimes, and you pull open the door, coming face to face with a broad-shouldered figure that fills the entire doorway. Bucky’s piercing blue eyes twinkle with humor, but there’s a hint of uncertainty in his posture, as if he’s unsure whether to step inside or bolt.

“You’re here!” you exclaim with a warm smile, stepping aside to let him in.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Bucky murmurs, leaning in for a brief kiss before glancing around your living room nervously. “So, where’s the little guy?”

A shuffle of small feet behind you catches your attention. You turn to see your son peeking out from behind the couch, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as he sizes up the man who just entered his territory.

“There he is!” You wave your hand toward your son encouragingly. “Come say hi.”

Your son doesn’t budge, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at Bucky like a miniature security guard. “So, this is your boyfriend?”

You can hear the disdain dripping from each word, and Bucky’s lips twitch into an amused smile. “I guess I am.”

“Mom,” your son deadpans, his eyes never leaving Bucky’s. “This is what you’ve been hyping up? He looks like he just rolled out of bed.”

“Hey, kid, I put in a lot of effort today.” Bucky gestures to his dark leather jacket, perfectly disheveled hair, and rugged stubble. “This is my ‘I’m totally put together but still approachable’ look.”

“Approachable?” your son snorts. “With that hair? You look like a drowned dog who’s been through a tornado and then zapped by lightning.”

Bucky blinks, surprised. He looks at you, then back at your son, and his mouth quirks up in a grin. “A drowned dog, huh? That’s original. So, what’s your excuse for your hair?”

Your son’s small hands shoot up defensively to his carefully combed locks. “My hair looks great, thank you very much. I didn’t put all this mousse in for you.”

You bite your lip, trying to suppress a laugh. “Be nice,” you whisper to your son, who rolls his eyes dramatically before turning his attention back to Bucky.

“Alright, old man—”

“Old?” Bucky interjects, eyebrows lifting. “I’m still in my prime, kid. What are you, five?”

“I’m six and a half.” Your son’s voice drips with indignation, as if Bucky has committed an unforgivable crime by getting his age wrong. “And you’re still old. You probably creak when you sit down.”

Bucky shakes his head, chuckling. “I don’t creak, but your mom might tell you I’ve got a few squeaky joints, yeah.”

“Ew, don’t—don’t tell me stuff like that.” Your son makes a gagging noise and then glares up at you. “Why is he even here, Mom? You know I’m supposed to have final say.”

“You have final say?” Bucky repeats, clearly intrigued. He shifts his weight, giving the boy a once-over. “What’s your name, anyway, kid?”

“Lucas.” He squares his shoulders, a defiant lift to his chin. “Got it memorized, old man?”

Bucky nods slowly, a glint of amusement in his gaze. “Lucas, huh? Alright, Lucas, I’ll try not to forget it.”

“You better not.” Lucas looks Bucky up and down, his brow furrowing in concentration. “Mom, this guy looks like one of those 90s action figures. You know, the kind where the legs don’t bend, and they’re so top-heavy they keep falling over.”

You snort loudly, unable to hold it in, and Bucky shoots you a betrayed look.

“Kid’s got a point,” you manage to say between laughs, and Bucky shakes his head, feigning exasperation.

“Oh, really?” Bucky folds his arms across his chest, staring down at Lucas. “Well, you look like a baby duck that wandered into a windstorm. All fluffed up and ready to pick a fight, huh?”

Lucas blinks, startled for a moment before narrowing his eyes, a grin forming on his face. “Better than looking like a grumpy cat that hasn’t had its coffee yet.”

You cough to hide your laughter, and Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Grumpy cat?”

“Yeah, with all those lines between your eyebrows.” Lucas steps closer, squinting as if he’s examining a rare species. “I bet you frown at the sun, too.”

You stifle a giggle, and Bucky sighs dramatically, placing his hands on his hips. “I’m starting to think you don’t like me, Lucas.”

“Starting?” Lucas tilts his head mockingly. “I’m basically giving you a head start, ‘cause if I really didn’t like you, you’d know.”

Bucky chuckles, glancing at you. “I like him. He’s got guts.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get too comfy, Gramps.” Lucas gestures to the couch with a flourish. “The only reason you’re even here is ‘cause Mom seems to think you’re ‘cute’ or whatever.”

“I am cute,” Bucky agrees seriously, causing Lucas’s mouth to drop open in disbelief.

“No. Way. You’ve got metal bits, and your beard is all scratchy, and—” Lucas cuts himself off, his gaze dropping to Bucky’s stomach. “And a jelly belly! Mom, did you know your boyfriend has a jelly belly?”

“What?” Bucky sputters, glancing down at himself with wide eyes. “I don’t have a jelly belly—Also this beard?” He strokes it like he’s pondering life’s great mysteries. “Your mom likes it.”

“Yes, you do!” Lucas insists, poking at Bucky’s midsection with a tiny finger. “Superheroes are supposed to be all muscle, but you’re hiding a squishy balloon in there.”

“Squishy balloon?” Bucky repeats, looking thoroughly betrayed as he turns to you.

“Lucas,” you chide gently, but your son’s eyes are wide and innocent. “Don’t be mean,” you add, fighting back laughter.

Bucky sighs and looks down at Lucas with a mock serious expression. “You know, I’m part super-soldier, part robot, and part… dad bod. It’s a package deal, kid.”

Lucas narrows his eyes, scrutinizing Bucky’s face. “I guess that makes you a little cooler, but you’re still a metal-armed grumpy pants.”

“Metal-armed grumpy pants?” Bucky echoes, eyebrows lifting. “Wow, we’re just racking up the nicknames today, huh?”

“Yup.” Lucas grins, then frowns again, cocking his head thoughtfully. “You’re also kinda like a… metal mop. All hair up top and a shiny stick arm.”

“A metal mop?” Bucky asks, his voice filled with mock offense as he raises his eyebrows. “You’re really on a roll.”

Lucas shrugs, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “I think it suits you.”

“Well, you’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” Bucky says with a chuckle.

Lucas scowls, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You’re lucky, you know.”

“Oh?” Bucky leans down, hands on his knees to get on eye level with Lucas. “And why’s that?”

“‘Cause Mom likes you,” Lucas mutters, eyes flickering to you and back to Bucky, a hint of protectiveness in his tone. “But if you hurt her, I’ll tell everyone you still sleep with a nightlight.”

Bucky’s eyes widen in shock. “What? I don’t—”

“Yeah, okay,” Lucas interrupts, holding up a finger. “But I’ll tell everyone you do. Including all the Avengers.”

Bucky’s mouth opens, and then he shuts it, clearly struggling for a response. “You wouldn’t.”

Lucas just stares at him, completely unblinking. “You wanna test me, Mr. Metal Mop?”

Bucky glances at you, looking for support, but you just raise your hands innocently. “He’s tougher than he looks.”

After a long pause, Bucky leans down, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Alright, kid, name your terms.”

Lucas pretends to think for a moment, tapping his chin. “You have to play video games with me… three times. No complaints. And no quitting when I beat you.”

Bucky looks horrified. “I—”

“Deal?” Lucas extends his tiny hand with a sly grin.

Bucky glances between you and Lucas, then sighs dramatically. “Deal.”

Lucas’s grin widens. “Oh, and one more thing—if I catch you throwing the controller in frustration, I’ll know you can’t handle losing.”

Bucky stares at him, completely lost for words.

“Just a fair warning.” Lucas pats Bucky’s arm as if he’s the one doing Bucky a favor. “Welcome to the family, Mr. Jelly Belly who’s gonna get his butt kicked at Mario Kart.”

You burst out laughing, and Bucky groans, running a hand down his face. “You’re really not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Nope.” Lucas shakes his head with a grin. “Better practice up, Grumpy Pants.”

“Practice? Against you?” Bucky scoffs, but the smile pulling at his lips betrays him. “Kid, I’m gonna wipe the floor with you.”

“Sure, Mr. Nightlight,” Lucas replies smoothly. “Sure.”

Bucky glances at you and then back at Lucas, a mischievous look in his eye. “You know, at this rate, you’re gonna start calling me Dad.”

Lucas pauses, then tilts his head with a confused look. “Why would I call you Dad?”

Bucky smirks. “Because you know I’ll beat you so bad at those video games, you’re gonna need a parental figure to console you.”

“Right, I can call you Dad,” Lucas’s eyes light up, and he leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. “Only if you pay me twenty bucks a week, Dad.”

Bucky’s jaw drops. “Twenty bucks?!”

“Yeah,” Lucas shrugs nonchalantly. “Think of it as a ‘dad fee.’ I’m expensive. Mom’s got good taste.”

Bucky looks at you, baffled. “Did he just—?”

“Oh, and I’ll need a ride to school every morning,” Lucas continues, holding up his fingers as he lists his demands. “And ice cream. Twice a week. But no toppings. I’m not greedy.”

Bucky bursts out laughing, shaking his head. “You really thought this through, huh?”

“Business is business,” Lucas says with a serious nod. “So, what’s it gonna be, Dad?”

Bucky blinks, then leans back and sighs dramatically. “Sorry, buddy, but I think I’ll just stick with Mr. Metal Mop.”

Lucas crosses his arms, a sly grin forming on his lips. “Your loss. Could’ve been Dad. Now you’re just gonna be the guy who cried during Shrek.”

Bucky’s shoulders slump as he glances at you, utterly defeated. “I’m doomed.”

“Yup,” you say with a grin. “But hey, at least you didn’t agree to the ‘dad fee.’”

“True,” Bucky mutters, then he turns back to Lucas, raising an eyebrow. “But for the record, I did not cry during Shrek.”

“Sure, Mr. Nightlight,” Lucas deadpans. “Sure.”

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blackcatner00 · 1 month ago

Text

Tender Surprises

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader (biker!au)

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: language, Brock Rumlow gets a well deserved punch in the face

Summary: On Bucky’s birthday, your son has a very important question to ask him. And it may just be the greatest gift anyone has ever given him.

Feedback is always welcomed and encouraged! (:

Bucky collapsed on the couch next to you. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you close to his side. You leaned up, giving him a light peck on the cheek before resting your head on his chest. It had been quite the day for both of you.

Today was Bucky’s thirty-sixth birthday. You and your son, Tyler, had planned the whole day out for him to celebrate. It started with an early morning breakfast in bed; Tyler claimed he made most of it, but he couldn’t work a toaster to save his life. Once breakfast finished, you packed up the car and headed to the beach. Bucky had told you weeks in advance that he didn’t want to do anything too crazy for his birthday, so you agreed a family beach trip would be perfect. And it was.

You spent most of the time lounging in a beach chair with a book, while Tyler kept Bucky busy working on “the biggest hole in the universe.” Even if Bucky denied it, you knew he was just as excited to see how deep they could dig together.

Seguir leyendo

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blackcatner00 · 1 month ago

Text

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but he’s still a sweetheart); lots of talk about unrequited love (but is it?); mentions of sex; crying; lots of desperation; longing; heavy confessions; feels; happy ending

Author’s Note: This is written for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I had this kind of idea for a while but when I read those lyrics it somehow immediately came back to my mind and I needed to make something out of it. This is kind of inspired by your Boulevard Confessions because I loved it so much! And damn, I've already written so much about roommate!Bucky but I can’t help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! ♡

Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.

Then comes the keys.

The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.

Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.

Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.

And then, his bedroom door.

And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.

Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.

At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.

But then comes the moaning.

High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.

Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.

Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.

And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.

You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.

But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.

And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.

And that finally makes the tears flow.

They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.

You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.

They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.

Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.

Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.

Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.

You are alone in your grief.

The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.

Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.

However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.

Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.

And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.

Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.

The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.

The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.

And it makes you know.

He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.

Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.

Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.

Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.

Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.

If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.

Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.

You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.

It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.

Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.

So what is the point?

You don’t want to do another morning like this.

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.

Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.

The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.

And then, him standing there and watching you.

Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.

That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.

Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.

You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.

His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.

But you are certain, he won’t.

Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.

He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.

He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.

You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.

Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.

You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.

The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.

Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.

The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.

The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.

The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.

The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.

And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.

Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.

You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.

The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.

Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.

No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.

You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.

You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.

But you keep walking.

Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.

It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.

You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.

The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.

You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.

You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

You don’t look back.

Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.

It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.

Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.

You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.

His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.

You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.

You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.

As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.

You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.

“To Nat’s.”

It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.

“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.

“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.

Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.

All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?

But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.

So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.

But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.

“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.

“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”

You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.

“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”

“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.

“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.

But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.

“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.

Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.

Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.

But you are not broken. You are just in love.

“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”

The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.

But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.

But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.

“No, you-”

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.

Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.

“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.

You could run.

You should.

You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.

But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.

“Okay,” you say weakly.

Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.

You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.

And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.

You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.

How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.

And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.

So you stay.

With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.

Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.

Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.

He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.

And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.

The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.

Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.

His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.

His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.

Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.

“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.

“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”

It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.

And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”

You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.

“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.

“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.

He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.

“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”

His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.

And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.

He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.

His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.

But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.

You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.

So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.

“I-”

You try. You really try.

But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.

Because this time it’s her walking out.

She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.

Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.

Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.

But it’s not yours either.

She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.

But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”

Your stomach lurches.

You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.

Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.

Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.

“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”

“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

You don’t even think about it. You just move.

Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.

It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.

Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.

You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.

“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.

“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.

You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.

“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.

“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.

His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.

But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.

And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.

“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.

You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.

His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.

And Bucky watches all of that.

His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.

“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.

You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.

“See, that’s bullshit.”

You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.

“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.

But he won’t.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

And you break.

No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.

The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.

You feel so pathetic.

Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.

And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.

You let him.

Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.

His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.

Like your pain is his own.

“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”

There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.

His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.

So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.

It’s too hard. too cruel.

You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.

But it does.

Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.

So you cry harder.

Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.

Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?

That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?

That you want him in a way he will never want you back?

You won’t.

So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.

“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.

His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.

Because none of this makes it any easier.

Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.

But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.

He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.

Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.

He looks wrecked.

His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.

“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”

You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.

“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.

Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.

Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.

But Bucky just shrugs.

It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.

Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.

And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.

There is something uncertain in there.

And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.

Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.

His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.

He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.

You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.

“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.

“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.

Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”

It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.

But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.

He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.

The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.

You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.

Your reaction must be answer enough.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.

A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.

The exact moment he realizes.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.

You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.

He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.

Not at you.

At himself.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.

And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.

His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.

“Like it’s over.”

Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.

Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.

And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.

Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.

This thing between you.

Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.

It consumes him.

His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.

His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.

Bucky is crying.

It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.

“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t and he steps closer again.

His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.

But what could you say?

Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.

But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.

And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.

You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.

But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.

That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?

But he still touched them.

Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.

While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.

And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.

But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.

He tried to fuck it away.

And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.

You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.

Even if you know it might not be fair.

But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.

And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.

The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.

The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.

But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.

Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?

You had no claim on him.

But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

Your breath catches, body sways.

There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.

His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

You nod.

He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.

He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.

But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.

One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.

He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.

It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.

And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin

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