Eddie Ramblings From My Notes App: Vol 5

alight with the lights out | diego hargreeves x reader [tua]

A/N: Thank you for all of your interest after I posted the teaser! It was VERY surprising and humbling; I’ve NEVER had so many people ask for a tag before. I only ask that if you asked for a tag, you interact with this fic SOMEHOW. And go find another story you love and REBLOG IT! LET THAT WRITER KNOW YOU LOVE THEM!

I’ll be honest, I’m very nervous about this one. I’m not sure if it turned out as good on paper as it did in my head. Please let me know what you liked and what you didn’t!

Pairing: Diego Hargreeves x vigilante, powered!Reader; this one may read a bit more like an OC because I’ve given the reader backstory, powers. She’s (you’re) a vigilante who regularly runs into Diego. I keep the physical description vague, so I hope you can still imagine yourself! 

Warnings: Language; who doesn’t love getting a little sweary? Violence, fighting, references to a shitty childhood, and separately, implied sexual assault (nothing graphic, I promise); angst and angsty dialogue; SMUT– 18+ ONLY PLEASE; lots of cocktease dialogue, fingering, pierced nipples (the reader’s not Diego’s– sorry), biting, rough sex, choking. Romance is its own warning. Fluff.

Word Count: 12.1k of sexy, self-righteous vigilantism, half-baked metaphor and of course, at least one literary reference. 

Summary: Diego Hargreeves, aka The Kraken, is secure about few things in life; one of those things being his vigilantism. He’s a hero. Until he meets a fighter who shares the same hobby, albeit with different methodologies. Diego isn’t quite as certain about her, but her mysterious abilities make him think he and his siblings aren’t the only ones in this world with power. If only she and Diego could just stay out of each others’ hair. It’s a good, old-fashioned ENEMIES TO LOVERS, lads!

Link to my playlist of songs that inspired this fic: here

NOT MY GIF

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You wouldn’t hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. That was rule number one. Hell, if you could get away with it at all, you wouldn’t hurt anyone. 

But Mr. Adler hated children. And he had made it his mission to not understand you. To regard you with the utmost disdain. And unfortunately for you, Mr. Adler had married your mother when you were six years old. 

You had never known another father. Your mother refused to talk about the circumstances of your birth, or of the man who had supposedly been responsible. The lack of identity loomed like a large question mark over certain portions of your life. 

And Mr. Adler, that loud, controlling lout, was not about to fill that void. 

When you were in elementary school, you began to feel like you were different from the other children. Watching them carry about their days with their steel-pressed pop culture lunch boxes and not a care in the world. While you sensed your music teacher’s sadness when her cat had died. You could feel every anxiety that passed through your classmates on the day of a spelling test. You didn’t know why you could feel these things. You just could.

Keep reading

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MOB!BUCKY MASTERLIST

18+ | Mob!Bucky x Best Friend!Reader

the adventures of bucky and his little fairy.

recommended to be read in order, but most can be read as standalones.

just let me see them

your best friend, bucky, has done some research about makeup for you. it's imperative that you show him your boobs.

look at me forever

continuation of just let me see them.

watch me cry

request: can you write some with mob!bucky x best friend!reader where he makes her cry and they stop talking for awhile? please make it angsty!!

big mouth

you have a bad habit of running your mouth when you're tipsy. luckily, your best friend is always prepared to help you out of any trouble that big mouth of yours gets you in.

tug of war

ex!pietro wants you back, but bucky will never give you up. you're his, and his alone.

just like a fairy

the start of the most loving friendship in history.

one of mine

bucky and fairy's second meeting; a chaotic gunfight.

how you love me

bucky's high out of his mind, and paranoid about saving you from apparent danger. taking advantage of the fact that he won't recall any of this, you reveal your true feelings to him.

a fairy's beloved object

never steal from a fairy. the consequences could be deadly.

clingy as fuck

you overhear bucky telling sam about how clingy you are, which breaks your heart.

play pretend

in order to appease his uncle, bucky needs to prove that he's a family man. what better way to get that image across than with a loving wife? there's only one problem: bucky doesn't have a wife. he does, however, have a little fairy.

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𝐭𝐨𝐩𝐚𝐳, 𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐫𝐮𝐛𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐝 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

Eddie has a staring problem that you barely notice, though you share an aching, awful crush. One of you has to bend first, and it’s not who you’d expect. fem, 5k 

ditzy-ish reader, pining eddie, mutual pining, confessions, first kisses, fluff and hugging, idiots in love, mild states of undress

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

It’s a day fit for a funeral in Hawkins. Rain hammers his bedroom window like hailstones, plinking against the frame, condensation running down the panes in thick rivulets he soaks up with an old t-shirt. 

It’s supposed to be spring time. Green grass, flowers, a gentle humming sun to warm the back of his neck while he sits out on the couch on the porch, a hand-rolled cigarette between his fingers, the tip shimmering with heat. 

But the rain pours. He’s cleaned his room for the first time in a month, at least, and his back aches in the best way as he lays down amongst fresh sheets. His room feels strange when it’s organised, but he doesn’t mind. He pictures the state of it through a second pair of eyes. This is a boy who cares about things, who takes care of them, who could take care of me, too. 

Rain again rackets on the metal roof above. He and Wayne keep a couple hundred bucks stashed for the day the roof flies straight off —they take turns hiding it, because cars break down and groceries get more expensive every year, but god will they need it, and so they safeguard it well. 

He syphoned a little of the money recently with Wayne’s support. It was for a good cause. 

“Jesus,” Eddie murmurs to himself, not tired but feeling dull as the clouds outside eat the remaining sun. 

It’s depressing to be poor, and to lose a day trying to hide the evidence of an entire life in a small room. He could sleep a hundred years. 

He’s just finished pulling the sheets over his shoulder when somebody knocks on the front door. Wayne opens it three rooms away, the sound of the rain doubled. 

He gives a startling shout, “Ed! Your girl!” 

Eddie topples out of bed. Doesn’t mean to, foot caught in the bottom of the sheets and stuck as he scrambles to slide out of the mess. He’s begged Wayne not to call you that when you’re within earshot, but Wayne’s a mean (kind) old bastard (middle aged dad) who wants Eddie dead (happy, and in love). 

“Come on in, girl. You’re soaking.” 

“It’s raining.” 

“It’s pouring down. Did you walk here?” 

“Took my bike. Thought I’d get struck by lightning in the car.” 

“How’d you figure?” 

Eddie goes to grab the door handle and spins on his heel, staggering onto his bed and up against the wall, where a mirrored tray once used by Dio himself for rolling hangs from the wall. He checks his face in the polished surface, his warped mouth and nose, too small eyes, and swears to himself that one day he’ll get a real mirror with a fully-functioning reflective surface. 

Then he hops down off of the bed, causing a reverberation he knows traverses the entirety of the trailer floor. Eddie snatches a rare clean towel from his laundry chair and speeds down the hall. 

“Hello,” he says, more casual than he feels to find you unexpectedly in his house. “You’re soaked.” 

You give a sweet smile. “It’s raining out, did you not know?” 

Your hair is dripping, water racing down the curves of your face to collect at your chin. Eddie can see the smudges of your makeup where it’s washing off as he wraps a towel around you, kohl on your cheeks, eyelashes turned to half-diamonds and sticky-looking. You grin at being covered, taking the towel from his fingers before he can dab you dry. 

“Why didn’t you just call me?”’

“I can never remember if your phone number ends in three or four.” 

“Seven. I wrote it down for you a hundred times.” 

You rub your eyes and spread all manner of glitter and shadow over your skin. You wipe your neck and the glitter spreads like an alien rash. 

When you talk next, you shiver, “I lost it a hundred times, sorry. Is it okay that I'm here?” 

Wayne, who’s been watching with a distinct sense of amusement from the couch, lets out a chesty laugh. “Honey, it’s always okay that you’re here on my account. And it’s my house.” 

“It’s fine.” Eddie turns your shoulder so he can mouth over it without being caught. Asshole. 

Another laugh follows. Eddie would cut each of his fingers from his hand and then his hand from his wrist if it were something Wayne needed him to do, but that doesn’t make him any less of an opportunistic asshole. If there’s a way to fuck with Eddie, he tends to try it. He loves Eddie with all the tenacity of a father who loves his son, but Wayne got infected with little bitch disease or something and Eddie can’t cure it. 

“Can I please wash my face? I didn’t expect to get soaked.” 

“Didn’t you?” He regrets his flippancy quickly, leading you down the hall. “You could take a shower. What do you think?” 

You’ve never showered here, but Eddie’s trying to, you know, date you. Romance you, get to cherish you, however anyone wants to say it. And it’s not a war of attrition, just a natural escalation of sharing, or a minimising of boundaries. 

No, that’s pervy, isn’t it? 

“I mean–” He starts to correct himself. 

You interrupt with your answer, “Yes, please, do you think I could? But I don’t have anything to wear.”

“I have your purple hoodie in my room, and there’s gotta be a pair of sweatpants here that fit you,” he says. 

They’ve got a whole bunch of clothes here that floated in from somewhere else, Eddie’s other friends or stuff they’ve bought by mistake. He’s sure he can find something.

“You have my hoodie?” you ask, black kohl spreading across the towel as you wipe your cheek. 

Eddie only smelled it one time. When he’d realised you left it in his van he brought it in and folded it, waiting for the next time he’d see you to give it back, but that night he’d been getting out of the shower wondering if he could call you or if that was too soon, and your hoodie had been right there. So he stood there in his pyjama pants with his wet hair and he didn’t think about picking your hoodie up, he just did, and when he pressed it to his face it still smelled of your perfume. 

He put it back and felt like a loser for days.

“It’s in my closet, you left it in the van Monday,” he explains quickly, nudging you through the doorway of the bathroom. 

The Munson bathroom is teeny tiny but not unnavigable. There’s a shower pressed to the far wall that could squeeze in two people, their toilet to the right, a sink basin opposite that with a medicine cabinet and just enough room for a dirty laundry box that’s always, always full. 

Eddie opens the shower and turns it on. “It takes a while to get really hot but then it’s not hot for long, sorry. There’s my shampoo if you want it, and soap, and body wash. Sorry, none of it is super girly.” 

“Sorry sorry,” you say, pretending to hit him in the stomach. “What’s with all the sorries, handsome? I can’t wait to smell like a boy.” 

The way you say it. Eddie doesn’t know what it is, but it’s why he’s crazy about you. 

Probably shouldn’t tell you that as you're taking off your jacket, though. 

“I’ll be right back,” he says. 

Eddie heads out of the bathroom to their skinny linen cabinet hidden in the hallway. He grabs the last two towels from the middle shelf and takes pause, fabric starchy in his hands. Just be normal, he thinks, a pep talk from Eddie to Eddie. She hangs out with you all the time for a reason. She held your hand at the movies. 

Eddie’s in better spirits when he remembers that. Your hand in his, your ring pushing his ring further down his finger, your cheek touching his shoulder as you’d leaned in and asked if he wanted some of your popcorn. 

He opens the door without thinking, shower pattering against the perspex wall, your legs crossing tightly as he enters, turning yourself away from him.

“Woah!” you say, laughing.

“Holy crap.” The image of your red underwear immediately stamps itself into his mind as he pulls the door shut between you. They were really cute, red and white gingham, showcasing just the slightest curve of your– “I told you I was coming back!” 

“I thought you’d knock!” you laugh. “Sorry I flashed you. At least I had my shirt on.” 

At least, he thinks wryly, shoving his arm through the gap in the door, heavy towels pulling at his fingers. His head’s about to snap off, it's turned so far away from the door’s opening. “Here.” 

“If you wanna see me naked so bad you can just ask,” you tease. 

“Take the towels, loser.” 

You take the towels and he closes the door, preventing any more accidental creeping, and giving himself a reprieve. Gingham underwear. Wavy lettuce edgings kissing your skin. 

Holy fuck. Being a person is so lame, Eddie thinks. He wants to have a crush on you purely, and yet seeing the way you’d crossed your legs to hide from him, smiling, he can’t not think about kissing you —touching you. If he doesn’t get you laid out in his bed soon for some slow kissing he’s not gonna make it.

Eddie opens the strip vent above his window and prays it doesn’t flood his whole room. Clean, it doesn’t look half bad, he could bring you in here respectfully, you could stay the night without fearing for your life. 

You take a quick shower. He’s barely gotten over his nerves when you’re walking into his room, a towel around you, not a hint of shyness about you. 

“You didn’t bring me anything to wear,” you explain. 

Eddie just stares at you. 

“Eddie?” You wrap the towel tighter. “Come on, you’re staring at me.”

“Sorry.” His mouth is bone dry. 

“You have my hoodie, right? Just need some pants.” You cross your arm tightly across your chest. “I don’t usually notice when people are staring at me.”

“You aren’t usually naked in my room,” he says, genuinely and embarrassingly apologetic. 

“I’m not naked. Come on, please? Do I have to wait outside the door?” you ask with a laugh. 

Eddie stands up. Shakes his head hard, almost trips over himself trying to get to his dresser. He decides honesty will be best at this point, lest you think he has only one thing on his mind, “Listen, I’m sorry. I’m just in my head about something and I wasn’t expecting you to come out like that. It’s not right. You’re just… you’re really pretty.” 

“Thank you.” He can’t see you, sorting quickly through his middle drawer and all his miscellaneous pants for a pair he’s sure would fit, if he could just remember where it was. “What are you in your head about?” 

“What?” 

“Eddie, are you okay?” 

“No, no,” he moans, rubbing his face with his hand, ring scratching the bridge of his nose, “I’m not okay, princess, I’m overheating or something, Jesus Christ.” He finally lays eyes on the sweatpants he’d been thinking of, grabs your hoodie from the top shelf and drops them both at the end of the bed. “I’ll give you some privacy.” 

“I don’t have any underwear.” 

“And that’s something I can’t fix,” he says, leaving the room in a hurry. 

Eddie gets to the living room and keels over. His hair falls in his face, his shirt slides down his back. What the fuck is wrong with him? 

Wayne, sliding his shoes on in the recliner, gives a start. “What’s wrong?”

Eddie lifts his head, yanking hair from his face, the skin of his under eyes pulled down harshly. “Oh my god.”

Wayne wrinkles his nose. 

“No ones ever been such a pathetic excuse for a man before,” Eddie says. 

“Your dad’s in jail,” Wayne points out. “And not for the impressive stuff.”

“I’m pathetic.” 

“You’re fine. You’re not supposed to be not pathetic, you’re twenty.” 

“I’m twenty one.” 

“The extra year doesn’t mean much. I know you think you’re all grown up, but you’re still an idiot.” 

Wayne stands and shrugs on the jacket laying over the armrest. 

“Wait, where are you going?” 

“I thought you were definitely gonna ask her?” Wayne asks knowingly. That’s what Eddie told him, after all. “Next time I see her, Wayne, I’m asking her to go steady.” 

Eddie shakes his head. “You can’t leave.” 

“Eddie.” Wayne gestures for Eddie to stop slouching like some fiend from a bad horror. “Listen. I get that you’ve always been sort of… behind everyone, but that doesn’t mean you can’t do it. She likes you. She biked here in a hurricane.”

“What if she says no?” he asks. 

Truthfully, Eddie’s more scared of you saying yes. 

Wayne shrugs. “Girl like that’ll still be your friend after. It’ll be fine, okay? Do you need a hug before I go?” 

“No.” Eddie rubs his eyes some more, sore now from being touched. “Maybe.” 

Wayne crosses the room to give his shoulder a squeeze. “It will be fine. You’re great with rejection, Eds, but I have a good feeling about this one.” 

Eddie felt better about it, before he embarrassed himself staring at you. But Wayne’s right, even if Eddie’s read things wrong between you, he’s sure you’ll still want to be his friend. You and Eddie are the same kind of weird, though he’s more angry where you’re carefree. If everything goes wrong, you’ll probably just give an unnecessary apology and offer to braid his hair. Which will be torture, but Eddie’ll still say yes.

Wayne calls goodbye, and you shout, “Bye, Mr. Munson!” to which Wayne wiggles his eyebrows. 

“Get lost,” Eddie says. 

“Go make her a drink. I’ll see you later.” 

That’s not a bad idea. Eddie makes you a mix of orange and grapefruit juice with a couple of ice cubes and a plastic straw, your reaction predicted and then proved. 

“It’s a cocktail,” you say, pleased, sitting on the side of his bed. 

“It’s not a cocktail, just juice.” 

“Can I have some socks, please, Eddie?” 

Eddie passes you your drink, fingertips brushing. “Yeah. Anything else?” He pretends to be exhausted as he trudges back over to his dresser. 

You laugh and sip your drink. “No, I think you’re treating me quite well.” 

Eddie grabs a random pair and finally gets to sit down beside you, the dresser drawer left out, a spare sock fallen to the floor. You shuffle back into his pillows, propping your juice on his side table, and holding your hands out for the socks. Again, your fingertips touch his as he passes them to you. You seem to enjoy it, a smile lighting your face as you pull your knees up to put the socks on. 

“Thank you for waiting on me,” you say quietly. Not shyly, just quiet. 

“You’re welcome. Came all this way to see me, didn’t you?” He gives you a shove. You shuffle back further. “In the pouring rain.” 

“It felt important at the time.” 

“Yeah?” 

You get the socks on and don’t care about them once they're past your heels. Eddie does the honour of smoothing out the bands so that the elastic won’t dig into your skin, and when he’s done he can feel you looking at him heavily. You’re not one for continued eye contact, but you smile like you were waiting for it all day, like it’s a relief to see him. 

“Bad weather,” you say, slouching down. “I think I’m still wet on the inside.” 

“Gross,” Eddie says, pushing you over bodily to sit beside you. This isn’t new, he doesn’t need any nerves, and he’s grateful when they don’t come. “Here, I’ll pull the blanket over you.” 

“Can’t move,” you say, leaning back against the pillows.

Eddie stretches his legs out. You keep yours up, but you turn to his side, and before he can really make any sense of you, you’re dropping your face into his shoulder. 

“Are you still cold?” he asks, searching for the truth in your strange comment. 

You nod into his shoulder. “I’m freezing. The shower didn’t get very hot.” 

“Sorry,” he says, letting his cheek rest on your head. 

You lift your chin as he does it, his lashes pressed to your forehead, the two of you stuck together like two warped jigsaw pieces. You probably weren’t made to be together, but you make a nice picture, and you fit snugly now. That’s what Eddie thinks. 

This is the sort of moment that makes Eddie wanna ask you out. Maybe you’re just the best friend he’s ever had, but something about this closeness feels different. You wrap your arm around his stomach in a hug and he knows this is different. 

“It’s okay,” you say finally, sighing as you shift downward into his side, getting comfortable. 

“Please don’t bike here in the rain. It’s, like, torrential. You could actually get sick.” 

You feel warm where your body presses against his, but Eddie doubts that’ll make a difference if the cold already made you sick. The bike ride from your place to his isn't short. He covers your arm with his and tries to be your space heater, cheek sliding over your forehead. 

“Eddie…” You hug him with tenderness. Eddie’s reluctant to say cuddle, but it’s close. “This might be a surprise to you, but I think it’s worth the rain and the cold to see you. Especially when you do this.” 

“What am I doing?” 

“You’re rubbing my arm.” 

He hadn’t noticed his hand caressing up and down your arm where it rests on his stomach. 

“You make me feel amazing,” you say, dropping your face into his chest. 

That’s his last straw. Eddie gets both arms around you and cuddles you (it’s a cuddle, okay! he’s a loser!) to him, arms tight but not cruel. All this fuss and you’re finally laying on top of him. He decides he won’t ask you after all. He’s not that brave, and he doesn’t want this to end. 

Your legs fall onto him. You relax completely. Even after you shower he can smell your perfume. 

“You smell nice,” he murmurs. 

“It’s on my hoodie,” you murmur back. 

Right. Eddie should remember. 

“You make everything smell like you.” Even his van keeps your scent most days. 

“Too much?” 

“The right amount,” he says firmly. 

You lay on his chest for a while, just breathing. Eddie rubs your back, tells himself he will ask, actually, because he can’t imagine not getting to do this again. You might even stay over. He could live hours of this. He didn’t know having you lay on him could make him feel like this. 

He can’t believe you’ve never done it before. 

Rain pounds the window. Condensation drips down onto the sill. You let your legs stretch out flat and then manoeuvre to be laying half atop him, hoodie riding up your back. 

“Any warmer now?” he asks.

“Yeah, you’re warming me up.” You lavish in his arms for a moment, and then lift your face. “Oh, this is a bad angle.” 

“For me or you?” 

“For me, duh.” 

Eddie doesn’t think you could have a bad angle. He rubs at your upper arm as you start to shift. “You know, your bike has just as big a chance of getting hit by lightning as your car does. More, probably.” 

“You think so?” 

“It’s physics. So, please don’t do it again.” 

You hum. “Hm, should I risk getting struck by lightning, or spend the evening without you?” you murmur, your arm moving, moving slowly, your hand resting gently on the column of his neck. There’s something ironic in your voice, wry, but your eyes are warm. He’s paralysed. No one has ever spoken to him like you. “I think I’d rather get struck by lightning.” 

You stare at one another. He laughs. You join in, your thumb a pressure at his neck, and when you move up his chest to lean in, he isn’t expecting it. 

“We’re very close together,” you whisper. 

“Super close,” he whispers back. 

“…Eddie, can I ask you something?” Your eyes slip shut, your lips so close that something in him aches, just enough wit about him to cup your shoulders in his forearm. 

“Yeah.” 

He doesn’t sound half as calm as you do. 

“Would you… Do you think we could be official? Would you want that?” You tilt your head to the side. “Is that stupid?” 

“Official?” he asks, panicked, his eyes squeezed shut hard enough for a moment that they ache.

“Like, you’d be my boyfriend. I’d be your girlfriend. We’d be close like this all the time.” 

Eddie panics so hard he just says the first thing that comes into his head, “Like, we’d kiss?” 

“I hope so,” you say, your nose pressing against his, the tip to the side of his, and then against his nostril. The heat of your breath is hard to ignore. “What do you think?” 

What does Eddie think about it? 

He catches your lips in a slow kiss. Achingly slow, not even sure it’s a kiss until you reciprocate, and your fingers dig behind his neck to tease his hair. Your lips part against his, the heat of your tongue sudden and undeniable —Eddie didn’t know you had it in you. He squeezes you to him, attempting to crane his neck downward, reliant on your enthusiasm as you move up, as you use his neck to pull yourself closer. 

Your noses crush together, and it actually hurts. “Sorry,” he says, easing you back, “you okay?” 

“‘Nother kiss,” you say hopefully, distractedly. 

He can’t not give it to you. 

Your hand spreads flat against his chest and you kiss, you kiss, long and slow movements against him before turning your head to take it again. Eddie doesn’t always know what to do with himself, but he knows kissing, no matter what anybody might think about him, and he takes the lead. 

His hand screws into a fist against your hoodie, the slip of your back further exposed as you shiver into his mouth, a sound you shouldn’t make sweet on his tongue. 

You pull away, breath on his lips. “Wanted you to kiss me for so long,” you murmur. 

Eddie knows you’re not saying it to flirt, and that makes it worse. 

“I should’ve kissed you a long time ago,” he says roughly. 

“You wanted to?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, so much, I’m a loser about you–”

“I’m always a loser,” you interrupt, “but especially about you.” 

You scratch your fingers through his hair, encouraging his head down for another kiss. This one rougher but not rough, his arm slips finally behind your head where he’d needed it to be, hooking you in his elbow to keep you in one place. To kiss you soundly, without interruption. Your almost feverish ebbing inward is a dream, your nose rubbing up against his is a fantasy. 

His heart hammers and hammers at his ribs. 

You pull away to let him breathe. “You’re very excited,” you tease lightly. 

Eddie kisses you, breathless. He kisses you so much he’s surprised you allow it, but your thumb rubs his cheek, and he knows he’d been right all along. You want him like he wants you, with startling, mildly pathetic urgency. 

He feels like a fucking prince. Girl of his dreams in his lap, everything he wants, and he didn’t even have to ask. 

—

Eddie spends a week in bliss. You’re suddenly everywhere, all the time, attached to his hip or some other part of him, and he forgets for seven whole days that he bought you a ring. 

The rain dries up, the Munson emergency fund lives to die another day, and he remembers the ring only minutes before you’re knocking at his door. 

He trips over himself trying to answer it before Wayne, who’s taken to being as painfully embarrassing as is possible for one human being, can get it for him. 

“One day you’re gonna eat shit and break your nose,” Wayne says. 

Eddie yanks open the door. “Yeah, thanks. Hey, beautiful, what’s with the sunglasses?” 

You slide them down your nose. You’re a vision on his front step, not that you’d ever notice your own intrigue. “The sunglasses?” you ask, tucking them away. “What do you think they’re for? Three guesses.” 

He grabs your waist, leaning down out of the doorway so as to save Wayne the agony. “That’s smart,” he says, kissing you quickly in hello. “You’re funny. Need anything before we go?” 

“No, I’m okay. Hi, Mr. Munson!” you add.

“Hey, honey! How are you?” Wayne calls.

You look up into Eddie’s face with an obvious delight. “I’ve never been better.” 

Eddie grins back. 

He waves a quick goodbye to Wayne and then he’s out the door. You grab his wrist and practically dance him to the car, where you offer your keys, and he deigns to drive. From there it’s smooth sailing, familiarity with a better twist, Eddie driving with the windows down and your hands twined on your thigh. Things haven’t changed much since you asked him to go steady, there’s just a whole lot more of this. Touching, kissing, no weird guilt about staring. 

As it turns out, you’re as eager to be laid out in his bed as he is to lay you out. He’s never wanted to kiss you more, and now he’s allowed. 

“Eyes on the road.” 

He leans over to kiss your cheek. The sun has warmed your skin, and his kiss makes you smile. You look pretty no matter the weather. 

“Before we get there, I have something to give you.” He takes his hand from yours to slide the box from his pocket. He holds it up. “But you can only have it if you swear you’ll call me tonight before bed. No excuses. You know exactly what number to call.” 

“Ends with a three,” you say, nodding. 

He sighs. “No, it does not.” 

“I’m kidding! Two one nine seven, I have now committed it to memory.” 

Eddie pays attention to the road, though it’s clear and long heading out of the trailer park and into town. “That deserves a gift.” 

You’re back in your glitters today, a skirt to enjoy the fine weather, a button shirt with a cute triangle collar, you’re lovely as ever, if a tad much for some. Not Eddie. He loves the dark clothes, the tinkling bracelets, the fun way you smile like everything he says is a secret between him and you. People stare wherever you and Eddie go, but as long your arm is sewn through his he couldn’t care less. 

“A gift,” you say, smiling in your way, and taking the box politely. “I don’t think I deserve it for just remembering your number.” 

“You deserved it for less. It’s not much. You can pay me back in three or four amazing kisses. Right here.” He points to the tight juncture beneath his jaw. 

You attempt to lean over and kiss him immediately. He pushes you back, laughing, worsened by your own breathless laughter as you steal one exactly where he’d tapped. 

You settle back down, Eddie’s hand dropping kindly to your knee. “I wonder what it is,” you say. 

“Then open it.” 

“I am!” You pop the box open, it’s springing hinge snapping into place. “Oh, woah. Woah. Where did you get this?” 

It’s a slim ring, with a weirdly shaped band of quality metal around some cheaper but not totally worthless gemstones, of which there are three different colours: a topaz orange, a lime green, and a pinky-red ruby colour centre stage. They have nice cuts. It’s strange as you are, and he knew when he saw it you’d have to have it. 

“If I put it on my marriage finger, are we engaged?” you tease. 

“That one would be way heavier,” he says, giving you a squeeze. 

You slide it onto your middle finger and hold your hand up in the sunshine. It fits in with your other ring nicely, though it is, to Eddie’s pride, far prettier. 

He has half a mind to pull over and kiss each knuckle, but he’s trying to be less dramatic about you. It’s not working. 

“Thank you, Eddie. I love it.” 

“Best boyfriend ever?” he asks hopefully. 

To his mild fear but better pleasure, you climb up onto the console to press three quick kisses to his cheek and jaw, your hand under his ear holding him in tender place. “Best boyfriend ever. Even if you stare too much.” 

“How am I supposed to not?” he asks, with more weight than he’s intended. 

You speak matter of factly for the first time in your life. “I am going to cause an accident,” you promise, attempting to kiss his nose. “A bad one.” 

“Sit down, please.” He lets you kiss his nose, and then jabs you in the side. “Sit down, oh my god! That’s not funny, you’re so pretty I will total your car.” 

“Now who’s not funny?” 

You both laugh at the same time, the unfiltered, un-cute cackling of two idiots with the same sense of humour, and the same wealth of ridiculous honeymoon love. 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

thank you so much for reading!! I hope you enjoyed. if you did, please consider reblogging or commenting!! thanks very much <3

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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

---

Hi lovely! Here’s my ask: Bucky and reader have been pinning for each other nonchalantly for a while but reader says something that causes Bucky to throw them over his shoulder and threatens to tickle the shit out of them (and then does it after seeing how flustered they are). Feelings get confessed, weaknesses are exposed, it’s a whole plate of fluff. 🥰😘

hell. why not? This prompt is so fun - thanks, anon! hope you enjoy x

Predictable

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader (no pronouns used)

Word count: ~1500

Content / warnings: swearing, kissing, tickle fic

minors dni: this work does not contain smut, but does contain a romantic and intimate storyline between the reader and an adult-aged character. I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. Thank you for your understanding and respect.

The hallway was quiet except for the sharp click of your boots and the heavy, measured steps of Bucky Barnes beside you. The mission briefing had ended, the others scattering to their own quarters, leaving you and him walking under the hum of fluorescent lights.

“You’re quieter than usual tonight,” you said, casting a sidelong glance at him. “Bored? Lost in thought? Don’t tell me you’re planning another dramatic brooding session. Maybe in front of a window, rain streaking down the glass?”

Bucky looked at you, one brow quirked, his lips curling faintly at the corner. “You done?”

“I gotta say, you’re really sticking to the dark soldier aesthetic,” you quipped, hands shoved in your pockets. “It’s impressive. Very consistent.”

His lips twitched in the ghost of a smirk. “Consistent, huh? That your way of saying I’m boring?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say boring.” You turned to him, letting your grin curl just sharp enough to bait him. “More… predictable.”

He stopped walking, his head tilting just slightly, and the gleam in his eye made something in your chest tighten.

“Predictable?” he repeated, his tone soft, like he was rolling the word around to test it.

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek to suppress the grin threatening to spread. “It’s not a bad thing, Bucky. You’re… reliable. Steady. I can set my watch by your moods - glare, brood, occasional grunt of disapproval. It’s comforting, really.”

The words hung in the air for a beat too long, and you were suddenly hyperaware of the silence and tension stretching between you.

“What?” you asked, try to hold back a smirk. “Did I hit a nerve?”

His gaze sharpened on yours, glinting with something dark and teasing that made the hair on the back of your neck rise. “You really think I’m predictable?”

The air between you crackled with tension, each word a spark igniting the unspoken feelings lurking beneath the surface. You felt a flush creeping up your neck, but you held your ground, refusing to let him see how much his attention affected you.

“I’m just saying-”

Before you could finish, he moved. Quick as a snap, his hand grabbed your wrist and yanked you toward him. You stumbled, nearly cursing, before he bent low, braced his shoulder into your middle, and straightened, hoisting you up and over.

“Bucky!” Your voice came out an octave higher than usual, your palms pressing against his broad back as you flailed. “Put me down!” you hissed, your fists pounding helplessly at his shoulders as the world spun upside down.

He ignored you, his laughter low and dangerous as it rumbled through his chest. “Still think I’m predictable?”

“Yes! You’re-” Your voice caught, your brain short-circuiting when his palm splayed against the back of your thigh to keep you steady. The touch was firm, effortless, and it did unforgivable things to your ability to form coherent words. “Y-you’re shooting the messenger. This is completely unnecessary!”

“Unnecessary?” he echoed, his tone laced with a sinister amusement. “You sure about that? Because I think this is overdue.”

Your stomach flipped at the shift in his voice - low and teasing, laced with a playful edge you’d never heard before.

He turned a corner abruptly and nudged open a door with his boot, stepping into a small, dimly lit storage room.

“Wait, what- what are you doing?” you demanded, kicking your legs uselessly. “Bucky, I swear- ”

“I’d save your breath if I were you,” he said darkly, the door clicking shut behind him.

Your mind lurched. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

A slow, devilish chuckle rolled through him. “It means, smartass, that I’m about to tickle the shit outta you.”

Your brain flatlined.

You froze. Completely froze. For the first time, your mouth opened - but nothing came out. Heat flared across your entire body, and Bucky’s amused hum was like a spark to gasoline.

“Oh,” he hummed, patting your thigh like some cruel punctuation to your embarrassment, “that got your attention.”

“Shut up!” you finally spluttered, mortified, because now he knew. Now he knew, and you’d just handed him a weapon far more dangerous than any gun or blade.

His laughter was low, dark, and - gods help you - so unfairly attractive that it only made things worse. “What, did I hit a nerve?”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Your squirming renewed tenfold, panic spiking through you as you tried to push yourself up off his shoulder. “Don’t you dare, Bucky Barnes! I swear-”

He unceremoniously let you drop back onto your feet, your balance faltering as you collided with his chest, still breathless. You shoved at him instinctively, trying to regain your footing, but he was already advancing, backing you toward the nearest wall.

Your face was on fire now, your usual sharp wit nowhere to be found. You’d never seen him like this - playful, teasing, free - and it was completely throwing you off.

You stammered, breath catching as your back hit the wall. “B-Bucky- no! Don’t-”

“You're really worked up about this,” he interrupted, his voice low and gravelly, a smirk tugging at his lips. The shadows softened the hard lines of his face, but his eyes… his eyes burned with something else.

He leaned in slightly, caging you in with his hands braced against the wall beside your head. “You’re nervous.”

“I am not,” you hissed, even as you felt your face go hotter.

The smirk grew. “I think you’re lying.”

“I’m not-”

"Predict this, sweetheart."

Before you could blink, his hands darted to your hips, fingers digging in with deliberate precision. Your reaction was immediate - a gasp, a choked laugh you couldn’t swallow back in time.

“No!” you shrieked, laughter already bubbling out of you as you squirmed violently. “I take it back, okay?! I take it back!”

“Too late,” Bucky replied, grinning like the devil himself as his hands squeezed your sides again. “Now I’m invested.”

"B-Bucky! Cut it out!"

“Cut it out?” he repeated, his tone mock-innocent as his fingers dugs across your ribs. “I thought you were tougher than this.”

“Shut up!” you managed between gasping laughs, your cheeks burning with humiliation and something dangerously close to exhilaration.

“Is this what you wanted?” he taunted, his voice dark and edged with amusement. “When you called me predictable? Did you want me to prove you wrong?”

Your response was lost in another fit of helpless laughter as his hands found a particularly sensitive spot just under your ribs. You twisted against him, but his grip was unrelenting, his body solid against you.

You let out a strangled laugh, pressing back against the wall as your knees started to give. “You’re- you’re cool! And- and spontaneous and - Bucky - fuck! You’re hot and mysterious and-”

He paused for a second, his grin sharpening as he processed your accidental confession. “Hot, huh?” he murmured, his voice low and entirely too smug.

Your face burned like the sun. “I didn’t mean- fuck, just forget I said-”

“Oh, no,” he said, his hands still firmly on your waist. “I think we’re gonna talk about that later.”

“Buck, I didn't-”

“Nope,” he interrupted, his fingers digging into your sides again, drawing another breathless shriek from you. “We’re not done yet.”

Your laughter filled the room, wild and unguarded, as you tried in vain to squirm away. He zeroed in on your lowest ribs, his fingers hitting angles that sent you reeling. You tried to hold on the desperate peal of laughter, but it echoed through the storage room as your knees weakened further.

“Bucky!” you gasped, your voice breaking as you gripped at his jacket to try and keep yourself upright, another shriek bursting through your lips when his fingers pressed into another susceptible spot. "Please! I can't breathe- BUCKY!"

His grin softened, and for a moment, the teasing melted into something quieter, something genuine. He caught your chin gently with one hand, lifting your gaze to meet his.

“Hot, huh?” he repeated, softer this time, his eyes searching yours.

The word hung in the air, a moment of suspended silence between frantic laughter and tension thick enough to choke on. You froze, still panting, your face burning with horror.

Bucky stilled too, his gaze locking onto yours. Then, slowly, his grin returned - this time sharper, hungrier.

His lips were on yours before you could think, a sudden, fiery kiss that stole the air from your lungs.

You melted immediately, fingers curling into the front of his shirt as he pressed you further into the wall, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck as he tilted your head back, the other gripping your hip. The heat of it was overwhelming, his lips firm and insistent. It was messy, unpracticed, and searingly real.

When he pulled back, you were breathless, still panting, cheeks aflame. His thumb brushed your temple, sending a shiver up your spine, and the corner of his mouth curled into a smirk as his lips grazed yours.

“Did you see that coming, too?”

You couldn’t help it - you grinned against his lips. “Yeah. From a mile away.”

Before he had the chance to retaliate, you kissed him again.

---

Series Masterlist

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

✏︎ Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.

While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him.

Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.

✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, smut (18+ mdni), true love, internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12

Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16

Chapter 17

---

always a woman, to me (fic)

bucky barnes x fem!reader | inspiration | some canonically inaccurate things pertaining to bucky's family, go with it please!!

content warnings: complex family dynamics; very brief mentions of SA/harassment; brief mentions/allusions to PTSD and trauma; sexual content (p in v; fem and m receiving)

word count: 26k.

blurb: Bucky Barnes has a secret. He has massages nearly every week. It's to help him with his tension and anxiety; to help him sleep. And maybe, just maybe, it has something to do with the pretty masseuse.

Bucky Barnes had a secret. 

It had started as an off-handed joke from Sam. It was back in the summer, when Bucky had gone to visit him and his family. They’d been sitting out back, basking in the sunshine, sharing kebabs and grilled burgers and ice tea in the July heat. Sam had walked past him and grabbed his shoulder, squeezing it in a brotherly fashion. 

“God damn, you’re tense,” he’d chuckled. Bucky glanced up at him, laughing as he walked back to the house, likely to fetch another beer, Sam joked, “you should get a massage or something. Loosen you up.”

Bucky wasn’t sure why it had sat in his mind for so long. It was like a bad smell in his house: no matter what he did to try and deter, it wouldn’t leave. He knew he was tense. Sleeping on a hardwood floor with nothing but a woolen blanket will do that to you; leave you with knots in your shoulders and an aching back. He walked as if he were carrying rocks on his head, weighing down on his neck, dragging his arms towards the floor. His back was stiff, guard always up. Bucky flinched at the slightest intrusion. He wasn’t quick to physical touch, always the one to initiate something as minor as a handshake or hug with Sam.

The pain had once felt like repent. Punishment, in a way. After all the horrors he’d caused, what right did he have to be comfortable? To be relaxed. But it was also familiar. He’d been tense for so long it was hard to remember a time when he had felt every muscle in his body take a breath. Locked up inside of a shell, screaming to get out, made it so that there was always a part of him that would never fully calm. It was an understatement to say his accommodation during his time as the Winter Soldier was far from five stars. Concrete slabs for a bed; an ice chamber for a tomb; freezing water to shower under; beatings as punishment for a sloppy job, or when one of the guards was feeling bored. After, when he was running from Hydra, hiding from the law, it was not much better. The mattress he’d thrifted was lumpy. Springs stuck out at odd angles, digging into his spine and biting into his arms and legs. Sometimes the floor was favoured. Strangely, it provided him with more ease of rest. But he didn’t rest. He thrashed in deep and disturbed waters, fighting to break the surface of sleep. Awake wasn’t much better. He was on edge, on watch, ready to run or to fight - whichever came first. Usually both. There was always a fight, it seemed. A fight that he never wanted in the first place. 

Bucky had hoped that after Karli, and Sam, and John Walker, the seeming semblance of closure to his past life would help that tension ease. He had thought it would roll off him like pebbles from a sloping cliff - dropping down into the depths of the ocean. But just like all the dark sides of his past and the scars that littered his body, it seemed it would be forever. He had tried to make peace with that too. But Sam’s offhand comment had planted the seed. 

That was how he wound up here, standing in the reception of ‘Serenity Springs’. It was just outside of the city; a wooden lodge with black tiled roofs and enough shrubs to challenge the Amazon rainforest. It was attached to a golf club. He’d seen a gaggle of middle-aged men dressed in khakis and polo shirts, laughing haughty at a joke one had made whilst leaning against golf carts. Bucky had almost turned the car around at the sight: that wasn’t his crowd. But something had driven him to stay. Perhaps it was the eighty dollars he’d already dropped on the booking. 

Glancing around the quiet reception, he surveyed the scene like a reflex. Instead of scanning for threats, Bucky tried to familiarise himself with the foreign environment. Spas weren’t much of a thing in his time, with massages just as unpopular. If he were to sit his former self down and tell him that he would one day wind up in a spa, Bucky couldn’t help but feel it might be one of the harder things to wrap his head around. Somehow torture seemed more on the cards than dressing in a robe and lying down on some cushioned table with oils slicked up and down his back. 

The place seemed non-threatening. Plinky, nondescript music played in the background. A couple of older ladies sat in armchairs facing one another, nursing cups of coffee and talking in hushed tones with pleasant smiles. Their robes were beige and waffled in texture, hanging slightly large on their frail frames. To their right was an enormous fish tank. It bubbled in what Bucky imagined was supposed to be a soothing manner (though it truthfully just made him want to pee); brightly coloured coral was intermixed with reeds and purple and blue stones. Tropical fish swam around in the expanse. Behind him, an extensive collection of products were advertised on glass shelves. He eyed one of the price tags, eyes widening slightly at the seventy dollars attached to what looked to be a rather regular bottle of lotion. As he was about to lose nerve, someone sauntered over to the reception desk. 

“Good morning, sir,” she smiled kindly. 

“Morning,” Bucky replied, clearing his throat. 

“How can I help you today?” Her voice was overly soft like it had been left out in the sun for too long. 

Bucky took a breath, glancing at the array of items displayed along the desk’s surface as he said, “I, uh, got a booking. A massage and stuff like that.”

“Wonderful, let me just check on the system. What’s your name?”

Bucky’s eyes glanced at her, quickly scanning her face. She was waiting patiently, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “James. James Barnes.”

“Wonderful,” she murmured, typing away. A pause, waiting for the screen to load, and then, “ah, yes. The Swedish massage, is it? Neck, shoulders and arms, hm?”

“Sounds ‘bout right,” Bucky nodded, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He felt like he took up too much space. Stood too tall; felt too broad. He took another quick glance around him and wanted to sigh with relief at the sight of another man tucked away in an armchair, also dressed in a robe. 

“Wonderful. So your treatment isn’t until three-forty. You do have access to all the spa amenities whilst you wait, which are just through the glass doors to your left,” the receptionist explained, gesturing with a soft sweep of her hand to the doorway. Bucky gave a nod. “There is a complimentary coffee included in your treatment. We have all the classics: Americano, latte, cappuccino…”

“A latte would be great. Thanks.”

“Excellent. I’ll bring that over to you, if you’d want to take a seat. I’ll also give you this to fill out, just to give to our therapists.” With that, a clipboard was placed before him. Bucky took it and perused the text. He swallowed and nodded again. “Wonderful. I’ll be right there with your coffee.”

Bucky wondered if it was a requirement for every sentence in this place to start with an affirmation. 

The armchair nearest the other man seemed to be calling to him. Some primal urge to be near his own, perhaps. Or maybe he didn’t want to seem as though he was eavesdropping into the juicy drama that Barbara was sharing with Lucy (apparently her son had cheated on his wife for the third time and got someone pregnant; quite the scandal; curse superhuman hearing). He tapped the pen provided against the frame of the board as he read. Bla, bla, bla, welcome to Serenity Springs, we hope you have a relaxing and rejuvenating time with us, bla, bla… First came the health conditions. His pen lingered at the check box beside ‘elderly’. There were ages specified in the brackets beside it but Bucky exceeded them, and so he decided not to bother. It wasn’t as though people were querying him on his pension every other day. The box beside ‘amputee’ was met with a tick mark, along with ‘mental illness’ and ‘poor sleep’. Shifting in his seat with a sigh, his eyes caught the receptionist making her way over with a coffee mug. 

“Here you go sir. Enjoy,” she remarked as she placed it on the coffee table beside him. “Here’s the key to your locker. Everything you need - robe, towel and sliders - are inside it. If you return to this area five minutes before your treatment, your therapist will come collect you. We hope you have a wonderful time with us, and please ask if you need anything.”

Bucky nodded and murmured a thanks, offering a tight smile. He felt uneasy in this place. Everyone was acting like they’d taken a sedative or smoked a joint. Must be something in the water. At the thought, he glanced at his coffee. Would that be so bad? Wasn’t that why he was here, after all? To relax. To loosen the hell up? He took a long sip and swallowed. Back to the clipboard. 

Is there anything your therapist should be aware of for your treatment?

It was hard to hold back his snort. The box didn’t provide enough space for all that. Instead, he simply wrote two words: ‘war vet’. There were some other boring terms and conditions to sign and date, like if he somehow became so relaxed that he might drop dead on the table, and then he was done. He watched the fish as he finished his coffee. There was a aquamarine one which kept bumping the glass. Darwinism. Then, with the clipboard handed over to the receptionist, who received it as if she’d won some grand award (“wonderful, thank you so much”), Bucky was venturing into the changing rooms. 

They were empty save for one gentleman. Elderly, wrinkled, still somewhat spritely in his way of moving as he fed things into his locker. Bucky used the key provided to open his designated locker. As promised, he was met with a robe and towel, and a pair of toweled sliders. He unpacked the backpack which had been slung over his shoulder, changing into his swim shorts. He hesitated at the hem of his shirt. The elderly man had long retired to the pool area. The changing room was empty. Inhaling deeply, Bucky tugged his shirt off quick and fast as if ripping off a band-aid. He tucked it into his backpack before pulling his robe on, quick to conceal his metal arm that glinted in the daylight seeping through the small windows above the lockers. Everything locked away, sliders now on, Bucky swallowed his pride and stepped out of the changing rooms and into the pool area as if he were walking onto an active battle field. 

There were a myriad of people lounging on sunbeds, eyes slipped shut or head buried in a book. Some were gathered in the hot tub; a couple sat side by side, chatting away, smiling brightly. A twenty-something-year-old was swimming laps like he was training for the Olympics in the pool. The whoosh of the waves that came with every stroke blended into the vague bubbling and lapping of the water. Through an archway were the so-called ‘amenities’ which he had been forewarned of. A sauna and a steam room, and an ice bucket which Bucky was planning to avoid like the plague. His feet seemed to guide him there, leading him to the hooks lining the wall outside the steam room. Swallowing the nerves, Bucky took a quick glance around him before shrugging off his robe. He wasn’t sure why he was so anxious to reveal his arm. He didn’t tend to show it off in public, favouring gloves simply to save the stares and questions, and mostly the recognition. But this was different. It felt exposing. It wasn’t just the hand or forearm that would be on show. It would be the whole thing. 

Face hard like steel, Bucky pulled open the door to the steam room and stepped inside. It tugged closed behind him. With a quick survey, there was nobody else inside. The tension that he unconsciously carried eased slightly with the realisation. Only slightly. Sighing, he took a seat in the far corner, tucked almost out of sight, disappearing behind a cloud of aromatic fog. The breath he took in was deep, filling his lungs as if it were the first time he had breathed in years, and he instantly felt lighter. His eyes slipped shut and his head rocked back. Bucky could see the appeal.

Time stretched on like that. Droplets gathered on his face, his arms, his chest, his legs. They ran down the bridge of his nose and dripped off his chin and fingertips. His metal arm soaked up the heat but it wasn’t uncomfortable. His back began to soften into the tiled bench. He licked his lips and faintly tasted salt from his sweat intermingled with the steam. When the door clicked open, however, whatever semblance of relaxation Bucky had found vanished. 

“I think he’ll have to leave her, Lucy.”

It was Barbara and Lucy from the reception. They waddled in, their floral swimsuits fitting for their characters. The door clicked shut behind them and they glanced at Bucky, smiling brightly at him. He gave a closed lip smile back, acknowledging them, questioning whether to dart out. Barbara settled in the far corner, Lucy beside her, and they both sighed. Bucky eyed the door. 

“I think he’s been needing to leave her since the first one, Barbs. That little nineteen-year-old he scurried off with? It’s shameless.”

Bucky glanced down at the floor. He couldn’t believe that he was considering staying to listen in to some more of the conversation. God damn it. 

“Sometimes wish he just got that damn vasectomy. Would have saved him a lot of trouble.”

In his peripheral vision, Bucky saw Lucy elbow Barbara. She gave a pointed look over to Bucky. Shame prickled his spine, dread colouring him pinker than the heat. They’d recognised him. Oh God - what were they going to say? He should leave. He should just get up and–

“-oh, I’m sorry dear. Should watch my language, hm?”

Bucky looked at her blankly for a moment before finding his voice. He smiled politely. “No, no, you’re good. Don’t worry. I wasn’t even listening, really.”

“Impossible. Barbara, here, doesn’t know the meaning of talking quietly,” Lucy replied. Barbara scoffed and shook her head, laughing. Bucky felt his smile ease into something more natural. Then, Lucy’s eyes widened. With a gape, she exclaimed, “My God, you’re in good shape.”

“Lucy!”

“Well, he is! They weren’t built like that back in my days, I’ll tell you that for free,” Lucy shamelessly commented. 

Bucky couldn’t help but laugh. He ran a hand through his hair, flustered and flattered all at once. “Oh, uh thanks, 'suppose.”

“What on earth do you lift? Cars?”

“Oh, Lucy, for Christ’s sake,” Barbara tutted, shaking her head. Then, at Bucky, she added, “sorry about her.”

“You’re good, you’re good. A compliment’s a compliment, so…” Bucky replied. 

“Mm, I think you might be a little young for this one,” Barbara joked. Bucky couldn’t help his smile as he thought, I think you’d be surprised to find that I’m definitely not. “Do you come here a lot?”

“Uh, no. First time, actually.”

“Oh, well you’re in for a treat!”

“We love it here. Come nearly every week,” Lucy chimed in. She had finally stopped ogling Bucky’s physique. Thumbing to her left, she added, “this one’s granddaughter works here. We get a discount.”

“Discount, huh? That’s a pretty sweet deal,” Bucky replied. 

“She’s a darl, she really is. A great masseuse too. Oh! Maybe you’ll have her! Are you having a treatment today?” Bucky nodded. Barbara clapped her hands together, grinning from ear to ear. “Oh, well here’s to hoping!”

Bucky smiled once more and nodded. “Here’s to hoping,” he echoed, finding the conversation coming to a natural close. The door cracked open and someone else joined. The elderly man from the changing rooms. He took perch and the room fell quiet once more. Bucky rocked his head back and closed his eyes. The strange conversation with Barbara and Lucy had seemed to wipe away any fears of how people might react to him being there. He contemplated his narcissism as he basked in the steam once more. Breathed in and out. If it weren’t for his enhanced hearing, he likely wouldn’t have heard Barbara’s whisper to Lucy: 

“He’d be nice for my darl, don’t you think?”

“Oh certainly. If I was ten years younger…”

“Try thirty,” Barbara snorted. Bucky bit back his smile. Maybe this spa thing wouldn't be so bad after all. 

The rest of the waiting time passed without a hitch. People were weirdly welcoming. They kept to themselves. Shared polite smiles, the occasional odd word passed, a comment here or there about the temperature of the water in the hot tub or the essential oil used in the sauna. Any glances to his arm were fleeting like a comet; not a single comment made. Barbara and Lucy gave enthusiastic waves from across the room when Bucky accidentally caught their eye. He gave a small wave back; they were oddly endearing. In a funny way, he imagined that’s what he and Steve might have been like if everything had gone to plan: returning from the war, healthy and alive, settling to live long lives. 

Just as requested, at three-thirty-five, Bucky returned to the waiting room. He felt a little silly dressed in his swim shorts and robe, large feet tucked into a pair of sliders which were a size too small. He sat in an armchair and stared at the fishtank, losing himself in thoughts of what Barbara’s granddaughter might look like. He hadn’t asked for a name. Had no clue to go from, not unless she happened to be the spitting image of her grandmother. 

“James, is it?”

His head snapped to his left. You’d snuck up on him, somehow. You were smiling, warm and welcoming like a crackling fire in a log cabin. Bucky nodded. 

“Are you ready for your treatment?”

He nodded again. 

“Excellent. If you want to follow me, it’s just up these stairs.”

With that, Bucky pushed to his feet. He stood a good foot taller than you. Your hair was pulled back neatly, fly aways caught under bobby pins. The attire seemed typical for your job: a black shirt with black pants, plain flats which padded softly on the carpeted stairs that Bucky followed you up. The plinky music was back, slightly louder upstairs, and there was an oil diffuser which stunk the place up of lavender. You smiled politely over your shoulder. 

“Is this your first time at Serenity Spa?”

Bucky nodded.

“How are you finding it?”

“S’alright,” Bucky replied. You nodded, seemingly not discouraged by his quiet demeanour, and led him to a treatment room. 

“If you just want to take a seat for me,” you gestured to a leather single seater. Bucky nodded and did as asked. His hands clasped together; the metal twinkled under the low lighting of the room. You clicked the door shut, trapping the two of you inside of a mostly dark treatment room. There were electric candles scattered across the various surfaces. An orange light was dimly glowing above a sink. Coin sized spotlights were pressed into the ceiling to imitate stars. It smelt like essential oils. The plinky music remained, but now it was more like white noise, low tones that made Bucky feel like he was at the bottom of the ocean. The thing which caught his eye was an ornament. It was a Newton’s cradle: five metallic balls which were constantly in motion. One clicked against the other and it sent it all into action. 

“Right, so if we— Everything okay?”

Bucky glanced back at you. “Yeah.”

You turned to see where he’d been looking. “A fan of Newton’s cradle?”

“It’s annoying,” Bucky commented without thinking. You laugh, dissipating any worry Bucky had of being rude. 

“Suppose it is, yeah,” you quietly comment as you make your way over to it. A pedicured finger reaches out to catch one of the balls. You gently ease it back into place beside the others and it finally sits still. Looking at him, you ask, “better?”

Bucky smiles. “Yeah.”

“Good. Okay, so where was I?” you wonder aloud, walking back over to him. You lean against the massage table, standing opposite him. “Right! So, welcome to your treatment. You said this was your first time with us at Serenity. Is it your first time having a massage?”

Bucky nods. The tension was coming back, creeping in like a morning fog. You weren’t intimidating or unwelcoming. In fact, Bucky had never known someone to have such a natural aura of calm around them. It was as if you exuded it. The smile that remained on your face wasn’t fake or performative. It was as if you’d been born with a quirk to your lips, tugging them upwards, beaming at seemingly nothing. For some reason, it didn’t annoy him. But the unfamiliarity of the process - the notion that he’d have to relinquish control to a stranger - that did little to set him at ease. The spa had been pleasant enough because Bucky could decide where to go and when to leave. He knew what a steam room and a sauna and a hot tub entailed. But this? This was unchartered waters. 

“Okay,” you say, nodding, “well, today you’ll be receiving a Swedish massage for your neck, shoulders and arms. All that means is the type of massage therapy I’ll be using. Nothing out of the ordinary - your classic oils and lotions. Does that all sound okay?”

Bucky swallowed. He forced himself to nod. 

“What’s your skin type?”

Bucky’s brows tugged together with a frown. He glanced down at himself, mostly concealed in the waffly robe. “Uh…white?”

You give a small laugh, polite, not demeaning. “Oh, uh, no, I meant what sort of skin type do you have? Oily, dry, sensitive…?”

Bucky shrugged. “Normal, I guess.”

“Okay,” you say, nodding once more. “Normal’s good. Makes things easy for me,” you smile. Bucky tries his best to smile back. The tension is consuming him. He feels like his shoulders are up to his ears; his back nothing but a metal rod. “Are you comfortable with lotions and oils?”

“Sure.”

“And is there any place that you would prefer not to be touched?”

Bucky eyes flit away from yours and down at the floor. He studies your shoes. They’re leather. The polish shines in the low lighting. “Uh…Well, I have a prosthetic, so…not quite sure how that works…”

“Right, okay,” you say. “I did notice you put ‘war vet’ on the form? Is that something you’d want to discuss?”

Bucky’s eyes quickly dart back to yours. His guard goes up. “Discuss how?”

You seem to notice your misstep, eyes widening momentarily, that permanent smile faltering. “Oh! No, nothing…intrusive. Just…does that make a change to how you might want to receive your massage?”

What kind of dumbass question is that? Bucky thinks to himself. He shrugs. “Well, I don’t really know what this involves so–”

“--Well, I’m just thinking to another war vet I had in here–”

“--there’s been some before?” Bucky can’t help but ask. You seem stunned by his question for a second. 

“Yeah,” you then say, smiling again, nodding. “A few, actually. Massage and aroma therapy can have incredibly beneficial effects on improving the mind and body, especially for those who have gone through rough times. Traumatic times, even."

Bucky studies you a moment as if searching for some insincerity. You don’t shy away from it. You wait, smile, hands clasped pretty in front of you. “What’ve you done for them, in the past?”

You visibly relax at his question. “Well, one preferred to know what I was going to do. I’d give him heads-ups for where I was going to touch him, and he’d tell me no if it was too much. It can be overstimulating sometimes, y’know?”

That didn’t sound all bad. Bucky cleared his throat and shuffled in his seat. It felt like a vice, holding him in. “Yeah, okay. That sounds good with me.”

“Perfect. Okay, so, when you’re ready, if you could take off your robe - you can just leave it on the chair - and then get up onto the table, underneath the blanket. If you lie on your stomach with your head through the hole, there. Is that alright?”

Bucky felt his cheeks burn warm as he reluctantly asked, “do I, uh…am I…dressed, or?”

You don’t seem surprised by the question. “It’s down to personal preference. Some people like to be fully nude beneath the blanket but some prefer to keep their swim shorts on. The blanket’s there anyway so I won’t be seeing anything.”

His stiff nod is your reply. You push off the table and head to the door. “Perfect. I’ll give you a few minutes, and I’ll knock before coming back in.”

“Got it,” Bucky mumbled. With that, you’re stepping out of the room. He lets out a deep breath the moment he’s alone. It feels stupid. The twinkling tunes do little to make him feel less of a pratt as he rises to his feet and shrugs off his robe. The table is sturdy as he climbs atop of it. It’s ungainly as he wriggles under the blanket, once more doing little to alleviate how out of place he feels. Least it smells nice. And that annoying tick-tick-tick of Newton's cradle has stopped. Then, Bucky just lies. His forehead presses into the cushioned lining of the head-hole. His hands lay by his sides, metal fingers whirring quietly as they twitch. Impatient. On edge. Bucky’s not sure he’s ever been more uncomfortable in his life, and he’d spent half of it locked in a chamber of ice. 

As promised, there’s a knock on the door. At Bucky’s silence, you click it open a crack. “All good?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. You step in and close the door. It feels like every part of him is on edge, waiting to be triggered like a loaded gun. His eyes listen carefully to every move you make. Every footstep around the room. He tracks it in his mind as if retracing a map of the four walled room. 

“Okay, I’m just going to wash my hands,” you say. You walk over to the sink. Bucky hears the water running. On, then off. “I’m going to turn this light off,” you tell him, and Bucky watches the light slinking across the floor become slightly dimmer. You approach the table. Your footsteps are light - you’d make a good spy, he thinks to himself. The tone of your voice is gentle, soothing like honey, squishy like wet sand. “I’m just going to pull the blanket down to your lower waist.”

The blanket is eased off his frame and folded carefully downwards. It isn’t cold in the room but goosebumps still pebble his skin. His fingers twitch again. He stares holes into the ground. His arm has never felt so obvious before. Bucky listens for the hitch in your breath, some sign of surprise or recognition, or maybe even disgust. But there’s nothing. You’re unshaken, it seems. Until: 

“I can see you’re wearing a chain. Would it be okay if you remove it?”

Bucky remembers the dog tags which are currently pressing into his stomach. They were a part of him now, always on his person, that he forgot about them entirely. “Oh, uh, sure.”

“Thank you. It’s just to make it easier to get to your neck,” you tell him. Bucky pushes up slightly on one arm, using the other to pull the tags up and over his head. In his peripheral, he sees your outstretched hand, palm open. He hesitates. “There’s a bowl right near the sink. They’ll be safe there.”

Handing them over feels wrong. It’s like he’s giving a piece of him away. Without them, he feels naked. Exposed. As he lays back down on his front, he catches the clink of his dog tags being placed in the tray. You cross the room and lather your hands in some sort of oil. Bucky’s heart begins to quicken. There’s an overwhelming urge to just get up and grab his stuff and get out. But he doesn’t. Fights to keep his body still, his mind present. You return to the side of the table. 

“Take a deep breath in for me through the nose, James,” you request in that same, supple voice. Bucky closes his eyes and does as you ask. “Good…Now let it out through the mouth.”

His body softens slightly on the warm table. 

“I’m going to apply some oil to your shoulders and back, now. I might touch your neck, too.” 

With that, your hands meet his skin. They’re warm, slick with oil, soft like you wrap them in cotton wool every night. There’s a slight pressure that presses through your fingertips as you rub his shoulders. You follow the planes of his muscles, easing down his back, tracing the flesh with that pressure that’s just on the edge of being too much. Bucky lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. 

“Good,” you murmur, as if somehow noticing. With that, your hands are returning to his shoulders. Your palms press into the flesh, feeling out the muscle, seeking out the areas of tension. It seems you’re exploring, almost. Familiarising yourself with his body and his skeleton. It isn’t creepy or intrusive. It’s almost scientific. Methodical in the way an architect might survey the land before designing a building, or a painter contemplates their canvas before applying paint. When you finally make contact with his metal arm, it’s different. Of course it is: Bucky wasn’t expecting you to try and massage pure metal, as if you might soften it up. But you don’t shy away from it. Instead, you run your hands tenderly over the limb, fingers imitating the way they might press into the rest of his flesh and blood, palms expanding over the plates. The oil dampens the vibranium as if you’re blind to the inhuman appendage. Something drops out of his shoulders. It feels like one of the many rocks he carries has been taken away. 

“How’s the pressure?” you ask as you return to his back. 

“S’good,” Bucky murmurs. 

The sensation creeps up the back of his neck. The tips of your fingers tease at the wisps of hair at the nape of his neck. It’s dizzying, the way the massage of your hands can make him feel lighter. Bucky internally kicks himself for not trying this sooner. 

It isn’t a miracle cure. There’s a knot in his left shoulder where the scarring is that you work at, hands now lathered in lotion, which barely gives way. But with every precise push and prod at his body, he feels like a needle has been removed from a pin cushion. He feels like he’s floating on water’s surface. His body feels warm, liquid, and eased. Bucky lets out a sigh as you work at his back. Sinks deeper into the table like he’s melting. Just as promised, every time you do something different, you tell him. It helps him settle. Something in his mind is told to go off duty: we got it, we don’t need you right now. We’re safe. 

The hour is up too fast. The blanket is faithfully returned over his back, the hem lining his shoulders. You tell him that you’re going to wash your hands before doing so. Then you’re standing near his side. Bucky doesn’t want to open his eyes yet. He doesn’t want to step away from this pocket of peace he’s found, as if he’s stumbled blindly into the garden of Eden. 

“I’ll let you relax for a moment, and then if you want to return into your robe and meet me out in the seated lounge area when you’re ready: I’ll be outside.”

Bucky doesn’t reply. You open and close the door. The music isn’t as annoying as it was before. Bucky indulges in the nondescript instrumentation, lyricless but not without meaning. Reluctantly, he pushes up onto his forearms. The blanket slips down. He sighs and swings his legs off the side of the table. Climbing down, returning into his robe, he heads to the sink to retrieve his dog tags. Bucky takes a moment to check his reflection. Maybe it’s the essential oils seeping into his head, but he swears that he looks younger. He feels it. 

You’re sitting, one leg crossed over the other, staring out the window in the seated lounge. Bucky returns your smile when you turn to look at him. 

“How’re you feeling?” you ask. 

“Great, actually,” Bucky replies. He can’t help the slight amusement in his voice; he’s still bewildered that it did something. 

You’re not smug when you tell him, “I told you it does wonders.”

“Might have me drinking the Kool aid on that one,” Bucky smiles. He takes a seat to the left of you. 

“Can I get you a drink at all? Water?”

“I’m alright. Thank you, though.”

“My pleasure,” you say, rising to your feet. “Stay here as long as you like. There’s no rush to leave.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, smiling. As you’re about to leave, something occurs to him to ask. “Hey, uh–”

You pause and look at him expectantly.

“What’s your name again, sorry? Don’t think I caught it earlier.”

It rolls off your tongue easily and rattles in Bucky’s head. He echos it quietly and you seem to stare at him a moment. Bucky feels himself smile at you - a real smile. You smile back, somehow different from before, before leaving him alone in the lounge. Bucky sighs and relaxes in the chair. He can’t seem to shake the shadow of a smile on his face because for the first time since he was a dumb kid running amuck in Brooklyn, he feels like himself. He feels connected, his mind no longer lost in his skull, his body no longer a stranger to his soul. He feels present, lighter, rejuvenated. It’s like a drug. Now that he’s had a hit, he simply needs more. Cannabis doesn’t seem to touch him but this just might take its place. 

That was how it came to be that Bucky was a regular at the Serenity Spa. 

He went once a month, then twice, and now it was abnormal if he wasn’t there almost three times. There were membership perks which exceeded just the free welcome coffee. Turns out, there was a cafe too. They served brunch and sandwiches and Bucky got them for free. Drinks, too. Beers and whiskeys and wines. The other members became familiar faces. Barbara and Lucy were unlikely friends with Bucky. They pulled him into their gossip, quizzed him on a “man’s opinion” regarding Barbara’s lost-cause for a son. Some of the things he’d been told made Bucky feel like he wasn’t half bad in comparison (I mean, come on Darren, knocking up your wife’s sister is a step too far…). Lucy grilled Bucky relentlessly about his dating life. He knew why: he’d overheard them talking about how great he’d been for Barbara’s granddaughter - her ‘darl’ as she was known - more times than he could count. They’d questioned about his arm politely once in the hot tub. Bucky gave the shorter story - that he lost it in action and was lucky enough to get such an advanced replacement - and they seemed content. Apologetic and sympathetic in the way that most people are when they hear a snippet of Bucky’s life story, but not intrusive. Nothing seemed to jog their memory of former Captain America’s best friend. Perhaps it helped that he went by James at the spa, sporting it like some kind of alter ego. But he liked the separation. Nobody asked him about work, or about congress, or about how he was ‘holding up’. No, at the spa he was just James: a run of the mill guy who people likely presumed worked in finance or some other boring business career, with a barren love life and too much time spent in the gym. 

But the real draw that kept him going - the nicotine to his cigarettes - was you. 

Ever since his first time at the spa, you’d been his masseuse. He requested it so frequently that it wasn’t even a question anymore. The two of you had built a rapport of sorts. The conversations had expanded from outside of the start and end of the sessions. Bucky would ask you things whilst you massaged him. Silly, trivial things that he’d been wondering about on the drive back to the city, like what music you listened to, or what your favourite type of food was, or a show you’d been watching lately. He asked about how you got into massage-therapy and how long you’d lived in New York. Over three months, Bucky liked to think that the two of you were something akin to friends. Bucky didn’t request you as his therapist because you were pretty: he did it because he enjoyed your company and your talents. 

And, yes, okay, maybe because you were pretty too. 

It was your voice. He’s sure that’s what did it. You’d wormed your way into his ear drums and burrowed into the depths of his mind. He’d hear your crooning timbre in his sleep, which was increasingly less disturbed than before. He’d ask questions not just because he was interested but as an excuse to hear you speak. He’d bathe in the words, in the way vowels would fall off your tongue like dew drops on flower petals. How consonants were these melodic intricacies when they came out of your pretty mouth. 

Then it was your smile. It put all others to shame. Made Bucky wish that nobody else bothered with it, because they could never make it look quite as perfect and beguiling as you did. He’d started making jokes just to see it blossom into a grin. 

Then it was your lips. The way they’d uplift with your cheeriness, how they’d move when you’d speak, the way your tongue would dip over them sometimes, dampening them with your saliva like makeshift gloss, a gloss which Bucky wondered the taste of, the feel of…

But it was mostly the massages. That was the main draw. 

The massages, and the free drinks and food. 

The changes that the regular spa visits had brought in Bucky hadn’t gone unnoticed. Sam was perceptive of the tiniest things. He could tell if a single chocolate chip cookie had been stolen from a pack of fifty. So it shouldn’t have come as a shock when he told Bucky, one random Tuesday:

“You’re different.”

Bucky was visiting him at his “headquarters” (a rented out unit filled with training equipment and computers, tracking leads on the wall with pictures and string). He’d been in the area whilst campaigning for this congressman role he’d been chipping away at and thought he ought to stop by.

“Seem happy.”

“I’m gonna try not to be offended at that,” Bucky replied. At Sam’s quirked brow, he added, “you’re implying I’m usually not happy.”

“Just stating facts, robocop,” Sam smirked. He smacked him on the arm as he walked past, over to the coffee machine. “What’s your secret? Hard drugs?”

“Just trying some things out,” Bucky replied, shrugging. He surveyed the room, leisurely taking a lap. Photographs were framed and lined the shelves. One of him and Sam caught his eye. It was taken at Coney Island - the first time Bucky had been back since before the war. 

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Just things,” Bucky murmured. He wondered if you’d ever been to Coney Island. 

“Things, huh?”

“Yeah.” Did you like rides? Or were you more of a games and stalls kind of girl?

“Sexy things?”

That caught his attention. Bucky frowned, glancing over to his friend. He was wearing a shit-eating grin. The coffee machine whirred loudly as it brewed. “Sexy things?” he echoed, voice incredulous.

“You heard me,” Sam doubled down, wiggling his eyebrows. “You getting some? That mummified body of yours still got it?”

“You’re a child,” Bucky dryly replied. 

“So, no sex?”

Rolling his eyes, he wandered over to the coffee machine. He took the mug offered out to him. “Why’s that the first place your mind goes to?”

“Look, man, you’re a-hundred-and-ten: you ain’t dead,” Sam tells him. 

Chuckling shortly, Bucky shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee. 

“A’right, so if it ain’t a girl, what is it?”

Bucky weighed up in his mind whether or not to divulge his secret. He’d managed to keep it under wraps for three months now. Sharing it felt like showing someone a page of your old journals: slightly embarrassing but not completely mortifying. He contemplated whether he was ready to let someone else in on his oasis. 

“If I tell you, you’re not allowed to laugh,” Bucky sighed. 

“I never laugh,” Sam shrugged. Bucky rolled his eyes mirthfully, shaking his head. 

“A'right. I’ve been getting massages.”

Sam’s quiet a moment. Bucky can see the cogs in his mind processing his words. It seems that ‘Bucky’ and ‘massages’ don’t quite mesh well together in his brain. “Massages? Like at a spa?”

“Yep,” Bucky affirms, taking another sip of his drink. 

“Well, that’s…something. How long you been going?”

“A few months.”

“I mean, I’d make fun but it’s worked wonders. Not gonna take a dig at something that’s made tinman get his groove back.”

“I don’t approve of any of these nicknames, by the way.”

“Where is this spa?” Sam asks, ignoring Bucky’s comment. 

“New York.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Gimme more than that, man. What’s it called?”

Bucky eyes him suspiciously. “Why?”

“Cause I wanna get a piece of this!” Sam loudly replies, as if it were obvious. “You got any idea how stressful it is being Captain America? I need’a lie back in a sauna and get my back all oiled up.”

In a strange flash of images, Bucky pictures you giving Sam a massage in the same way you do him. Something green flares in his stomach.  

“You’re not going to my spa.”

“The hell I’m not. I’m a Captain now. I outrank you.”

Bucky quirked a brow. “I’m your senior. I outrank you.”

“You’re a senior to everything except trees and building so that don’t count. It’s moot.”

“It’s not.”

“Yes, it is,” Sam argues. He tosses up a hand before Bucky can bicker his side. “Look, I’ll find out one way or another, so you might as well tell me. Maybe we can have a day there together. Our first bromance trip.”

Nothing has ever sounded more unappealing to Bucky. 

And yet he somehow finds himself standing side by side with Sam Wilson in the Serenity Spa reception. 

“Morning, Lily,” Bucky smiles at the receptionist: Mrs Wonderul, he’d labelled her in his head. 

“Morning, James,” she returns, chipper as always. Her eyes move to Sam. 

“This is my friend, Sam. I think I got one of those extra guest passes?” Bucky checks. 

“Oh, absolutely. You’ve been stacking them up, in fact,” Lily tells him. Her manicured fingers click-clack on the keyboard as she types. “Are the two of you wanting treatments this afternoon?”

“Treatments, huh?” Sam asks, humour pitching his voice. “What’s that entail exactly?”

“Massages, facials, that sort of thing,” Lily politely explains. Sam bobs his head and glances to Bucky, shrugging. 

“I’m game if you are.”

“Sure,” Bucky agrees. 

“Wonderful,” she chirps, typing away. “I have two slots at two-thirty?”

“Sounds good.”

“James, I’ll put you with your usual therapist. Sam, do you have a preference?”

“Whose his usual therapist?” Sam wonders, pointing to the stoic man beside him. Bucky grinds his teeth. Before Lily can reply, the door tucked in the corner, behind the reception desk, opens. You come walking through, focus on the clipboard in front of you. Your brows are furrowed together. 

“Lily, do you know where Matthew put the order of lavender oil? I’ve looked everywhere in the back,” you grumble. 

Lily glances over her shoulder at you and shrugs. “Who knows. He always put things in the weirdest places.”

“Almost like there’s a system in place to try and stop that from happening,” you mutter with a roll of your eyes. You look up at her but your eyes catch Bucky and Sam. The smile that jumps onto your face has Bucky selfishly thinking he has something to do with it. “James. You’re back.”

Bucky gives a closed lip smile back, nodding. His skin burns from the side-eye Sam gives him. Suddenly, his hand is extending out and over the counter, towards you. 

“I’m Sam. A friend of James,” he introduces. His smile is nothing short of charming. Bucky’s teeth crunch together so hard he’s amazed they don’t shatter; he somehow holds back his eye roll. You hesitate for a moment before taking his hand and shaking it, smiling cordially. 

“Nice to meet you,” you reply, introducing yourself. Then, snaking your hand away, your attention turns to Bucky. “I didn’t know you were coming in today. Usually see you on a Friday.”

He can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips when you regard him. He shrugs, hands slipping into his jean pockets. You flip one of the pages back into place on the clipboard and give them both a nod farewell. 

“I better get upstairs. See you later, hopefully,” you say as you walk out from the reception, towards the staircase. Lily excuses herself and follows you, seemingly needing to grab you for something. In the brief privacy given to them, Sam gives Bucky the widest grin he’s ever seen on his smug face. They speak in low voices. 

“So it is a girl.”

“Shut up.”

“She’s cute.”

“I mean it Sam.”

“You should swoop on that.”

Bucky’s head turns so he can meet his gaze dead-on. Sam gives a subtle nod and Bucky sighs, shaking his head, focus returning to the reception. “Drop it, Sam.” Lily wanders over again. 

“Sorry about that,” she says, taking place before the computer. She clicks around for some minutes, gathers a few more bits of information to complete the booking, and she’s handing over a key to Sam. Bucky doesn’t need one anymore; he has a claimed locker now. The two of them change and head into the spa amenities. As they pass through the doorway, the humid air sticking to their skin, Sam can’t seem to keep it in any longer. 

“She’s into you, man.”

“She’s doing her job,” Bucky sighs, leading them to the steam room. All the sly looks and grilling from Sam have his tension creeping up by the minute. “She’s paid to be nice to people.”

“Maybe,” Sam shrugs. “She wasn’t just being nice to you, though. I saw the way her eyes were looking. She’s got a thing for Freaky Magoo.”

“I’ll push you in the pool. Don’t tempt me,” Bucky warns. Sam chuckles and shakes his head. He seems to drop it with that. As his hand lands on the handle for the steam room, someone is calling his name. The two of them turn to lay eyes on Barbara and Lucy. 

“James!” Barbara grins. “Not like you to be here on a Wednesday.”

“One off,” Bucky shrugs. He gestures to his right, to Sam. “Brought a pal along.”

“Good God,” Lucy murmurs underbreath. Her eyes shamelessly rake up and down his body. Barbara rolls her eyes and elbows her. 

“Keep it in your swimsuit, Luc,” she chastises. 

“Nice to meet you, ladies. You know Tin Man, here?”

“He’s lovely,” Lucy tells him. “We’ve been nagging for him to settle down already. God, we know plenty of nice girls who would want him.”

Bucky chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Funny you should say that,” Sam starts, “there was a certain masseuse at reception that seemed pretty interested.”

Barbara’s face lights up like a city in Christmas. She claps her hands together, brimming with excitement. “I wonder if it was my darl!”

At Sam’s visible confusion, Lucy adds, “Barb’s granddaughter works here. We’ve been trying to set him up but he refuses.”

“Some boundaries I won’t cross, Barb,” Bucky tells her. 

As much as he appreciated Barbara and Lucy’s concern for his loneliness, Bucky didn’t need hands piecing his love-life together for him. Back in the thirties, even though he was somewhat of a play-boy, he knew that if the right girl came around, he’d settle down. The house and two-point-five kids had always appealed to him. Mundane routines in the morning, taking the kids to school, spending nights at the dining table with his wife and little ones: he wanted it all. But when the war came, that image had been put on the shelf. With every new chapter of his life that followed, it got pushed further and further back. Now it feels almost out of reach. 

Whilst he’d recovered a lot since being pardoned by the government, there were still chunks of him which he couldn’t figure out where to put. Things that different versions of him wanted now sat around like mismatching puzzle pieces. A relationship was one of those things. He wasn’t sure if anybody would ever want him, and even if they did, he wasn't sure if he was ready for that. Flirting was still rather daunting. Dating was a foreign language now. The date which he shared with Leah was like pulling teeth. He had no idea what to say, how to act, how to be. He felt like a child walking around in a pair of their parent's shoes, two sizes too big. If Bucky was going to date anybody, it would be on his terms. He would choose when and how and who. 

Sam thankfully manages to keep his thoughts about you to himself as they pass their time in the sauna and steam room. Lucy and Barbara are happy to converse, passing stories and sharing advice, and Bucky feels the tension that he’d gathered from the week spent filling out forms and approving various campaign materials roll off his shoulders with the steam and sweat. However, the pocket of peace he’d found is nothing more than an illusion the second they’re entering the reception for their appointments. 

“You gonna make a move, then?”

“Oh, good. You’re not past it,” Bucky sarcastically mutters. He doesn’t look at Sam, instead watching the fish. Before Sam can open his mouth again, an employee is approaching them. She has that peaceful serenity masking her face like most employees at the spa did. She greets them and requests they follow her upstairs. Apparently you’re just finishing up one of your appointments, and Sam’s therapist should be ready in a couple of minutes. They’re guided to take a seat in the lounge. 

“This place is pretty fancy, huh?” Sam comments. He surveys the lounge and nods approvingly. “I see the appeal, man. I do. Those ladies downstairs were sweet too.”

“Yeah, they’re a good crowd,” Bucky agrees, relaxing now that you’re no longer Sam’s current topic of conversation. “Barbara’s always telling us about her son, Darren. Sounds like a real piece of work.”

“Oh, really? How so?” 

Bucky lips move as if to speak, but something makes him stop. Sam raises a brow, waiting. Bucky’s brows tug together. His ears catch onto something, a conversation. Words muffled through walls and doors. 

“What? What is it?”

Bucky raises a hand and Sam obeys the silent request. Tilting his head slightly, he focuses and tries to listen into the conversation.

‘Come on,’ a guy is saying, ‘You know you want it…’

‘Please stop,’ a woman whimpers. 

No, not a woman. 

You. 

Like a reflex, Bucky is on his feet. He strides through the corridor and shoves his weight against the door. It swings open, whining loudly on its hinges. He knows Sam is on his tail, quick to follow. Bucky’s eyes zero in on you. Your back is pressed against the far wall. Standing in front of you is a man, shirtless; his hands on your waist. It’s red. That’s all Bucky sees. He clears the distance, grabs the man by the back of his neck. His metal arm whirs as he yanks him away. The man gasps out, shocked, scared. Bucky grunts as he tosses him against the massage table. His fingers fasten around his throat, pressing into his neck - enough to bring discomfort, not enough to do any real damage. 

He’s seething. Mind a flurry of rage; thoughts jaggered pieces of glass. 

“I got him, man,” Sam tells him. He places a hand on Bucky’s metal arm, a quiet mark to surrender. The man stares up at Bucky, eyes wide. There’s a flash of fear Bucky recognises like an old favourite song. The realisation that this might be how he dies. Bucky lets go. The man takes a gasping breath in, as if Bucky had truly been strangling him. Bucky takes a step back and lets Sam step in. He grabs the man by the biceps, muttering “move it”, and watches Sam escort him out of the room. 

He lets out a sharp exhale through the nose; jaw a wire trap. He turns, looks over his shoulder. You’re still standing where you were. His expression softens. You’re shaking, hands cupped close to your heart, eyes wide, wet with unshed tears. They’re staring at the doorway, where Sam’s just shown the former client out. When Bucky takes a step towards you, your gaze darts to him. He reaches a hand out, not quite touching your arm. 

“You okay?”

You swallow. Your head starts to shake ‘no’. His fingers shadow your skin, touch barely there. 

“C’mon. Sit down,” he gently tells you. You let him guide you to the chair that Bucky’s grown used to sitting in. Your leg jitters as you sit, hands wringing together in your lap. “What happened?”

“I don’t know…I…” You shake your head and swallow, licking your dry lips. “One second I’m washing my hands and the next…”

The breath in your body starts to catch. Bucky knows the signs of a panic attack approaching all too well. He places a hand on your knee, the jitters ceasing. 

“S’alright. Just focus on breathing, yeah?”

You nod. Take a deep measured breath in through the nose and another through the mouth. Your head hangs, eyes slipped shut, and you continue practising slow, steady breathing for a couple more minutes. You do it until the shaking stops. Until you open your eyes and find his. He gives you a reassuring smile. You try to return it. It’s wobbly, still rattled, but there nonetheless. 

“Where is he?”

“Sam took him outside,” Bucky replies. 

“You don’t have to be here,” you apologise. “You’re a customer. You should go back out, enjoy your time.”

“Nowhere I’d rather be than here,” is his sincere reply. Your eyes lock onto his. The smile on your face strengthens. 

“Thank you,” you quietly say. “For stepping in like that.”

“Course.”

“I had a gut feeling about him when he walked in,” you confess, glancing over his shoulder to the massage table. A shiver runs down your spine at the memory. “He gave me the creeps.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says. “Shouldn’t have to deal with that kinda thing.”

A gentle knock at the door catches both of your attention. Bucky removes his hand from your knee. It’s Sam, and behind him is Barbara. Sam gives him a nod, confirming that the asshole who thought he could put his hands wherever he wanted was gone. Then, Barbara’s pushing past him and making her way over to you. 

“Oh my God, we heard what happened,” she says, voice thick with sympathy. Bucky makes space for you to stand. Barbara tosses her arms around you, pulling you into an embrace, and you hug her back. Your face rests in the dip of her shoulder. “Are you okay, darl?”

Darl. 

“Yeah, grams. I’m okay,” you murmur. 

“Oh thank God these two were here,” she breathes, relieved. “Lily said that that awful man won’t be coming back. They can call the cops if he does.”

“That’s good.” 

You pull away from her, an arm still hooked around her back, and smile appreciatively. Looking over her shoulder, you nod and thank Sam too. “Don’t mention it,” he says, “just glad we could help.”

“You should go home,” Barbara tells you. You shake your head, stepping away from her. 

“No, no, I can’t,” you say, “I’ve got two more clients this afternoon.”

“Darling, you’re all shaken up. You need to go home and rest,” your grandmother insists. 

“I can’t, grams,” you sigh, exasperated. You brush a hand through your hair. “The trains are on strike today. The next one to Brooklyn isn’t until five, at least.”

“I can give you a ride home.” Bucky’s not completely certain he’s the one who spoke until everyone’s looking at him. He shrugs. “It’s no problem, really.”

“I live all the way in Brooklyn, I couldn’t possibly ask you to drive that far,” you tell him. 

“Not an issue. I live in Brooklyn too,” he assures. 

“That would be helping us out a lot,” Barbara says gratefully. But you’re still shaking your head. Guilt shadows your eyes as you step towards him. 

“Are you sure? I’d hate to put you out like that.”

Bucky nods, smiling at you. “Your grandma’s right. Things like that shake you. You need to get home, relax. I’m more than happy to drive; it’s totally up to you.”

With that reassurance, you only take a few moments to consider his offer before you’re nodding. Looking back to Barbara, you tell her that you’ll need to let Lily know, and your manager. She agrees. A plan is made and soon enough, Bucky’s waiting for you down at reception, bag in hand. The door to the staff quarters opens and there you are, dressed in jeans and a jumper, work attire packed away in the bag that’s slung over your shoulder. It seems you’ve calmed a little since the incident. There’s a playful charm to your voice as you tell him, “last chance to back out.”

Bucky chuckles. He nods his head to the doorway. The two of you head out. It’s bizarre, having you walk out with him. It feels like stepping out of a store with the employee. As you pass the threshold of the doorway to the spa, it feels like you’re walking into a new territory in the bond the two of you share. The strange relationship that doesn’t quite qualify as friendship, but surpasses something purely professional. The label of masseuse falls away: instead, you’re just you. 

“This one’s mine,” Bucky off-handedly says, unlocking a black hatchback. He pops the trunk and gestures for you to put your bag in; you do so, slotting it beside his. It smells of fresh linen thanks to the air freshener as the two of you climb in. When the door shuts, you let out a small sigh. 

“You sure about this? I don’t want you to feel like you have to give me a ride back just because.”

“I offered, for one thing,” Bucky chuckles, turning on the engine. He glances over to you, smiling. “And it’s up to you whether to take me up on it or not. If you wanna head back and stay at work, then do. But don’t turn down a ride just to be polite.”

You cock a brow, smirking. “Pretty good speech there.”

Laughing, he shakes his head. Your answer is the click of your seatbelt into place. Bucky pulls out of the parking lot and starts the route back to Brooklyn. The playlist he was listening to on the drive to the spa kicks up again, the gravelly voice of Elvis seeping through the speakers. 

“Elvis fan, huh?”

“Undecided,” he replies. “Only just started listening to him.”

“He’s alright,” you shrug. “Questionable history though. Did you know he met his wife when she was fourteen?”

“That’s kinda sweet,” Bucky murmurs. High school sweethearts were a rarity but a nice tale when they occurred. 

“He was twenty-four.”

“Ah,” his tongue clicks. “Less sweet.”

“Much.”

“Mm,” he nods. 

“Y’know who is good?” you ask, rhetorically it seems, as you answer, “Lionel Richie.”

“Never heard of him.”

“You’re kidding,” you gasp. The pure astonishment in your voice has him laughing. “He’s basically the definition of romance.”

“Queue him up, if you like,” he says, gesturing to the touch screen of the radio. You gladly take him up on the offer. Your fingernail taps the screen as you type, and then the song is cutting off and switching. A low bass riff vibrates the car. Humming contently, you relax back into your seat. A saxophone joins, a long, sensual melody that sounds like velvet. Lionel Richie, Bucky assumes, begins to sing. You sing along quietly, under breath, as if it’s a secret. His lips twitch. 

“Nice, right?”

“Yeah. I like it,” Bucky agrees. The music washes over him like a warm shower; picking pebbles off his shoulders. “He marry a fourteen-year-old too?”

The giggle you let out has him smiling to himself. It’s like gold dust, making you laugh. “No, but I think he maybe beat his wife.”

“God damn,” Bucky mutters, shaking his head. 

The ride stretches on. Trees and fields lining the highway merge into the cityscape. The sun sits low in the sky. It casts the world in an enchanting amber tinge, like lining around buildings. The blue sky has clouds shaded pink. His eyes flit to you. You’re leaning against the door of the car, content, watching the world roll by. Whilst Bucky would have preferred different circumstances to have the excuse to drive you home, he’s still grateful to have the privilege of being in your presence. You remind him of the first long day after winter, when the sun stretches on for hours, and the world feels brighter, awake, lifted free from a veil of darkness. 

As you cross into the city, you start to give Bucky directions to your building. 

“Just this one, on the right.”

He slows the car down, pulling up beside the pavement. The rumble of the engine quiets as he turns the key. You purse your lips, clear your throat. 

“Thanks for the ride,” you say. 

Bucky nods. “You’re welcome.”

You unclick your seatbelt. He does the same. Turning in your seat, you face him. His eyes scan over your face, searching for some remnant of distress from before. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I am. Just need a nice shower and some sleep, I think,” you reply. Your smile dims, eyes downcast to your fidgeting fingers. “Just feel kinda stupid.”

“How so?” Bucky frowns. 

“I just froze up. Didn’t do anything, just stood there,” you sigh. Your eyes nervously glance back up to his. Bucky shakes his head. 

“S’normal reaction. People always talk about fight or flight, but they never talk about freeze. You weren’t prepared for that kinda situation. And why should you be? You’re just tryn’a do your job. He’s the one who should be embarrassed. Ashamed, even.”

You nod, reluctantly agreeing. Women have a tendency to place the blame on themselves; society’s made it that way. You shouldering the situation that another man put you in doesn’t sit right with Bucky. He’ll be damned if you feel embarrassed for how you acted. 

“Guess you just made it look so easy. Coming in and grabbing him like that.”

Bucky shrugs. His eyes lower down to his metal hand. He flexes his fingers and watches how the intricate plates glide into place. He was fight. Always had been, since he was a kid. He sort of had to be, what with Steve Rogers being his best friend. That punk could find a fight with anyone, anywhere, always trying to do the right thing. Shame his bark didn’t always match his bite. 

“Suppose it helps having Captain America there, too.”

Bucky’s eyes darted up to yours. His organs fall through him: heart in his stomach; stomach in his feet. He swallows the bile scratching at his throat. You’re watching him, a patient smile on your face, brows slanted as if preparing for his reaction. Sympathetic, perhaps. Understanding. He wants to ask but can’t seem to find the words. His body contorts within itself; his intestines tangle into his guts. He feels sick. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he wasn’t fight, because right now, Bucky can’t think of anything better than running. 

“I know who you are too, Bucky.” 

The words are hardly louder than a whisper. But from the way they shatter Bucky’s world, you might as well have yelled. 

He can’t seem to look away from you. It’s as if he’s waiting for you to say something. Do something. Berate him. Insult him. Accuse him of lying to you. Rebuke him for deceiving you. Bucky waits for the loathing to come. For it to twist your beautiful face, narrow your gaze, curl your lips. But instead, you just sit. 

A hand slowly reaches across the centre console. Your fingers steadily come to rest atop of his metal hand. It’s enough to help Bucky speak. 

“How long have you known?” he croaks. 

“The moment I met you,” you confess. Bucky’s not sure which answer he would have preferred. “Not many war vets who go by the name ‘James Barnes’ with a metal arm. Then grandma started talking and I pieced it all together by the end of the first day. Seeing Sam today just made me know I was right.”

“You never said.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t want to freak you out, or make you uncomfortable. I got the sense that it’s an escape for you there, and I didn’t want to take that away from you. ‘Sides, not like it matters.”

“Can’t say that,” Bucky mutters, shaking his head. His eyes gaze out the windscreen. There’s a pigeon in the centre of the road, fighting for a piece of stale bread with another. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“I know enough to know you’re a good person.”

Bucky’s eyes slip shut like hearing the words are physically painful. Your fingers squeeze his hand. There’s no give under metal. Nothing but cold, hard ice. His eyes eventually open but he can’t bring himself to meet your gaze. His head is still wrapping around everything, grasping at the fact that you know who is and yet here you are, willingly sitting beside him, telling him that he’s good. There’s something about hearing you say it that makes Bucky want to believe it might be true. His silence stretches for miles as he thinks. It builds and builds until it seems to suffocate you. 

“I’ve freaked you out, haven’t I?”

He looks over to you. You pull your hand away, pressing it against your lips with the other, and you curse yourself quietly. Squeezing your eyes shut, you shake your head. 

“I knew it. I freaked you out. Can’t keep my big mouth shut.” Bucky’s brows twitch together. You look out the window, wringing your hands in your lap. “God, here you are coming to a spa to get some peace, and then you have to save some random girl from a creep, give her a drive home to be nice and she completely invades your privacy all because she has a stupid crush on you, like I’m twelve years old again or something.”

His stomach clenches. You’re looking at him now, eyes wide with apology. 

“Just forget I said anything,” you almost beg. “I promise I’ll never bring it up again. Okay?”

Bucky doesn’t move but you seem to take his silence as confirmation. You climb out the car like it’s on fire and speed walk up to your apartment building. Everything you said came out so fast, he thinks he might have whiplash. It takes a couple of seconds for his mind to catch up, and for Bucky to get out of the car and follow you. He’s quick as he grabs your bag from the trunk. It seems you’ve realised in that moment that your keys are in your bag, still safely in the back of his car. As you go to retrieve it, you gasp, stopping as you come face-to-face with Bucky. Before you can continue your self-deprecating rampage, Bucky drops the bag by his feet and speaks. 

“I get three massages a month. Three. You know why that is?”

You stare at him for a long moment before answering, “because it helps you sleep?”

Bucky’s lips twitch with a smile. “Yeah, it does. But that’s not the only reason.” He takes a step closer. “I needed an excuse to see you.”

Something flickers in your eyes. Bucky takes another step closer. “I wanted to say something but I didn’t know if I should. You’re just doing your job. Last thing you need is some one-hundred-year-old creep telling you he thinks you’re pretty.”

There’s a flicker of a smile.

“Can you tell the time?” you ask him. His confusion must be obvious. You laugh: short, small, secretive. “I always give you an extra fifteen minutes because I don’t like it when you leave. You’re my favourite part of the day.”

A weight falls off Bucky’s shoulders. He can’t look away from you, bewitched like staring at a supernova. He could spend his life trying to describe you and he’d never have enough words. Time would give out before he could finish trying to fathom how you make him feel. Bucky thinks back to earlier, with Sam and Barbara and Lucy. Somehow, it feels like a lifetime ago. The inner-battle he’d had returns to him: loneliness in one hand, and chance in another. He contemplates. He decides. 

“Can I take you out?”

You’re still for a second, then you nod. The smile grows bit by bit like drops of water in a bucket. “Yeah,” you tell him. “I’d really like that.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Dinner, maybe? Next Saturday? I’d say tomorrow but I’ve got this stupid meeting I gotta go too–”

“--next Saturday is perfect,” you interrupt, like you can’t hold the words in. Your hand takes his and you give a gentle squeeze. The tips of your fingers are cold. “I can give you my number and we can work something out?”

Bucky nods. His smile teetering on a grin. He reluctantly withdraws his hand to retrieve his phone. There’s a flush to his cheeks, a nervous smile on his face, as he hands over the outdated flip phone. You don’t comment. Instead, you take it and type in your number. A few seconds later, your phone buzzes with a message that presumably you’ve sent. You hand him back his phone. He passes over your bag.

“Perfect,” Bucky says, giving the device a small shake before putting it back in his pocket. He takes a step down the staircase. You take a step towards the door to your building. “I’ll text you.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Those three words are the only thing in Bucky’s head the drive back to his apartment. When he walks into his empty place, his hands find his phone. Your contact name has him smiling like he’s eighty years younger. There’s one text message attached, the one you sent to yourself earlier despite being addressed for him: I’m free next Saturday. 

The mint in Bucky’s mouth crunches against his teeth. It’s nice to have something to do. A distraction, like fiddling with a piece of string, as he waits at a table for two in an Italian restaurant you’d passingly said you’d like to try. It’s overtly romantic: cream silk table cloths; vases with single stemmed roses; candles flickering in the centre of the table. Jazz music purrs out the speakers. Waiters and waitresses dressed in pressed black pants and skirts and white button-up shirts, an apron tied neatly with a bow around their waist. Bucky takes another sip of his table water. He’s nervous, the same way he was the first day of his therapy session and his first time at the spa. It feels as though there’s a sign above him glowing with the words ‘DOESN’T BELONG HERE’, and a fluorescent arrow pointing down at his head. He swipes a hand over his beard. He’d trimmed it specifically for tonight. His hair had been combed probably one too many times. He’d flossed and eaten five mints so far as a nice pre-dinner appetiser. The deep blue suit jacket suddenly feels like it might be too formal, and with that the whole date feels like it might be too much. He doesn’t want to freak you out. Scare you off. He looks to his left with a busy mind and scans the bar. 

“This seat taken?”

His head whips round to spot you standing beside the chair, a hand delicately placed atop of it. With your smile, Bucky feels his tension slip away with his breath. You look beautiful. Slightly unrecognisable in a dress that moved like summer rain; make-up enhancing your already gorgeous features; hair loose and free. He smiles. “It is now.”

You take the invitation and tuck yourself in. “Been waiting long?”

“Just a couple hours,” Bucky shrugs. Your eyes widen and he chuckles. “I’m messing with you. I got here ten minutes early, don’t worry.”

“Damn you, Barnes,” you murmur, smile telling of your humour. Your fingers open the menu placed before you. “I’ve been wanting to come here forever. Walk past it all the time.”

“I know,” Bucky says, opening his own menu. “You told me so, about a month ago.”

Your eyes dart over the table to him. “You remember that?”

He shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Course.”

A bottle of wine is ordered and the two of you toast to good health before taking a sip. Your lipstick leaves a stain on the edge of the glass. A strand of hair slips free from behind your ear and dangles by your cheek, head hung as you prop yourself up on your fist, reading the menu. Bucky can’t help but admire you. Gracefully, you tuck it back into place and hum in thought. 

“You look beautiful,” he tells you. You glance up at him, stunned, and then you smile. 

“Thanks.” There’s a flush to your face. Bucky bites back his idiotic smile. “So do you. Handsome.”

His heart twists. God damn it. “Thanks. Trimmed my beard,” he hears himself reply, stroking the coarse hairs of his jaw. 

“I noticed. It looks good,” you say. You're casual as you look back down to the menu, adding, “I like a man with a beard.”

Bucky makes a mental note: never shave beard. 

It’s awkward at first. This area of the relationship feels like picketed grass which has been previously forbidden. The compliments Bucky would silently relay to you in his head can now be spoken. They come clunky at first, but easier after the first few are shared. His eyes linger longer, his smile holding a new edge. There’s no need to be coy anymore and tiptoe around things. Once that’s acknowledged, the two of you sink into the date as if it’s your third rather than your first. You order the ravioli and him the lemon and herb salmon. You tell him a story from work the other day and he tells you one from a plane ride he had to Washington for a campaign fundraiser. The drinks flow, the food comes and goes. You offer him a bite of your pasta off the fork. As the empty bowls and plates are taken by the waiter, Bucky wonders what had him so nervous. 

“I still can’t believe you never put two and two together about me and granny Barbs,” you giggle. Your finger toys with the rim of your wine glass. 

“In my defense, it’s not like you’re the spitting image.”

You laugh, head titling backwards like a little kid, and Bucky grins. He likes the fact that he can make you laugh. There was a time when he was sure he’d never be able to tell a joke again, or get a girl to swoon, and yet here he was. 

“Still. Surely she talks about all the family gossip with you and Lucy,” you say. 

“Not about you. I’ve gotten my fair share about Darren, though.” Your lips press together, smiling still, but smaller. Bucky treads carefully as he asks, “if you’re Barbara’s granddaughter, then that makes Darren your…uncle?”

A solemn shadow casts over your pretty face. “Darren’s my dad.”

Bucky nods his head slowly, visibly surprised, lips parting. “Ah. He certainly seems…”

You save Bucky from fumbling with something kind to say, laughing sadly as you joke, “like a Freudian nightmare? Trust me, I’m aware.”

“Yeah. I haven’t heard great things,” Bucky says apologetically. 

You shake your head and sigh. Your gaze drifts down to your wine glass and once more, you trace your finger around the circular rim, following it with your eyes. “I love my dad in the way that every daughter loves their dad. Y’know, in an innate kinda way? But I don’t like him. In fact, I can’t stand the guy. I haven’t had a conversation with him in over a year.”

Bucky is quiet as he nods. Your eyes glance up to meet his. As always, your smile never leaves, it only changes. It’s small, sad, heavy with the disappointment of a girl who once admired her father, only to realise the pedestal was made of sand. 

“And your mom’s still with him?” he broaches. 

You scoff, sighing. “Yep. She refuses to leave. She’s sick. Has been for a long time now. She says she doesn’t want her last years to be wasted with divorce. I don’t know - I’d rather that than spend my time with a dirtbag who swoops on anything with a pulse, but that’s just me…”

You cut yourself off with another quiet laugh. “Sorry,” you say, picking up your glass of wine. “Not exactly a wonderful first date topic, huh? Offloading all my daddy issues.”

“You’re good, don’t worry,” Bucky reassures. You take a sip and hesitantly meet his gaze. He smiles, empathetic. “My dad was a piece of crap too, so.”

“Ah. Good to see some things span across the generations.”

Bucky laughs. It was typical of you to find the sunlight in a blackened room. You raise your half-empty wine glass in the air and Bucky takes the hint, grabbing his own. “To shitty fathers.”

“Cheers to that,” he chuckles, his glass clinking against your. You both take a sip: the rich red wine soaking onto his tongue. “I gotta ask - and I’m probably out of line so please tell me to shut up- but your grandma said something about your mom’s sister…?”

“Ah. That old chestnut,” you kid, voice void of any real humour. “Yeah. The baby showers in a couple weekend’s time. Granny wants me to go with her to have a ‘familiar face’ there. I can’t think of anything worse.”

Bucky shakes his head, disbelieving. It was one thing to know your dad was a creep and a cheating coward - it was another to wrap your head around the fact that what was going to be your niece was also your half-sister. Bucky had seen and heard some pretty messed up things in his lifetime, and this wasn’t far off. 

“I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to go to that,” Bucky tells you. 

You shrug and take another sip of your wine. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.” There’s a twinkle in your eye as you return your glass to the table, attention switching to him. “Now tell me about how your dad was a piece of crap so I feel less of a disaster-first-date.”

Bucky laughs and nods, indulging. “Alright. You want the short version or the long?”

“Oh - I didn’t know there was a choice,” you hum, leaning forward on the table, chin propped atop of your closed fist. “Long version.”

“Alright then,” Bucky clicks his tongue. His mind journeys back to before the torment and the ice and the torture. It goes right back to before the war. He smiles as if he can picture his mother’s living room: like he can smell the embers of a burnout fire in the hearth. There his dad would sit, in the dusty armchair by the window, usually with a paper in hand. “I loved my dad. He was strong and stoic, y’know? The kinda guy you felt like you could go to in a crisis and he’d have it covered in a second.”

You nod. 

“He was drafted into the first war and everything changed. He changed. He was always quiet before but he became mean. Distant. Didn’t wanna talk, didn’t wanna listen. Didn’t care about anything, really. He started fighting with my mama over stupid things, things they wouldn’t have fought about before. He didn’t give a crap about me or Becca. Everything was just work to him, all of a sudden. Like being around us was like doing a chore.”

You nod once more, eyebrows slanting with sympathy. Bucky takes a breath, clears his throat; his finger strokes the base of his wine glass. 

“One day I come home from work and there he is, stood in the kitchen with a suitcase. He was waiting for me to get home, apparently, to make this big announcement. He was leaving.”

Your breath catches. Bucky shrugs, eyes slipping down to study the table cloth as he loses himself in the memory. It feels just as disorientating now as it did back then. Tired, hands aching from labour, mind fuzzy with exhaustion and confusion, staring at his dad dressed in his Sunday best. 

“Mom begged to know why. If there was another woman, maybe. But he didn’t give us anything. He just said he had to go. And that was it,” Bucky says, eyes meeting yours once more. “He was gone. Never saw him again.”

“Just like that?” you quietly wonder. 

He nods. “Just like that. Left my mom all alone without a dollar to her name, two kids. Then I got drafted when the second war came and I had to leave them both, and it–”

He cuts himself off with a sigh, losing nerve. Your hand reaches across the table, lying atop of his metal one. You squeeze gently.  Bucky wants to retract his hand and shrug it away like he did when it happened. But something makes him sit in the moment of vulnerability. It doesn’t feel as daunting when it’s you, especially with how you’re looking at him. Like you care. Like you understand. Instead, he envelopes his other palm atop of your hand and smiles at you. You smile back, reassuring, and he sighs once more. 

“It killed me, ‘cause after my dad left I promised myself that I’d never abandon the people I love like he did…And then I never came back.”

You begin to shake your head. “That’s different, Bucky.”

“How is it?” 

“You didn’t abandon them. You were taken from them.”

Bucky stares at you and you stare back. Your voice is firm and sweet like cookie batter. “Is there a difference?”

“Yes,” you say, “the main one being that one of them is a choice and the other isn’t. You didn’t choose to leave your family, the way they didn’t choose to lose you. Your dad, on the other hand, chose to.”

Bucky considers this a moment, turning it over in his mind. It’s a new perspective - a side to a shape that he’s never seen before. With that, something somewhat new occurs to him. “I think the war broke him. He just couldn’t handle it.”

“Maybe,” you hum. “But that’s not an excuse to leave in the way he did. Not to me.”

Nodding, Bucky’s eyes drift down to your interlocked hands. Another weight is slowly lifted off his shoulders, and once again, it’s thanks to you. Never before did he think he’d be unpicking traumas from before the war even began. But here you were, teasing him apart carefully like untangling a necklace chain. Bucky begins to smile. “Hell of a first date, huh?”

“I’ll say,” you grin. Then you squeeze his hand. “I’m glad you told me that.”

“I’m glad you told me about yours too,” Bucky replies sincerely. 

You shrug, a playful glimmer in your expression. “Barbara sort of beat me to it. Hard to be mysterious when you have a gossip for a gran.”

He laughs at that. The two of you sit in the lifted mood for a moment and a waiter comes over. He plants a dessert menu down in front of each of you, and Bucky reluctantly pulls his hand from yours. You thank the waiter as he leaves. Surveying the desserts, you make a joke about one of the cheesecake flavours, and that leads into another anecdote about the time you tried to make chocolate mousse, and the gravity of the prior conversation lifts away. Bucky watches you from across the table, dazzling in the candle light, dressed in an emerald green dress, smiling and giggling and chattering away as if you’d known Bucky all your life. You’re carefree around him and it makes him feel normal, like he’s the Bucky he was before everything happened. If he focuses just on you he can pretend it’s the forties: the world melts away and it’s just him and a pretty girl. 

Bucky insists on paying. You complain about it half the walk home, insisting that next time it’s on your dime. The only thing Bucky hears is the ‘next time’. You hold his hand, fingers intertwined with his gloved ones, and chatter. Questions are passed back and forth and Bucky’s happy to indulge. The hem of your dress sways with every step you take; heels clicking on the pavement. He wants the sidewalk to stretch on forever. But eventually, you get to your building. You unlock the door, push it open and turn to him. 

“You wanna come up for a nightcap?”

Bucky hesitates for only a second before agreeing with a “sure”. You smile and lead him. Three flights of stairs and Bucky’s walking into your apartment. You toe off your heels and weave through the hallway, talking as you go about your latest squabble with Barbara. 

“In the end we called it even. Better to do that then spend the rest of the week arguing…”

Bucky’s half listening. He glances around the small entryway as he slips off his shoes. Pictures hang on the walls. They’re all of you and your friends. There’s a motivational quote embroidered into a hoop that hangs against a door. A mirror fills up a small slither of wall. Bucky glances in it and checks himself. 

“You want coffee or tea?”

With that, he follows your route into a living area. It’s open plan, half sitting room, half kitchen. “You have tea?” 

“Course. Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” you reply. 

“Coffee’s great, thanks,” Bucky tells you. You nod and open your fridge. 

“Take a seat wherever.”

“This is a nice place,” he comments, sinking down onto the sofa. It’s squishy, sucks him in like a marshmallow: a plethora of throw cushions keep him nicely propped. As you make coffee and reel off some random facts and price points for the place, Bucky takes it in. Books upon books, a few about mindfulness and massage therapy; an empty bottle of champagne from a seemingly notable occasion; ornaments which imitate landmarks - the Eiffel tower; Big Ben, the pyramids; a bouquet of flowers sits in a vase on a small dining table, just big enough to seat two. It’s warmly lit. A string of fairy lights slinks from one side of the room to the other. 

Bucky watches you walk over. You sit down beside him, curling one leg under you, and offer him one of the mugs. He thanks you and nurses it. The skirt of your dress rides up, just long enough to save modesty, and like a teenager realising girls exist for the first time, Bucky tries his best not to stare. 

“I had a really fun time tonight,” you tell him, taking a sip of your steaming mug. Bucky smiles. 

“Me too. I’m glad we did this.”

You shuffle a little in your seat. Propping an arm up on the back of the headrest, you lean your cheek against it and gaze at him. He chuckles. 

“What?”

“Just thinking…Wanna ask you something but don’t know if it’s exactly first-date appropriate,” you say. 

Bucky rolls his eyes mirthfully and takes a sip of his coffee. “Feel like we’ve known each other long enough to forget about those kinda rules.”

“In that case: when was the last date you went on?”

Bucky’s brows twitch up; he wasn’t expecting that question. He looks down towards his lap, watching how his metal thumb rubs the porcelain handle of the mug. “Uh…About a year ago. Maybe slightly longer.”

“Oh really? How was it?”

Internally cringing at the memory, Bucky chuckles quietly. He shakes his head. “Not so hot.”

“Oh,” you hum. “Well, that’s a shame.”

He shrugs and turns his head to look at you. You’re so laid back: sock clad feet wiggling restlessly. “Not really. Means I’m here right now with you.”

“Ooh,” you grin, nose crinkling. “Nice line.”

“I try,” he suavely returns. You chuckle. He smiles. The coffee is good. “What about you?”

“Three…No, four years ago.”

“Four?”

“Don’t have to sound so horrified,” you snort. Bucky laughs, apologising. 

“I’m just surprised. You’re gorgeous. Don’t understand why someone wouldn’t want to take you out. Treat you nice.”

The fluster his words bring doesn’t go unnoticed. His ego triumphs. The smile on your face sinks into something more unshielded; as if peeling back some curtain. “Want the truth?”

Bucky nods. You sigh. “Most guys these days don’t know what they want. I’m not a one-night-kinda girl, and I need stability. An idea of where things are heading. That usually freaks people out. So it’s easier not to bother than to let myself get invested, only to wind up disappointed.”

He nods once more. You wash your words down with a sip of your coffee. “I get it,” Bucky tells you. “I tried the whole online dating scene. It’s a mess. Don’t know what I’m looking at half the time. And it feels like people can say anything on there without really meaning it.”

You hum in agreement, nodding, and meet his eyes again. Bucky’s flit down to your lips. They’re glossy from the lipstick you’d chosen, shimmering slightly in the twinkling fairy lights. He swallows. Then, he looks away, back down to the floor. 

“I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” Bucky admits. “Dating, I mean. I don’t know what’s right and wrong. What’s old and what’s new. I mean, that date I went on, I brought her flowers. Pretty standard thing to do, back in my time, but she sort of laughed it off. Don’t think she meant any harm but still…Shakes a guy’s confidence, y’know?”

“I get it,” you say. He doesn’t look at you quite yet. In his peripheral, you lean down to place your mug gently on the wooden floor. “I’m always scared I’m too much. It’s like there’s this unspoken boundary you can’t cross and I never know where it is.”

Laughing under breath, agreeing, Bucky smiles smally to himself. “Yeah.”

“For the record,” something in your tone has him looking back up at you. The smile he’s met with is like the first day of Spring. It fills him with fresh air. “I love flowers. Don’t think I’d ever laugh at something like that.”

There’s a quick rush of adrenaline as Bucky sets his mind. He places his coffee mug quickly but carefully on the table to his left, and then, before he can lose his confidence, he’s reaching over to you and capturing your face in his hand. Leaning over, his lips find yours, and his eyes slip shut. Your breath catches, mouth parting with a split-second of surprise. Then your hand is reaching up to rest atop of his, and you press into his hold, and kiss him back. The feel of your right hand on his thigh has his body sparking to life like he’s been in hibernation. You lean your weight forward slightly, sighing against Bucky’s mouth, and he pulls away for a breath before kissing you again. Harder. Deeper. Fingertips run down along his forearm, up his shoulder, until they’re looping into his hair. You give a gentle tug and Bucky groans against your lips. You smile. He can feel it. He smiles too. 

“You’re so pretty,” you murmur into the kiss. Bucky’s teeth catch against your lower lip and you gasp. The breath that escapes you is shaky as he pulls just-so before letting go, kissing away the sting. Your fingers tighten in his locks. He smirks. It’s coming back to him; muscle memory, like dancing or riding a bike. Every little sound you make; every twitch of your fingers; every push and pull of your body: it drives him. Feeds him. He needs more, more, more. Somehow, you find yourself beneath him on your back. Bucky looms over you, propped up by his left arm, and he ventures further. Kisses the corner of your mouth, still shadowed with a smile. Kisses the cusp of your jaw. Suckles slightly at the tender skin of your neck, teeth scratching tauntingly at your jugular. 

“Bucky,” you sigh, head rocking backwards as if to present him with a fresh canvas.

He moans against your flesh. Your perfumed skin is pressed to his nose and it intoxicates him like liquor and turns him on like pheromones. His right hand sweeps down and along your figure. The forest green of your dress, silk and satin, bunches in his fingers as he squeezes your waist. Your chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. Bucky’s body is alight with a fire that’s laid dormant for years. Centuries. Blunt fingernails scratch at his scalp. But as his fingers feel the lace of your panties through the thin material of your dress, Bucky remembers where he is and what he’s doing. He eases off slightly. Peppers kisses until his lips find yours again. You pull him closer by the nape of his neck, tongue lapping salaciously into his mouth with a wanton moan. Bucky indulges for a moment before slowly pulling away. He opens his eyes to find you gazing up at him. Your pupils are blown wide like you’re stoned. Lips wet and swollen. You look fucking delicious. His hand parts from the side of your frame to come up to your face, swiping gently at your lower lip. You smile up at him. Bucky smiles back. He rubs his lips together and savours the taste of you. You somehow read his mind. It’s playful, understanding, as you whisper, “unspoken boundaries.”

He chuckles. “Plenty of time.”

“There better be,” you murmur, making him laugh harder. You plant one final peck to his lips. Bucky crawls off you and you sit back up, propping onto your arms. He reaches a hand on instinctively to help flatten some of your hair and you giggle, flustered. 

“Beautiful.”

The way you look at him is how any man would want to be looked at. As if there’s nothing else on the planet that will matter as much as he does. A twinge of nausea turns over in his stomach with dooming realisation. Like stepping off a cliff, Bucky was falling in love with you. Hard, fast, indomitably so. And the thing which seemed to terrify him the most was the fact that he wasn’t scared of it. Not even slightly. 

After the first date, Bucky had taken you on a second: drinks in a basement bar in Brooklyn, specialised in ‘surprise’ cocktails and craft beers. He’d brought you flowers. He’d walked you home and kissed you at the doorstep. He lingered and left. The third date was to a farmer’s market hosted in a city park. You’d wandered from stall to stall, hands intertwined with his, clad in a springtime jacket that made your skin seemingly glow under the daylight. It seemed you could spark up a conversation with anybody. Everything was interesting to you, from how beeswax soap was made to which cheese was the most challenging to produce. You’d drank coffee together whilst sat on an outdoor table outside of the New York City Library. He’d parted ways with you at the subway station, leaving you with a kiss, as you went to catch another train to work.  

Bucky still attended the spa. In the three weeks which followed the dinner date, Bucky had gone once for each. You were very professional, he had come to learn. Nothing more than a peck behind the closed door and another before he left, lingering if only slightly. But the massages remained the same. You followed routine, giving gentle heads-ups before placing your hands on his frame. Bucky didn’t need them much anymore. His trust in you shocked him to the core; it took nearly a year for Bucky to give a fraction of that level of trust to Sam. But he was certain that you could walk into the room with a knife and he’d think nothing of harm. 

“I’m just going to wash my hands,” you say, walking over to the sink. As you rinse them thoroughly under running water, Bucky props himself up onto his elbows. You walk over to him, standing at the head of the table to meet his gaze. “How you feeling?”

“Like a million dollars,” he says with a charming smile. You smile and lean forward to kiss him. You don’t give him time to try and search for more, pulling away all too quickly. Stepping away to tidy away some of the oils and lotions - the mystery of the behind-the-scenes now removed - Bucky climbs off the table and retrieves his robe. 

“So, I have an update on that whole baby shower thing,” you say. Bucky heads to the jewellery pot to retrieve his dog togs. 

“Oh?”

“Apparently I’m out of the will if I don’t go, according to Barbara,” you tell him, meeting his gaze. Bucky quirks a brow, hooking his tags over his neck. 

“You gonna go?”

You shrug. Twisting a lid back onto a tub of lotion, you say, “I’ve been giving it some thought. I think I should go.”

“Really?” he frowns. He crosses the room to lean against the massage bed, arms folded over his chest, watching you work. 

“It’s not fair to the baby,” you sigh. You slide the tub back onto the shelf. “It didn’t ask to be born into some weird-Greek-tragedy nightmare. ‘Sides, I always wanted a sibling. Guess it’s my fault for not being more specific when I made my birthday wishes.”

Bucky shakes his head, smiling smally. “You’re incredible, y’know that? I mean, seriously, not a lot of people would take this in stride like you are.”

You laugh. “Believe me - I am not taking it in stride. I just figure it’s worth giving the baby a chance. Don’t want it to be treated like the black sheep.”

He shakes his head again. “Better person than me, that’s all I’ll say.”

“Well, funny you should mention that,” you hum. You busy your hands with folding the blanket that had been covering Bucky’s body. He can’t catch your gaze. “I was kind of thinking it might be slightly more bearable if there was a familiar face there, just for me?” Bucky’s brows raise. You finally meet his eyes. “Wanna be my plus one?”

“You sure? Your family’s gonna be there, right?”

“Not really. Just my aunt and granny Barbs. Lucy’ll probably come too; they’re like a package deal.”

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking about that,” Bucky interrupts. “Are they…?”

“Gay?” You guess. He nods. Laughing, you shake your head. “Not that I’m aware of. Just lifelong friends, really. I call her aunt Lucy - she’s been around as long as I can remember.”

“Just thought it was worth checking,” Bucky hums, shrugging. “So, anyway, you were saying: your aunt, your gran, Lucy…”

“And some of the blushing soon-to-be-mother’s friends, probably,” you finish. “My mom and aunt’s mother died way back when, before I was even born. Grandpoppy too. And mom is, of course, refusing to go.”

“Seems fair,” Bucky mutters. 

“Daddy dearest is at work so we’re free of him. So really, it’s just two blood relatives.”

“Just two, huh?” he says. He clears the space between the two of you, taking the blanket from your hands and lying it on the table. With that, he places his open palms on your hips, tugging you closer. “Think I can handle that.”

“You sure? You might be about to witness a Shakespearan drama up close.”

“Lifelong dream.”

Smiling up at him, you push up onto your toes and kiss him dead on the lips. Bucky smiles. “You’re perfect,” you say against his damp mouth. “Thank you.”

The words catch in his throat. Anything for you. 

As decided two days prior, Bucky picks you up from outside your flat. Your aunt’s house was just outside of the city, not far from the spa, and you’d offered to take the train, but he figured driving was better. It gave him an excuse to have you all to himself for close to an hour. Lionel Richie crooned out of the speakers the whole ride there, accompanied by your slightly off-key harmonies. He’d smiled stupid most of the journey. But as the two of you neared the house, only five minutes away, your joy seemed to fizzle out like sun behind clouds. 

“You good over there?”

“Just mentally preparing,” you murmur. You’re staring out the side window. “I haven’t seen aunt Millie since before the Blip.”

“I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.”

“Maybe,” you hum. “Feels like I’m betraying mom, though.”

“Does she know you’re going?” Bucky asks. His eyes flit over to you, concerned. You shake your head. 

“Her memory isn’t all that good these days. Thought it wasn’t worth the stress for her. ‘Sides, it’s not like we’re particularly close anyway.”

Bucky’s heart clenches. If someone were to ask him what he thought your family was like, he would have offered up two proud as peach parents and a little brother or sister who adored you. Instead, it seemed the only person worth their salt in your family tree was Barbara - second to you, of course. Whilst Bucky’s dad was a disappointment in the end, he still had fond memories of his childhood, and even after with his mom and sister. Steve was like a brother, and his parents a second set to his own. He never went without love or support, in some way or another. From the small stories you’d scattered within your time together, Bucky had built up a rather lonely picture of your upbringing. And yet here you were, far from bitter and still willing to step into the most mind-blowing scenario simply to prove to an unborn baby that you would try. 

His hand reaches across the seats until it lands on your knee. He squeezes reassuringly. Your warm palm envelopes over it and you catch his gaze. The two of you share a smile, a silent promise to go into this as a team. 

“Barbara and Lucy might just lose their minds when they see you, by the way,” you tell him, lightening the tone. 

Bucky grins, eyes drifting back to the road. He reluctantly withdraws his hand to shift gears, preparing to turn down another street. “I’m ready for the grilling.”

“Oh, nothing could prepare you for their grilling,” you warn, making him laugh. 

The house is charming. As Bucky pulls onto the driveway, he takes note of the magnificent topiaries and trimmed bushes. Flower beds line the front of the bricked building: cream painted window panes outlined with ivy. It’s like something from a fairytale book: enchanting and bewitching. Around the doorframe are balloons which rustle in the wind: blue and pink. Bucky puts the car into park and shuts off the engine. You’ve gone quiet. You’re staring at the house, lost in thought. 

“We don’t have to do this, y’know,” Bucky hears himself tell you. You don’t move, don’t look at him. “We can go right back to the city. Or just keep driving. Whatever you want.”

The silence stretches. Then, you shake your head. You turn to face him, a smile pushing onto your face. “No,” you say. “No, I need to do this. For the baby.”

He nods. When he gets out of the car, you follow. Retrieving a pair of gift bags from the back seat, Bucky hands one to you and carries the other. The gravel crunches beneath his shoes as the two of you head to the door. You take a deep breath in and knock. There’s music inside, muffled by the bricks and wood, and the vague sound of animated chatter. Bucky’s spine bristles. He didn’t love new people, or gatherings, or gatherings of new people. But this was important to you. You needed someone to be there for you, to help get you through it, and Bucky would be damned if that person wasn’t him. He’d opted for a long sleeved henley, deep blue, and jeans. His metal hand was on display but it didn’t draw too much attention, or at least he hoped so. 

The door swung open before he could obsess much more about his appearance. A lady stood, face round and cheeks flushed. She was heavily pregnant. This must be Aunt Millie. Bucky clenched his jaw and tried to find his inner peace. 

“Darling!” she cooed, throwing her arms around you. You were visibly stiff, reluctantly returning the embracement. “So glad you could make it!”

“Of course, aunt Mil,” you murmur. As she pulls away, her eyes naturally drift to Bucky. She eyes him with slight suspicion. “This is my friend, James.”

“James,” aunt Millie echoes, reaching out a hand. Bucky shakes it with his right. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You too. Congratulations,” he says, sounding far from enthused. She smiles nonetheless. Her hand retracts to smooth over her baby bump. Bucky feels slightly sick.

“Nearly there. Daz says I’m about to pop any day now,” she says, rolling her eyes mirthfully. It’s your turn to clench your jaw. It seems an unfamiliar tick for someone so peaceful and relaxed as yourself. “Come in, come in! Everyone’s in the living room!”

You follow after her, Bucky in tow, and the pair of you step into an unfortunately beautiful living area. The homely interior looks like a stork has gone to town on it: blue and pink bunting strung on every wall; streamers dangling from the ceiling, pearly white; balloons everywhere. Poppy music plays from an Alexa. Drinks are laid out on an ebony cart, labels beside pitchers of blue and pink concoctions with cute baby puns. An impressive spread of food is on another console table. Party guests sit on the sofas and in armchairs, a few on stools. Bucky’s eyes land on Barbara. She’s brooding in the corner, a party hat skew-whiff on her head. She hasn’t seemed to notice him yet. 

“Everybody!” Aunt Millie calls. The conversations die down. What seems to be nine pairs of eyes drift over to you and Bucky. “Some new guests have arrived. Of course, you remember our little darling. And this is her friend, James.”

He finds himself looking at Barbara. There’s a shit-eating grin on her face. It seems the party has finally started for her. 

“Where should we put these?” you ask, lifting up your gift bag. 

“Oh, you sweeties,” aunt Millie preens. She guides the two of you into the adjoining kitchen. There’s a enormous stack of presents atop of the kitchen island. “You can add it to there. Thank you so much, that’s so kind.”

With that, she’s returning to her party. Bucky stands by your side and places his gift bag beside yours. “What’d you bring?” he murmurs. 

“Vodka,” you deadpan. He snorts. “I’m kidding,” you say, flashing him a grin. A real one, this time. “I found these cute baby blankets at this little store in Manhattan. Couldn’t resist. It was purely to benefit capitalism.”

He chuckles.

“What about you?”

“Some pacifiers. Figured you can never have enough, and I didn’t wanna spend more than twenty bucks.”

“Very smart of you,” you agree with a nod. You sigh and look up at him. Smiling, your voice is heavy with sincerity as you tell him, “thank you, for coming to this. I don’t think I could do this on my own.”

“Course,” Bucky quietly replies. He smiles down at you. You’re beautiful, standing in a summer dress that ends just before the knee, painted in peonies and snapdragons. “You need me, I’m there.”

Something in his words seems to hit you. Your eyes widen by a slight. If Bucky wasn’t trained to be so perceptive, he probably wouldn’t have noticed. But he does. Your lips part as if to say something, but instead of your sweet voice coming out, instead it’s:

“Well, well, well.”

Your eyes press shut. Bucky somehow holds back his laugh. The two of you turn to lay eyes on Lucy, saddled up beside Barbara. He’s not sure he’s seen either of them so happy. No, not happy. Gloating. 

“Nice of you to join us for this little shin-dig, James,” Barbara cordially greets. 

“Yes, so nice of you,” Lucy parrots. 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Nice to see you both too.”

“I should have placed money. If I was a betting man–”

“--What do you mean ‘if’? You lose about a twenty a week on those damn roulette tables on the internet.”

“Secret roulette tables,” Lucy hisses. 

“Glad to see the two of you enjoying yourselves,” you say, leaning against the kitchen island. “We miss anything so far?”

“Just a riveting round of ‘pin the baby bundle on the stork’,” Barbara says, sounding far from entertained. 

“Barbs here placed it way off to the left on the wallpaper. I think it was on purpose,” Lucy says. 

“What do you mean ‘think’, you twit, of course it was on purpose. This whole party is a whole load of–”

“--There you all are!”

It must look rather frightening, the fakeness of the smiles Aunt Millie is met with from the four reluctant guests. 

“We were just about to start a round of ‘twenty-one-questions’. Care to join?”

“How could we say no?” Lucy sardonically replies. Aunt Millie claps her hands together and returns to the living room. Lucy rolls her eyes; Barbara takes a swig of her glass of red wine. 

“What a dithering idiot,” Lucy mutters, following after the host. Barbara nods in agreement as she shadows. You shake your head and laugh quietly. 

“This is going fantastic.”

Bucky reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. You squeeze his metal palm and let him guide you back into the belly of the beast. There’s a loveseat empty which the two of you can only just fit on: your thigh presses up against Bucky’s. Without option, you’re each handed a paper cup of mocktail. Bucky has blue, you have pink. 

“Mm. What’s your taste like?” you quietly ask him. The attention is largely on aunt Millie who is explaining the very complex game of twenty-one-questions (‘so, essentially, everybody asks questions…’). 

“Sugar. Yours?”

You giggle underbreath. Pushing the cup near to him, you whisper, “here. Try it.”

He takes it from you and has a sip. Strawberry fizz hits his tongue like a sherbet. He bobs his head and nods. “Mm. I prefer mine.”

“Lemme try it. I might like it more.”

“No, I want it,” he childishly argues back. 

“Come on!” you giggle, reaching for his cup. He holds it up and out of reach, grinning down at you. “Bucky–”

“You two okay?”

His head snaps up to meet Aunt Millie’s curious expression. He lowers the cup, face flushing with embarrassment at the attention from the other party attendees, and nods. Clearing his throat, he replies, “yep. All good here.”

Twenty-one-questions goes by without a hitch. In fact, Bucky thinks you begin to enjoy yourself somewhat. The event is rather nice if you block out the fact that your mother’s sister is pregnant with your dad’s baby, your soon-to-be half-sibling/niece/nephew. The first round is a pig, the second a newspaper. 

“Alright, who should go next?” Aunt Millie wonders. 

“I think our darl should. She always comes up with clever ones,” Barbara says, pointing over to you. Bucky quirks a brow, looking down at you. You sigh and roll your eyes, but you don’t say no. 

“Got one?”

“Yep,” you smile, nodding. Bucky takes a sip of his neon blue concoction - it’s starting to grow on him. The questions start to come in and clues are uncovered: it’s a person; a relatively young person; a black person; a black man; a black man who flies; no, not the first black pilot; he isn’t a pilot, he just flies; a black man who–

“Is it Sam?” Bucky suddenly asks. 

You grin, looking up at him. “Sam who?”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky catches on quickly. “Is it Captain America?”

“Hey! James got it!” you cheer. The room cheers too, clapping jovially, whilst you gloat in your little gag. Bucky shakes his head at you; he’s smiling, hard. You let out a little laugh. He’s glad you're enjoying yourself. Relieved, even. The game comes to a close after that and stories are passed. The two of you end up wrapped in a conversation with one of your aunt’s friends from college. She’s nice enough, likely oblivious to the Freudian case study which was her friend’s pregnancy. As she’s telling you and Bucky about a trip she went on to Paris the other month, there’s a knock at the front door. Bucky vaguely tracks Aunt Millie getting up to go answer it. It was a reflex, to stay alert at all times. His hearing catches onto what sounds like a man’s voice. His brows tug together slightly, lips losing some of his smile. He sees it before it’s announced. His stomach twists. His back goes stiff. His palm sweats. He doesn’t have to know what Darren looks like to recognise him. An asshole like that is distinguishable from a mile away, by a blind man. 

“Look who made it!” Aunt Millie announces with dumb excitement. Everyone in the room turns. Bucky wishes there’s some way to warn you of what you’re about to see, but there isn’t. Everything is somehow happening in slow motion with no time to intervene. He knows the second you lay eyes on him. 

You go statue still. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Darren grins. He’s charming. Smarmy. Makes your skin prickle with disgust, a gut feeling that he wasn’t all he pretended to be. “Told the boys at work the occasion and they let me get off early.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” aunt Millie gushes. She ushers her friends to make space for him. Bucky’s gaze hardens to steel when he watches Darren’s eyes fall onto you. 

“Darling.”

You don’t speak. Don’t move. Bucky’s eyes flit down to you but he can’t see your face, just the back of your head. 

Darren’s guided to take perch on the sofa, a space cleared for him as if he’s royalty, and as he falls into conversation with aunt Millie’s friends, their attention all zoned in on him, you abruptly get up from the sofa and walk to the door. Bucky’s eyes dart over to Barbara and Lucy’s. They’re watching with an eagle gaze just like he is. Barbara looks apologetic, disappointed, worried. Lucy just looks pissed. Bucky gets up and gives them a brief nod; he ditches his cup on the coffee table as he heads for the door. You’re stood outside, lent against the brick wall. Your head is lulled back, eyes closed, lips pulled into a thin line. Bucky lets the door quietly click shut behind him. He doesn’t speak. Just stands, hands in his pockets, and watches you, quietly concerned. 

“He came,” you mumble. 

Bucky nods despite the fact you can’t see him. 

You lift a hand up to the bridge of your nose and pinch it, rubbing. “The fucking asshole came. He’s shameless. It actually makes me sick.” Sighing, you open your eyes and glance over to Bucky. Tears gather in the waterline. His mind splits. A part of him wants to go back in there and beat the son of a bitch until he can’t walk, and a part of him wants to stay and hold you and tell you everything will be okay. He knows which one to lean into the second a tear slips down your cheek. 

“Come here,” he murmurs. You don’t need any further prompting. You practically fall against him, a hand coming up to fist at his shirt, and Bucky wraps his arms around you, holding you close. Your body shivers with your quiet tears. He places a kiss to the crown of your head, pressing his cheek against your hair, and he holds you. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

“I fucking hate him,” you cry into his shirt. “I hate his guts.”

“That anyway to speak about your old man?”

Bucky’s shoulders seize. He slowly turns his head to find Darren standing there in the doorway, flesh and blood - a waste of both. He’s happy to let his contempt be palpable. It’s easy to sink back into his old ways: brooding, silent, deadly. Darren doesn’t seem to be all the way stupid. He shifts slightly under Bucky’s gaze. He eyes him warily and doesn’t take a step out of the house towards you. 

“Come on, darling. I just want to talk,” Darren says, softer. 

You slowly ease away from Bucky’s frame. Sniffing, you wipe your cheek. One of your hands stays on Bucky’s side, as if you need to keep him close. 

“I don’t wanna talk to you,” you say, voice still quivering. 

“Look, I understand this is a bit of a surprise–”

“A surprise? Which part exactly?” you spit. You’re angry, suddenly so. Pulling away from Bucky, you furiously wipe your face dry as you take a step towards your father. “You being here and ambushing me, or you knocking up mom’s sister?”

“It’s hardly an ambush, darling. This is a baby shower for my child.”

You laugh. It’s haunting to Bucky, void of humour. “Do you even hear yourself!? Can you not fathom how insane that is!? You need fucking help!”

“Don’t be cruel, darling.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snarl, pointing at him. “You don’t get to call me that. You ruined my life.”

“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think–”

“God, you haven’t changed at all, have you?”

Darren swallows. He looks uncomfortable. Bucky stares him down. “Can we talk somewhere alone, maybe?”

“No. I don’t want to be alone with you,” you state. Darren sighs. His hands slip into his pockets. You press your lips together and take a deep breath. In the lull, he takes a step outside and closes the door behind him. Bucky imagines it’s to save face from the others. God forbid people know the truth about this piece of scum. As if incapable of reading the room, Darren’s eyes drift up over your head to Bucky. 

“I see you’ve met someone,” he says. Bucky almost wants to laugh at the man’s idiocy when he extends out a hand for Bucky to shake. “I’m Darren.”

“I know who you are,” is all Bucky says. He doesn’t shake his hand. Darren eventually returns it to his pocket. The attention returns to you. You’re shaking your head, hands on your hips, staring at the wall just to the side of Darren’s head. 

“I see things are going just as good for you as always, then.”

Bucky’s jaw ticks. Your eyes slowly drift over to your dad. He feels the need to expand. 

“First you throw away your medical degree and now this. Dating a former criminal. A known murderer. You’re just throwing it all away now, huh?”

Bucky’s blood goes cold. You shake your head. Slowly at first, then fast. “You don’t get to come in here and tell me how to live my life when you’ve made such a shitshow of yours.”

“You don’t talk to me like that. I’m your father.”

“And what exactly qualifies you of that title?” you ask, cocking your head. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you had a good future lined up before you threw it all down the shitter,” Darren boldly states. 

“I like my life,” you tell him. “I like the choices I’ve made in my life. I’m happy.”

“With him?”

“Yes. With him,” you affirm. Bucky wasn’t aware of how badly he needed to feel your touch until your hand reached behind you for his. The tension eased from him like water rolling off leaves. “I hated my life before. I hated college. I hated medical school. I hated you.”

“You could have been a doctor,” your dad says, shaking his head. There’s something akin to disgust in the way he appraises you. “You could have been a psychiatrist.”

“And whose fault is it that I’m not?”

He doesn’t answer. It seems he knows it, though. His brows twitch, his fingers too. Bucky doesn’t like him for a myriad of reasons, but partly because he can’t predict him. One moment he’s the apologetic father and the next he’s the disappointed dad. 

“You’re not who I thought you’d be, darling,” Darren remarks, shaking his head. He tuts. “What a waste.”

Anger blinds him. Bucky takes a step forward. Your hand clenching his is the only thing which makes him stop.

“I could say the same thing to you, dad,” you say. Your voice is steady, frighteningly so, when you speak. “You were all I looked up to, and now I can’t even look at you.”

Darren stands there, stupefied. His lips part like a fish out of water, searching for words. Rage colours his face, distorts his hideous features. But you don’t bother to wait for his comeback. It would only be a waste of oxygen. 

“Goodbye, dad.”

You turn heel and walk to the car. Bucky lets his hand slip away from yours. He doesn’t stop you and you don’t wait. Darren bristles as Bucky stalks towards him. He doesn’t stop until the shorter man’s back is pressed against the door. He dips his face, invading his personal space, and glares daggers into his wide eyes. 

“You do anything as much as text her, and I’ll find you. Got it?”

Darren swallows. Bucky’s metal arm whirs, his patient dwindling, and he grabs firmly at Darren’s upper arm. He squeezes. Hard enough to leave a mark. His smirk is impossible to hold back at the quiet whimper he’s met with. 

“Got it?” he grits out. 

Finally, Darren nods. Bucky lets go in an instant. He brushes his hands down Darren’s arms, smoothing his shirt, and takes a step back. His smile is overly polite. “Good. Glad we’re on the same page.”

You’re sitting in the passenger seat when Bucky reaches the car. He glances over to the house as he turns on the engine. Darren’s gone back inside, it seems. Barbara is at the kitchen window, watching. Bucky gives her another nod and she gives one back. He taps on the screen of the car until the satnav chimes to life, logged for your address. 

“Ready to leave?” he checks, glancing over to you. You’re slumped in your seat, staring out the passenger side window. Your reply is a silent nod. Bucky pulls out of the driveway and starts off down the road. 

You don’t speak for the first thirty minutes. Not a single word. You’re not crying, though, which Bucky takes to be a good thing. Bucky decides not to open the conversation. He knows more than anyone the value of space. You needed time to think and to process. Bucky never got to see his father again after he walked out, but he can only imagine that if their paths ever somehow crossed - then or even now - he would need time to work it all through.

But he’s human, still. His worry nibbles away at him until he can’t help but reach a hand across the console, just as he had done on the ride there, placing his hand on your knee. It lingers there for a minute. He considers taking it back. But then, your hand is laying atop of his. He glances over to you and you meet his gaze. The smile you flash him is real. Genuine. You might not be good, but you’re okay. That’s all Bucky needs right now. 

The radio hums quietly in the background. Bucky hadn’t bothered to queue anything up; he isn’t sure which playlist is on. A piano melody opens a song. A man begins to sing. You shuffle in your seat. 

“I like this song,” you mumble. Bucky glances at you. You turn to sit facing inwards, towards him. He reaches over to the dial and turns the volume up. A few moments later, you’re quietly singing along.

Bucky smiles to himself. The song swells into rhythmic blues with haunting synth tunes. As it ties together, fading off into the next tune, you sigh. 

“I’m okay now,” you say softly. Bucky doesn’t say anything. You nod. Smile. “Yeah. I think I’m okay.”

He offers out his hand to you and you take it. And for the first time since Bucky’s met you, he thinks he might be the one to remove a weight from your shoulders. 

Something shifts in the relationship after that. There’s a gravity to it which wasn’t there before, and a new meaning defined. It was more than pleasant dates and lingering kisses and longing stares. Bucky had seen the side of you which you kept under layers of armour which time had built. The endless patience he’d been privy to snapped. He’d held you whilst you cried and helped to dry the tears. In a strange way, it felt like a milestone had been met. One which underlined how serious Bucky was about you, and you about him. But it remained unnamed and unlabelled - the relationship the two of you shared. Bucky was still finding his footing with romance. The steps were coming back to him but he needed some time to remember the routines. Was asking someone to be your girlfriend even a thing anymore? It felt juvenile, outdated, and yet necessary. In a caveman-like way, Bucky wanted people to know you were with him. He belonged to you. 

“Watched any good movies this week?” you ask Bucky as you walk down the streets of Brooklyn one evening. In your right hand is a carrier bag filled with miscellaneous items you’d picked up on an errand run. It had felt domestic joining you in the shop as you picked out shampoo and mouthwash and painkillers. Your left hand is encased in his, warmed by his leather glove. 

“Fight Club,” he replies. Despite the little book Steve gave him being gone, Bucky had continued his catching-up on the things he missed. That included movies. You’d ask him occasionally about what his latest ‘education’ was. 

“Ah. Man-classic. What did you think?”

Bucky shrugged. A couple across the street laughed. “It was alright. The ending was pretty strange.”

“The whole movie is,” you snort. “I don’t like how it’s filmed. It makes me feel dizzy.”

“Definitely not my favourite,” Bucky agrees. 

“Brad Pitt is sexy though, so it gets points for that,” you comment. Bucky glances down at you, amused. 

“Can’t say I noticed.”

You roll your eyes, grinning up at him. “Yeah right. Nobody is immune to Brad Pitt.” Neither agreeing or disagreeing, you continue to fill the city-scape buzz. “What’s next on your watch-list?”

“Not sure,” Bucky hums. He reels aloud different titles from the mental list he'd been making, from people's recommendations of 'you have to see so-and-so movie - it's a classic!' You let out varying intonations of hums in response to each. Then, you gasp. 

“You know what we should watch?” Bucky quirks a brow in question. “Dirty Dancing. Now that is a classic.”

“Dirty Dancing? The hell’s that?” Bucky frowns, bemused. 

You gape at him like he’d just insulted your religion. “It’s the best romance movie ever made.”

“Quite the claim.”

“Because it’s true,” you insist. Your pace picks up slightly and Bucky laughs to himself. “We’re watching it tonight. You can’t fight me on this.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

He’s more than happy to let you drag him to your apartment building, driven with newfound purpose. Your apartment is something of a second home to him now. He kicks off his shoes when he walks in; lounges on his claimed spot and turns on the television whilst you potter about in the kitchen. The fairy lights and lamp flicker to life. You wander over with two glasses of wine and a bowl of popcorn. Bucky pops a piece in his mouth whilst scrolling through the various streaming platforms. You sit sideways on, stretching your feet out and onto his lap. He loves it. It’s so easy, so natural, so right. Eventually, Bucky finds Dirty Dancing. As the opening credits roll onto the screen, Bucky’s metal hand busies itself with rubbing soothing, deep circles into the sole of your foot. Little tricks he’d learnt from your time together. The movie stretches on. Sixties music with blues drum beats; sepia tainted footage. His attention is only half on the story. It keeps drifting to you. You’re enthralled, smiling to yourself faintly. Your head bobs along to the music sometimes. Your lips move silently with some of the dialogue; you’ve seemingly seen it enough times to rehearse it. 

“Patrik Swayze is so attractive,” you randomly announce. Bucky chuckles. He squeezes your foot playfully and you squirm. “Don’t worry, you’re hot too.”

“Atta girl,” he murmurs with a lazy grin. 

“I think there’s nothing sexier than a guy who dances,” you muse. “What’d you think so far?”

“I like it,” he tells you. You meet his eyes, a brow quirked as if to ask ‘really’. “I do. It’s fun. Romantic.”

“So romantic,” you swoon like a teenager. Bucky grins, shakes his head, and looks back to the movie. “Do you dance?”

“I used to,” Bucky says. He smiles at the faint memories of hours spent in dance halls. The smell of smoke gripping to the wallpaper; the taste of whiskey on his tongue. A girl on his arm, Steve begrudgingly tagging along. “Used to be pretty good at it. I could waltz fairly good. My ma taught me how.”

“I’m jealous,” you murmur. “People don’t dance these days. Not like back then.”

Something in your tone has Bucky pushing your feet off his lap. His body isn’t his own when he rises to his feet. You look up at him, mildly amused, and he extends a hand out to you. 

“Come on then.”

You quirk a brow. “Really?” 

He nods. You hesitate for a moment before slipping your hand into his. He helps tug you up and onto your feet. You giggle, nervous, and let him maneuver you like a puppet. His heart thrums nervously in his chest. He hasn’t danced in years; not properly. No more than the toe tap in the kitchen as the radio plays. But something about you has him taking the chance. 

“Like this,” he murmurs. His voice fades into the music and dialogue of the movie. 

Your left hand is guided onto his shoulder, and your right is captured in his metal hand. His right lands on your waist, fingers pressing into your flesh gently like sinking into snow. He nods and takes a step forward, and you take one backwards. 

“That’s it, you got it,” he quietly praises. Your shoulders ease slightly. You accidentally step onto his sock clad toe. 

“Oops. Sorry.”

“You’re good,” Bucky chuckles. After a few more stumbles and squished toes, you start to pick up on it. Bucky leads; his hand stays safe on your side, his other occasionally squeezing your palm. You're staring down at the floor, watching your feet like you might grow an extra toe, brows tugged together within concentration. Bucky lifts his finger under your chin and eases your face up, until your eyes meet his. A timid smile has his heart hiccuping. Bucky dips his face, pulling your body closer to him by the waist, and rests his chin by the crux of your shoulder. Your fingers press into the bridge of where metal meets flesh. He takes a deep breath in: you smell of your perfume and moisturiser. He tilts his head just enough to let his lips ghost a kiss to your neck. A quiet gasp escapes you. Bucky holds you closer still. His hips roll instinctively to the rhythm. His eyes slip shut. A weight rolls off his shoulder. Your own body begins to sway, the musicality contagious, and Bucky kisses you again on the throat, his lips lingering against the thin veil of skin. Your hand slinks away from his shoulder and up, into his hair. Your head turns and his eyes find yours, half-hooded, smiles gone. Something sweeps over the two of you, captures you in a bubble, and Bucky dances with you without shame. His hand grips at your hips and guides them to the beat, against him. Your eyes don’t shy away from his. Your lips remain parted, breath a little short; there’s the faintest tinge of wine that fills the ever decreasing gap between the two of you. And he can’t take it any longer. Bucky kisses you. He pours everything into it. Every memory, every thought, every compliment. You hold him close. Let him live in the dream of being a normal guy with a pretty girl. His lips slowly break apart but he remains close. Revels in the feel of your warm breath fanning his mouth. He swallows. Digs inside of him for guts to say the three words that have been there maybe since the start. 

A loud clatter on the television has you jumping. 

The bubble pops.

The two of you look to the TV. There’s a fight, a scuff of some kind between Johnny and another guy. Bucky swallows, his confidence flickering like a dying candle. You slip out of his hold with a nervous smile. Flustered like it was your first kiss. Combing some hair behind your ears, you smile at him. 

“I’m just gonna use the bathroom.”

Bucky nods. As you head out the room, he sighs. His fingers still tingle from your touch. His heart is racing. His mind feels foggy, like he’s been possessed by a former version of himself. When you return, he’s back on the sofa, drinking his wine, watching the movie. You wordless return to your spot beside him. Your head leans against his shoulder. You bring the bowl of popcorn up and take a handful. Bucky takes a piece too. 

“Y’know, you kinda remind me of her,” Bucky says, tipping his glass towards the screen. 

“Baby?”

“Mhm. Determined. Kind. Giggly, with an edge. Sexy.”

“Sexy, huh?”

“Hey, if you’re having Patrik then it’s only fair that I have her.”

You giggle. Crunching on a piece of popcorn, you shrug. “Fair enough. Can’t argue with that logic.”

The popcorn goes down piece by piece, the bowl empty by the time the end credits roll. Bucky sees the appeal. It’s charming, living in its time like Bucky wishes he could. Yawning, you reach over for the remote and turn the volume down. That’s when the two of you catch it. It’s raining. 

“Sounds pretty heavy,” you comment. Bucky hums. Getting to your feet, you gather the empty glasses and bowl and head into the kitchen. He clicks off the TV and follows. Your back is to him as you stand at the sink, rinsing the pots. Bucky doesn’t wait for you to ask, grabbing a tea towel and taking the spot beside you to dry the pots you wash. Domestic. Safe and secure. “Y’know, you could just stay over.”

Something zips through Bucky at the thought. “Yeah?”

“I mean…I am, so…”

He chuckles at that, catching your cheeky grin in the corner of his eye. He swallows, turns over the offer in his mind like assessing an artifact. “You sure you wouldn’t mind?”

You shut off the sink. Looking up at him, you smile. There’s something on your face that isn’t familiar to Bucky. Your eyes flicker up and down over him; it’s quick but noticeable. “Certain of it.”

Considering Bucky has never stayed over before, the two of you step into a routine as if you’ve done it dozens of times before. Your shoulder brushes his upper arm as you stand side by side at the sink, brushing your teeth. In the reflection, your eyes catch. You smile at him. He smiles back. He stays behind to use the toilet as you head into your bedroom. In the quiet seclusion of the bathroom, he washes his hands and studies himself in the mirror. The memory of you moments ago, close to his body, close enough that he could feel every little twitch that every breath brought, was replaying in his mind, over and over. The way your breath caught, the tiny gasp that came when he kissed your neck. The smell of you was consuming him, driving him crazy. He closed his eyes and gripped the sink. Get it together, Barnes. Jesus. He was acting like a goddamn teenager, going through puberty all over again. But with the eroticism came anxiety. It seeped into his shoulders, tightened the muscles like pulling on strings. It had been years - years - since he laid with a woman. He imagined it to be the same as dancing; muscle memory. But he worried himself sick. What if he wasn’t as good as he used to be? What if it’s a big disappointment for you? He wants to make you feel good…That’s all he’s ever wanted. 

Bucky splashes some cold water on his face. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. He trusts you. That’s all that matters. He knows you, too. Knows you won’t laugh in his face. That you’ll be patient, understanding. It was in your nature, as embedded in your body like your tendons and bones. Get it together. He heads out the bathroom and into the bedroom. 

You’re sitting on the bed atop of the covers, scrolling on your phone, in your pajamas: an oversized shirt from your former college, sporting the emblem on the front, and a pair of sleep shorts. The only light comes from your left, a yellow-ish glow from the bedside lamp. He’s not sure where the idea comes from, but the second it's in his mind, it’s out his mouth. 

“Y’know what I was thinking about?”

“How sexy Patrick Swayze is?” you wonder, not looking up from your screen. Bucky rolls his eyes in good nature. 

“I wanna give you a massage.”

That has your attention. You look up and over to him, clicking off your phone. “A massage?”

“Yeah. I wanna see what it’s like. Pay you back. Tit for tat,” Bucky shrugs, slipping his hands into his pant pockets. You chuckle; your phone joins the bedside table. 

“You don’t gotta ‘pay me back’. It’s a service, Bucky. That’s how economy works. Business,” you tease. He rolls his eyes and sits down on the bed. You’re still deliberating his offer. Eventually, you shrug. “I mean, I’m game.”

His brows raise slightly. “Yeah?”

“Sure,” you say. You get to your feet and head for the door, saying as you go, “there’s some spare oils and stuff in the bathroom. I’ll go get them.”

In the brief time you’re gone - the extractor fan light telling of your whereabouts - Bucky meddles with the bedsheets. He arranges it so there’s a pillow laid out for your head, pushing the duvet off the foot of the bed. He’s still standing by the foot of the bed when you come back in, a bottle of massage oil in each hand. 

“Your choice,” you say, lifting each, “lavender or cedarwood.”

“Lavender,” he nods. You hand it over. He turns it over in his metal hand, vaguely reading the label. You click the door behind you and press your back against it, waiting. Bucky clears his throat, finding his smile. He gestures to the bed. “Your massage bed, ma’am.”

“Why thank you,” comes your accented reply. He chuckles. You climb onto the bed, sitting on your knees, and something about it sends a chill down Bucky’s spine. You quirk a brow, expectant. 

“Could you, uh, take off your top. So I can get to your shoulders, s’all.”

Your lips quirk. “If you wanted me naked,” you lowly say, fingers catching the hem of your shirt. Bucky’s lungs go empty as you pull it up and over your head. It’s tossed to the floor. He lets out a shaky breath through the nose. “All you had to do is ask.”

His eyes slip shamelessly down from your eyes to your chest. You sit there, shirtless, waiting. He swallows. He gestures to the bed. “Lie down, on your stomach.”

Your compliance shouldn’t be as erotic as it is. You sink down into the mattress, face turned to the right, facing the wall. Your eyes slip shut with a breath. Bucky’s eyes trail down your bare back; he admires every muscle, every dip, every freckle and scar, every stretch mark. You’re beautiful; something pulled from his fantasies and crafted into life. He sinks onto the bed on his knees. He hooks a leg over your body, holding himself over your frame in a straddle. Opening the bottle of oil, he tips what seems a sufficient amount into his right hand. The bottle clinks on the bedside table. He rubs his hands together and inhales slowly, calming himself, his heart racing, mind veering off into sensual reveries. 

“I’m going to touch you,” he murmurs. You don’t speak. His hands sink down onto your skin. Your body is firm beneath his touch, but there’s the squish and give of skin that gives when he pushes gently into the muscle. You let out a deep sigh. He smirks. “That’s it…”

Bucky’s mesmerised with how your body feels beneath his touch. He mimics what you do to him; presses into the crux of your shoulders, follows the flow of muscles down your lats and arms. He runs his palms by the heels of his hands up your back. The way you're breathing is driving him crazy. He’s never practised such restraint; growing harder and harder with every second his fingers are on your body. Then, he’s leaning down, down, down, until his lips meet your upper back. He kisses you. You sigh heavily. Another, and another, tracking down your spine. His fingers dip into the waistband of your sleep shorts. Before he can ask, you’re lifting your hips enough to help him slide them down: a silent mark of consent. He guides them down your legs, tosses them onto the floor. You’re not wearing panties. Bucky thinks a part of him dies and gladly goes to heaven. 

He runs a palm up your leg, starting at the shin, following the inner track of your thigh. He coaxes them apart and you give like parting water. Bucky’s eyes flick up to your face. Your eyes remain closed; your breathing, hard. He realises he is too. Your glistening core has him letting out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. His hands plant on your hips and he guides your body so you’re propped up onto your knees. You shift, leaning on your forearms. His finger reaches out and brushes through your folds, gathering some of the slick on his fingers. You gasp out at the tiny sensation. 

“Bucky,” you mumble. He groans. His grip is just shy of mean when he grabs your ass, guiding you open; he leans down and he can fucking smell you. It’s dizzying, intoxicating. It’s going to kill him. 

And what a way to die. 

His nose nuzzles against you first before his tongue licks a long, deep lap right to your clit. You’re gasping out, fingers fisting into the sheets. He’s a man starved. He can’t get enough. Your taste is addictive. It’s more than heroin, more than crack. It’s everything. His tongue dips at your weeping cunt, sucks at your swollen clit. He moans against you, eating you out like it’s his God given right. His fingers grab at the flesh of your cheeks, sure to leave bruises. You rut against his face, moaning stupid into the sheets. He keeps going until you’re begging. “Please, baby, please…God, fuck Bucky, don’t stop…M’gonna come, oh God…”

He keeps going until you’re clenching around nothing, shaking as you tip over the edge. He keeps going until you’re trying to crawl out of his hold, the overstimulation teetering on too much. He sits back on his haunches and wipes his face, licks his lips, savours the taste that he already wants more of. You’re on him in a second. Practically crawling into his lap, hooking your legs over and around his waist so you’re straddling him. Hands around his neck, in his hair, nails scratching at his scalp, pulling at his brown locks. You can surely taste yourself as you kiss him. It’s messy, filthy, nothing but tongue and teeth and broken pleas and moans. His hands can’t stay still. They roam over your body; rub at your thighs, caress your tits. You grab at his t-shirt and tug until he’s breaking apart, pulling it over his head. His dog tags rest against burning hot skin. 

Leaning back into his hold, your hands glide down his chest. You take your time with it, following along with your eyes, mouth agape. 

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” you sigh. Then you’re leaning in, pressing kisses to the junction of his prosthetic, and his eyes roll back into his head. They linger more and more as you journey to his ear, catching his lobe between your teeth. He’s amazed he doesn’t come as you whine into his ear, “need you to fuck me.”

With a grunt, his hands grab your hips and he tosses you onto your back. He’s caging you in, kissing you senseless until neither of you can remember your names. Your hands push at his pants and there’s a small struggle as Bucky kicks off his pants and boxers. But when your fingers wrap around his throbbing length, Bucky lets out a choked gasp, head dropping onto your collarbone. 

“Don’t tease,” he quietly begs. He kisses at your nipple. “I won’t last.”

“How long?” you whisper. You work him gently, slowly, careful of the pressure. 

“Too long,” he chuckles. He’s too turned on to be embarrassed by the admission. 

You kiss his forehead reassuringly. He lifts his head, eyes finding yours. “Me too,” you confide. 

Bucky ruts into your hand, hips rolling instinctively. Your thumb traces over the tip; his eyes slip shut with a moan of your name. 

“That’s it,” you murmur. Bucky wants to cry as you start speaking to him in that voice. The voice that hooked him in. The voice that could make him do anything. “Feels good, baby?”

“Fuck,” he grits out. He’s painfully hard. “No, no, m’close…”

“You wanna fuck me?” you innocently ask with a coo. Bucky moans, rutting desperately into your fist. “You gonna fuck me, James?”

“Fuck, baby, you’re gonna kill me,” he practically whines against your clammy skin. 

Your hand finally eases away and he lets out a breath, both of relief and disappointment. Then you’re wriggling up the bed, sitting up enough to reach over into the drawer of the bedside table. Bucky keeps himself busy with face fucking your tits. Your back arches at the hickeys he decorates the plump skin with. His dog tags dangle, ghosting your skin. Cupping his jaw, your fingers stroke lovingly at his cheek to guide his face away, back up to yours. The kiss you catch him in is different: slower, sweet, tender. His fingers seek out your free hand, stealing the condom from your hold. But then you’re breaking apart with a shaking head, breath fanning hot against his swollen lips. 

“I’m not ready yet,” you whisper. Bucky swallows. “It’ll hurt.”

“What’d you need?” Bucky murmurs through kisses. He leaves them anywhere. Your cheeks, your jaw, your neck. “Whatever you want, baby…”

“Need to be fingered,” you hum. Bucky’s eyes squeeze shut at the thought. His right hand runs up and along your leg, but before he can reach your cunt, you’re grabbing at his wrist. Face contorted with confusion, he glances up at you. You look fucking gone. You’re shaking your head, a small smile on your lips. “The oils aren’t for intimate use.”

He shakes his head, not following. 

“You can’t use them internally,” you explain, easing his hand away from you. He goes to push off you to wash his hands but you hold him close, stopping him. His brows are furrowed slightly, muddled, as he watches your hand slip away from his. Your finger slides through the soaking folds of your pussy. Bucky lets out a shuddering breath. Your head tilts back, eyes slipping shut as you sigh, pushing a finger inside of you. 

You start to fuck yourself with your fingers. 

“Holy fuck,” Bucky moans. He can’t seem to look away. He kisses your neck and jaw, insatiable, eyes trained on your digits that sink in and out of your soaking hole. How he hasn’t come yet is beyond him. You let out a desperate moan when you scissor yourself open. His metal thumb reaches down and he plays with your neglected clit. The squeal you let out is adorably erotic. Bucky chuckles against your burning hot skin. You’re like a fever he can’t sweat out. He kisses at your ear; nibbles at the edge of it. “So fucking sexy, fucking your hand.”

You cry out, groaning. The lewd squelch of your fingers runs like cold water down Bucky’s spine. 

“Bucky,” you whimper. “M’so close.”

“That’s it,” he croons. His fingers pinch your pebbled nipple. You’re rocking on your hand, three fingers buried inside of you. He shakes his head, smirking. “Doing so good for me, doll. You can come, baby. Let go…”

You shiver when you come. Your fingers slip out of you as you climax, incoherent blubbers falling from your kiss-swollen lips, a blasphemy of his name with the lords. Bucky rests his head against the crux of your shoulder, leaving love bites on your neck, his hand rubbing your waist reassuringly as you slowly start to come down. The sound of sucking has him opening his eyes. Your fingers are deep inside your mouth, cleaning them of your juices. He can’t help but laugh. 

“You can’t be fucking real,” he mutters. Your eyes open and he kisses you, chasing the taste of you on your tongue. 

And then finally, finally, he’s easing his way inside of you. 

You’re laid back on the bed; head rolled back, eyes pressed shut, mouth agape. Bucky props himself up above you, his metal hand guiding him into your sopping cunt. Despite the foreplay, you squeeze him as he enters. His moans are muffled into the skin of your shoulder. Your fingers thread through his hair, soothing him as he pushes inside, deeper and deeper, until you’re all he can feel. 

Somewhere in the haze, the two of you lock eyes. You smile at him. It tells him thousands of things. The trust you hold in him is astronomical in that moment, Bucky realises, and the same goes for him. He kisses you tenderly. Then he gently rocks his hips back, easing out, before driving back in. Your moan is half broken with a gasp. He groans against your body. Then, the tether snaps, and he loses all restraint. He fucks you into the bed until you can’t speak. He fucks you until your legs are locking around his body like a vice. He fucks you until you’re begging him for something, anything - until all that matters if hearing his name falling from your mouth over, and over, and over. 

“Fuck, James,” you cry, pulling him impossibly closer. He knows you're close. He is too. He has been for the past hour. “Please, baby. Please…”

“I know, doll, I know,” he grunts. The kisses are sloppy; broken but not wasteful. He moans as you clench around him. “Fuck, feel so fuckin’ good…”

Your voice cracks when you come for the third time that night. And it’s with that dying cry of his name that Bucky lets himself fall over the edge, tumbling into white-blind ecstasy. He’d forgotten, somehow, in all the years of torture and running and rebuilding: he’d forgotten how good it felt. 

Now that he’d remembered, Bucky wasn’t sure if he could ever go without it again. 

You’re still shaking after Bucky’s throws out the condom. He grabs the duvet and tugs it back up and onto the bed. It’s eased just up to your hip; your body is still hot as fire. Beads of sweat run down Bucky’s face. He lays on his back, eyes transfixed on the ceiling until he can’t hold them open any more. His chest is heaving as he slowly but surely begins to catch his breath. You sleepily shuffle closer, snuggling up against his clammy chest, panting still. He wraps his arm around you and presses a kiss to the crown of your forehead. 

“James?” you quietly broach. Your voice is a little breathless, those less so than before. He can still hear you crying out his name; nothing has ever sounded as sweet as you coming. 

“Yeah?”

“Can I tell you something?” He swallows and nods. His finger swipes over your back, stroking at the skin, still slick with oil. “I love you.”

The words sit in the sex-soaked room. They seep into his mind like vapour, clouding every thought. Every nightmare and every horror is cloaked. Every self deprecating insult that he’s berated himself with becomes hidden. And through the mist, is you. It was always you. He knew it from the moment he met you. The reason why he had put up with all the shit that was thrown his way. The reason why he was still here, still trying, still fighting for something. It was because he needed to find you. 

It might be the easiest thing he’s ever said, when Bucky tells you, “I love you too.”

~*~*~*

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I might do a part two. Let me know if that's something people might want! also, this is my first time writing for bucky on this blog - please let me know if this is something you want to see more of!

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BFF!Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

friends to lovers

★Locations ★My Masterlist

Summary: Eddie calls on you to help him plan his first date, and you wish that you were the one going on it with him.

Author's Note: This isn't quite as polished as I'd like it to be. But, I'm pushing through my last few weeks of college, so I'm working with the few brain cells I've got left lol. I still love how it turned out and the ending is worth all of the self-loathing, I promise.

No use of Y/N, est. friendship, ages aren’t specified but E & R are approx. in their early twenties & it’s an early 90s AU, Reader has never been asked on a date before. Mild angst with happy ending!

Word count: 8.9k

Warnings: Reader dwells on poor self-worth & feels undesirable, acts of eating and multiple mentions of food, includes swearing.

Nestled in the quaint corner of Campbell Ave and 2nd Street, you’re engrossed in a call with a customer, jotting down an order for two bouquets consisting of pink-white lilies and snapdragons. Your eyes follow the effortless glide of your glitter gel pen across the paper, detailing their contact information.

Similarly to Goldilocks, you’ve found a place of employment where the pace is just right. You can handle whatever tasks Joan, the owner, asks of you. Sweeping the wood floors with a stiff-bristled broom, tending to the plants, and arranging flowers adorned with decorative ribbon and crisp paper are all within your grasp.

This place gets steady business, but the concept of a lunch or dinner rush is nonexistent. However, you do face a unique kind of rush occasionally. Now and then, a frantic lover bursts through the doors, bug-eyed, having realized they’ve forgotten a special anniversary or birthday at the very last minute. 

As you recite the customer’s order and callback number into the phone’s receiver, their confirmational “uh huhs” cut through the buzz of the line. Suddenly, your attention is diverted by the sight of a van pulling into the parking spot out front, slightly askew. A small smile teases the corners of your mouth as you make a conscious effort to refocus on closing the conversation at hand.

The plastic shell of the phone clacks as you hang up, and you watch Eddie hop out of his van, and round the front of it with an unusual pep in his step—more than you’d see his best days.

“What’s up, buttercup?” Eddie’s voice carries across the room, accompanied by a genuine smile that lights up his face. He strides to the register counter you’re currently manning, wearing a vermillion polo shirt embellished with the neatly embroidered String and Strum shop logo on the breast. His hair is pushed back from his face with a black bandana, resembling a biker-like edge, tied firmly to ensure no stray curls disrupt his work as he repairs guitars and sells instruments for commission.

In seconds flat, he’s already scrunching his nose like a bunny, sensing a sneeze on the horizon. Being in a room packed with fresh plants is nothing short of hell, but he’s willing to endure it for the sake of seeing you. While he can handle flowers in small quantities, the confined space never fails to tickle his system like nobody’s business.

Vision blurring with mild irritation, Eddie blinks hard to disperse it. “Hey, how’s today going?”

You shrug, suppressing a giggle at the wiggle of his nose. “As good as it can, I guess. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

Eddie sets a grease-stained paper bag on the counter that separates you, along with a cup of soda. “Figured you could use a midday pick-me-up.”

“Must be my lucky day because I overslept and didn’t have time to pack a lunch. Well, that and I found a penny on the sidewalk.”

Eddie crosses his arms and tilts his head. “Don’t give luck all the credit. I have instinctual powers, y’know. My Munson senses were tingling and I knew you were in need.”

“My hero,” You exclaim, clasping your hands and swinging them to the side like a swooning princess. 

Eddie chuckles with you, watching as you wipe your palms on your apron and eagerly dig into the bag, pulling out a foam to-go box. As you promptly open it and take a bite of your lunch, you can’t help but groan and throw your head back in satisfaction. Your eyes meet his thereafter, causing him to twist his mouth to the side and momentarily look away.

“How much do I owe you?” You ask, your words slightly muffled as you continue to chew.

Minnie, Joan’s cat, gracefully leaps onto the counter to greet Eddie. She perches herself beside the cash register, allowing him to scratch under her chin. “Nothin, consider it a favor,” He says with a wet sniffle, the tingling in his nose unrelenting.

The silence that falls is comfortable for you, but he’s seemingly lost in his thoughts as he continues to pet Minnie. Then, he looks at you with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Speaking of which, I just so happen to know a way that you can return the favor.”

Having taken a sip from your drink and another bite of your food, the inflection of Eddie’s voice causes you to slow your chewing. “And what might that be?”

“Come over later to find out.”

Your shoulders slump, eyes widened with mock defeat. “No! I can’t stand here and wonder all day. I'll die. The suspense will kill me.”

Eddie pouts mockingly, his sweet honey eyes betraying his faux-frown. “Then I'll be sure to have the prettiest floral arrangement for your funeral. Only the best for you.”

Your brows knit together in an authentic pouting. The irony of needing to meet an untimely demise to receive flowers from a guy isn’t lost on you.

He motions toward the untrimmed bundle of carnations on the workbench behind you. “Actually, if you’re not too busy,” Eddie smirks. “Could you string those up for me quick so they’re ready to go for your wake?”

“Ha-ha,” you leer, taking the next bite of your food rather aggressively. “You’re cruel, you know that?”

“I beg to differ since I surprised you with your favorite from Val’s and all,” Eddie retorts, biting the inside of his cheek.

You grumble, “Yeah, and it’s fucking delicious.”

Eddie checks his watch and huffs, “Alright, I’ve gotta get goin’,” he says, rapping his knuckles on the countertop and beginning to walk backward. “See you later tonight,” He points at you before spinning on his heel and exiting the shop.

The bulky keyring on Eddie’s jeans jingles loudly as he steps onto the sidewalk. Abruptly, he stops in his tracks. For a moment he’s frozen, and then he braces himself against the nearby lamppost. It hits him like a brick wall and he sneezes mightily. 

Heads of nearby passersby turn in his direction, startled by the noise. As he straightens his posture, Eddie remains still, trying to find his center of gravity and regain his composure.

“You good?” You call out, your voice just barely reaching him through the propped-open doors. Taking a casual sip of your drink, you watch as Eddie steadies himself. Still clutching the street lamp with one hand, he manages to stick his other arm out and give a thumbs-up.

True to your word, you arrive at Eddie’s place straight after work. The sun is setting, casting a warm glow through the patio door onto the walls of the living room. The apartment is in its usual state of disarray, expectedly so, since it’s home to three guys who aren’t particularly concerned with tidiness.

Toeing off your shoes, you’re unphased by the subtle smell of dust in the air. What strikes you as odd is how quiet it is. Typically, at least one roommate is home, blasting the TV in the living room or music from their respective bedrooms. But the only sound permeating the silence is the erratic thumping and screech of the water pipes behind the paper-thin walls of the bathroom.  

As you snoop around the kitchen, hoping to find a box of saltine crackers or really anything to stop the gurgling in your belly. Having come up empty-handed, you turn your attention to the resilient plant that you challenged Eddie to care for—Keanu Leaves, as he so proudly named it. 

Finished with your fruitless search of the kitchen, you make your way into Eddie’s bedroom to settle comfortably into the chair that only you sit in; it’s your spot. While you get cozy, the beans rattle as they perfectly mold to your figure. You knock on the wall beside you, signaling your arrival to Eddie.

You resume the magazine left sitting open on the page you stopped on. You occupy yourself in the article about predicted spring fashion trends as you wait. After a minute or two, the pipes go quiet from the shower being turned off.

Eddie strolls into the room wearing nothing more than a clean pair of boxers. Droplets of water trickle down his toned and tatted chest. Harshly ruffling his curls with a bath towel, he smirks at you. “If it isn’t Little Miss Zombie, back from the dead.”

“Less than alive and in the flesh,” you reply, your annoyance at being made to wait all day still evident. You hold grudges better than anyone he knows, and Eddie is well aware that he’s not immune to being subject to it.

Your tummy rumbles loudly, the discomfort only emphasizing the sharpness of your tone. “When was the last time you got groceries? I didn’t see any preserved brains I could help myself to.”

“I’m definitely due for a restock,” Eddie says as he drapes his wet towel over the back of his desk chair. Then, he grabs the bottle of mousse from his dresser and dispenses a foamy dollop into his palm. “Funny you should ask, though. That’s sorta why you’re here.”

You flip the page of your magazine, not pulling your eyes from the glossy print. “You told me to come over to go grocery shopping?”

Eddie rubs his palms together to spread the product and then runs his fingers through his curls. “Not quite,” he starts, his tone cryptic. “I’ve been tasked with providing a meal, of sorts.” 

Finally, you look up at him. Watching him scrunch his damp hair with the remainder of the product that’s making his palms go tacky, you wait for him to elaborate.

Eddie’s eyes flit to the other side of the room, rather than meeting your awaiting gaze. “I have a date.”

You stare blankly at the back of his head, as still as a statue while your blinking intensifies. Dumbfounded, you struggle to survive the bombshell he just dropped on you. It’s as if a nuclear explosion has shattered your eardrums, leaving his continued words to sound muffled through the high-pitched ringing.

A million and one questions swirl in your mind, only adding to the disorienting whirlwind of emotions. Since when is he dating? Why all of a sudden? As you try to piece everything together, you note that he hasn’t had any recent romantic interactions, at least none that you’re aware of.

You always thought he’d confide in you if he was seeing someone, but now you’re not so sure; especially since you’re only finding out about this now. Without a doubt, Eddie has never had trouble attracting attention. But he’s always seemed so content with the ways things are. So why now?

Eddie turns to face you, a splash of desperation in his eyes. “I feel like doing this is the best way to know if she likes me back.”

Your mouth has gone dry, and you try to sound more curious than interrogative, but it doesn’t quite come off that way. “Who is this mystery woman, anyway?” A couple of names come to mind, some of the most beautiful girls in town—none of whom you hold a candle to.

His side of the room falls quiet when he’s hit with your question. Eddie’s eyes drop to the carpet. While it might seem like he’s lost in thought, it’s actually a glaring sign of evasion. You can’t help but feel a little hurt by his reluctance to tell you who it is.

A small smile forms as he leans back against his dresser, as though he can’t keep himself upright during his current daydream. Folding his arms across his pecs and rubbing his jaw, eyes still downcast, Eddie begins to gush about her. “She’s just- god, she’s something else. The way she laughs, it’s like... the sun coming out after a storm.”

“Sounds like quite the catch,” you mutter, trying to keep your tone neutral. You watch closely as blush tints Eddie’s cheeks and his smile threatens to grow. Without saying another word, Eddie walks out and returns to the bathroom.

You’re quick to follow, hopping up from your chair. “Do I know her?”

“Technically, yeah,” Eddie answers. Standing in front of the foggy mirror, he wipes it with the back of his forearm. Then, he starts rummaging through the counter drawer for his pair of shears.

You stand just outside the open door, the lingering humidity from his scorching hot shower kissing your skin as it disperses into the hallway. Leaning back against the wall, you cross your arms like he did moments ago, albeit far more tensely. Technically? It must be one of your ex-friends, then. That would explain why he’s been keeping you in the dark.

It’s your duty to be supportive, but right now, you could hurl. The thick nausea swirling deep in your gut is a storm raging within, overpowering your ability to stay present.

While trimming his bangs over the basin, the shears glint in the hushed light of the wall sconce. Eddie steals a glance in your direction, but his eyes dart back to his reflection too quickly to catch the discomfort etched on your face. “So you’ll help me, right?”

As you watch yourself anxiously wiggling your toes inside your sock, you mumble, “I can't if you won’t tell me who it is.“

“Sure you can, you’re a girl. You know how this stuff works.”

You scoff, your brows shooting up as your head jerks back. You open your mouth to object, but he promptly cuts you off.

“Ah, ah! Slow your roll,” Eddie cautions, pointing the shears in your direction. “I’m not saying you’re all the same, but there’s gotta be some common ground of expectations, right?”

You don’t have the strength to argue, so you reluctantly allow for his generalization. “I guess so.”

“Like yeah, I could just study one of those lady magazines you’re always reading. But then I wouldn’t have a way of knowing what is and isn’t bullshit,” Eddie explains, his tone half-joking. “That’s why I’m going straight to the source, oh, wise one.”

Far too consumed with trying to narrow down who the chick could possibly be, you can’t be bothered to give him a huff of amusement through your nose. “Can I at least have a hint?”

“Nope,” The shears hit the countertop, their metallic resonance echoing against the porcelain. He pivots to face you, hands resting on his hips. “Alright, Sherlock. How about you quit trying to crack the case and help me pick out a tie.”

“A what now?” You squawk, eyes widening in disbelief.

Eddie chuckles softly and rinses the hair trimmings down the drain, then flicks off the bathroom light. “I have to dress for the occasion. This is a big deal for me,” he elaborates as he strides back into his room. “For her and me.”

Once again, you find yourself on his tail, trailing close behind back into his bedroom. You unfold your arms and instead, start to rub the inside of your wrist with your opposite thumb. “Yeah, I get that. Just seems a bit out of character for you.”

Rifling through his closet, Eddie pulls out a hanger with a navy button-up shirt and nonchalantly tosses it onto the end of his bed. “Maybe, but at least she’ll know I’m taking this seriously,” Eddie says while reaching for the high shelf to retrieve a tattered shoebox. Lifting the lid, he presents it to you. “Here’s what we’re working with.”

You step closer, your fingers deftly plucking out the rolled ties one by one, laying them flat beside the slightly wrinkled shirt. Side by side, your shoulders nearly brush. Meticulously comparing the patterns and colors, neither of you seems drawn to any particular one.

“Here, maybe it’s better to do it this way,” Eddie suggests, picking up and beginning to slip into the shirt. His thick fingers falter as he attempts to maneuver each small white button through its corresponding hole. Once halfway dressed—having tastefully paired his plaid boxers with a dress shirt—he smooths out the material from his chest to his belly.

Eddie reaches for the nearest tie and lays it against his shoulder. He faces you expectantly, anticipation evident in his gaze, awaiting your feedback.

Your eyes flit between the tie he’s holding, the array laid out on the bed, and the hopefulness in his round eyes. “These are easily the three ugliest ties I've ever seen. No offense.”

He blows a playful raspberry at your harsh criticism and shakes his head. “None taken, they’re not mine. But Wayne might be a little hurt when I call him next and tell him you said that.”

Shooting him a pointed look, your brows furrow in skepticism. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I just might,” Eddie teases with a smile before turning his attention back to the bed. He tosses the first tie aside and reaches for the mustard paisley one. “What about this one, does it compliment my eyes?” He bats his dark brown lashes.

You clutch your chin in contemplation, carefully assessing the combination of hues. However, the richness of his chocolate irises captures you. You wade in their depths. The hot flash that envelops your body is enough to break the trance he inadvertently put you under. With a disapproving shake of your head, you dismiss this tie as well. “Nope, next.”

Eddie looks at you for a moment longer, even though you’re not doing the same. A faint frown creases his features as he tosses the vetoed tie aside, forming a rejection pile.

You pick up the remaining tie and drape it over his shoulder, admiring the harmonious pairing of the navy in the tie with the shirt, accentuated by its white and black diagonal stripes. While you ponder, Eddie watches your face intently, holding his breath.

You nod, a trace of delighted approval in your expression. “We have a winner.”

“Hell yeah, blue on blue it is,” Eddie exclaims. He wraps the tie around the back of his neck but struggles to recall the proper technique for tying it. Attempting a few different nonsensical loopings, he groans, his determination waning. “Stupid son of a bitch, wouldya just-”

“Don’t hurt yourself. Let me do it," You offer. Not receiving protest, you step closer to him.

Eddie uses one hand to gather his product-enhanced curls into a makeshift ball, allowing you to access the collar of his shirt. He juts out his freshly shaved chin, granting you ample room to work. Standing this closely, you catch the clean scent of shaving cream lingering on his skin.

You begin to effortlessly tie the knot. Without pausing to consider what you’re about to say, the words spill from your lips, “Why’re you asking for my opinion on stuff like this, anyway? You should be doing what you think she’ll like, not me.”

“You always know best,” Eddie’s expression softens to something more vulnerable. “When you’re taking the next step in a relationship, you want everything to be as perfect as it can be, y’know?”

It’s common sense to him. No one understands him like you do, making you the perfect person for navigating this nerve-wracking experience. But for you, it’s perplexing. You’ve never been on a proper, formal date. The idea of one remains an unfulfilled pipe dream. Yet, here you are, agreeing to help Eddie plan his.

Your only frame of reference comes from romance movies and horror stories of dates gone wrong recounted by your girlfriends. Of all the things you could be in the world, you find yourself an unassuming tree. Sturdy and dependable, sure. You serve your purpose. But you don’t captivate onlookers with blooming petals like flowers do. Instead, you take pride in your intricately branched personality, valuing it as your true strength that often goes overlooked.

Even so, it feels as though your traits fail to enchant others regardless; nobody seems willing. You go unnoticed, and you’ve come to terms with that.

Beautiful wildflowers get plucked from the ground and carried away to be cherished. Meanwhile, you simply exist, rooted in no man’s land, devoid of admirers. You may stand tall, but you’re easily overshadowed by what other women have to offer.

Perhaps this is why you like working at the flower shop. It’s somewhat cathartic to witness the delicate petals fall from time to time. It brings you a strange sense of satisfaction to hack away at their stems. The best part, though? While it’s a little twisted, you know that those flowers that dazzle in their pristine state are destined to wilt. They’ll shrivel and brown.

Whilst among your shared group of friends in public, you’ve witnessed Eddie getting nudged by one of the guys to direct his attention to a smoke show walking by. You watched as they bit their knuckles and exaggeratedly gawked. You don’t compare, it’s not even apples to oranges. It’s like… apples to rocks. A delicious, shiny fruit compared to you, mere clunky chunks of earth.

If life were an album, you’re the track that everyone skips within seconds of hearing the intro. Except for those rare moments when someone half-listens by accident and they resonate with you—that’s how you and Eddie became friends. He’d stumbled upon his new favorite song, one worth revisiting. What he sees in you is what everyone else overlooks.

Eddie is the only man on the face of the earth who treats you like you’re worth being around. Only an oddball would prefer to spend time lounging beneath the shade of a crooked tree instead of homing a rose in a crystal vase. That’s one thing you love about your best friend; he doesn’t make you feel like you fade into the background.

All fairytale cliché bullshit included, you want to be sought out in a crowd. You want to light up the room for someone. Much to your dismay, that can happen platonically too, and it has in this case.

If Eddie only knew how much the little moments matter to you—the ones where he makes you feel prioritized and valued. You know you’re not anything close to special or remarkable, but he always made you second guess that thought.

Obviously, you hadn’t meant to fall for him. It was kind of like catching a cold; one day, there was a tickle in the back of your throat that you didn’t usually feel. Unsuspecting, the days went on, and that sensation only worsened. You started to panic a little but ultimately continued to deny your worst thoughts.

Before you knew it, you were bedridden, bitten by the love bug. You didn’t go down without a fight. You thought that you could be strong and deny it access to your heart, but it had already invaded. So, all you could do was wait it out.

You tried to distance yourself, hoping to recover and act like nothing ever changed inside of you. But Eddie didn’t let you get too far away.

It wasn’t love at first sight, rather, a creeping plague. There was no swooning and giggling, no struggling to keep your hands to yourself. The change was undetectable. You were a frog in boiling water, unaware of the gradually rising temperature until it was far too late.

It wasn’t until your chest started to ache every time you said goodbye at the end of spending time together that you realized you were in too deep. You genuinely debated going to the doctor to get the pang checked out, but luckily you didn’t. Otherwise, you’d have wasted a good chunk of money to find out that you’re a lovesick idiot.

Unfortunately, this is an illness you’ve been stuck with since, and you’ve at least learned how to distract yourself from it. But when you fail to do so, your imagination wanders. Naturally, you’ve wondered if pressing a mere kiss to his cheek would burn everything to the ground.

The forbidden territory beckons, tempting you to envision breaking those unspoken agreed-upon rules that forbid things like hand-holding and cuddling. The two of you uphold mutual respect, adhering to the expectations of friendship. Both of you reserve that level of touch for expressions of romantic affection. Actions such as those have no place in a true friendship.

That’s the most confusing part of this for you. How did you manage to catch such strong feelings for him when you’ve not crossed any lines? Sure, he’s a tactile person; maybe that has something to do with it. Eddie makes physical contact with those he trusts, but it’s not like he’s hanging off of you at any given moment. You receive the same treatment as the others in his inner circle: a hand on the shoulder, a pat on the back, and a brief gripping of the forearm to get your attention.

You’re not supposed to want the touches to be more frequent, much less of a different nature. The line has to be drawn somewhere, and it’s been plainly drawn in the sand. You understand and accept that. But why, of all lines in the world, does it have to be this one that you want to cross so badly?

Most of your days aren’t all that miserable. But there are those days that are more difficult than the rest, though it’s not his fault. Last weekend, the two of you were at a mall, and some chick waved at him flirtily. He returned it immediately, though playfully enough that it was almost mocking. He was fucking around and had no intention of entertaining the idea of approaching her. Regardless, it was humbling for you, to say the least.

In that moment, the world reminded you that there’s a reason you walk at his side at a respectable distance, not tucked under his arm. If anything, it’s for the best. There’s a sense of liberation in admiring him without the burden of articulating your feelings. There’s no pressure to meet a girlfriend quota or live up to a higher standard. What Eddie expects of you now is what you’re capable of, and clearly, all that you’re good for. You’re good for filling the void, but apparently not so much anymore.

You’re not lustrous and aching to jump his bones, and you’re certainly not desperate enough to kiss him on a whim by not allowing yourself to overthink it. But perhaps you are just desperate enough that a man simply paying your emotions, interests, and existence of any mind can shackle you to him. That has to be what’s done you in; Eddie gives a shit about you.

In reality, there’s more to it than that. Eddie is selective about who and what he lets in. He doesn’t care for conformity and lack of individuality. The idea of blending in with the majority of society repulses him. You find the flawed aspects of the Munson doctrine fascinating and raw. He’s not perfect and Eddie doesn’t care what others think of him, to a degree.

Not unlike you, he’s complex. Eddie is anti-establishment but still prefers a bit of structure over chaos in his day-to-day life. He’s independent and cynical as hell, but he’s also appreciative of his support systems and isn’t ashamed to rely on them. He’s not much of a rule breaker nor is he rebellious, but he’ll happily stir up a little trouble in good fun if given the opportunity.

Eddie is a hypocrite in some ways and a walking contradiction in others. You love that he’s unapologetic about being that way. He owns it for the most part, and you admire that.

His presence overstays its welcome in your thoughts. You’ve often yearned for him to call you in the dead of night, admitting that he can’t sleep without the sound of your voice. Many times, you’ve fought the urge to do that. He owes you sleep, countless nights of it. It’s a debt that will never be repaid, an outstanding balance.

Despite the attempts at trying to talk yourself out of it, you still can’t bring yourself to stop loving him. Even as he’s actively pursuing someone else, you’re unable to shake this. You could be paralyzed from head to toe, and you’d still feel the love you have for him in your bones.

Once Eddie is officially with someone, he won’t have much time or energy left for you. The anticipation of being thrown aside for something new and far prettier has shattered your heart before any changes have occurred. Yet, any fragment of his presence surpasses total absence. The greed isn’t worth it, and you know you should be grateful for getting any piece of him at all.

The phrase fizzles on the tip of your tongue like a smoldering ember, threatening to sear through the muscle… I’m happy for you.

You should say it, but you can’t. Because if you did, that would be a blatant lie. It’s not even possessiveness that has you so bitter, it’s envy. You wish you were in her place.

“There,” you adjust the knot with a delicate tug, ensuring its tightness before letting the material slip through your fingers. Unable to meet his appreciative gaze, you offer a sad smile and take a half-step backward.

Your sigh, cleverly concealed as a deep breath, escapes as you settle back into your chair with a plop. “So, um,” you begin, picking at your cuticles absentmindedly. “Where are you taking her? Somewhere fancy?”

“Nah,” Eddie meticulously revamps his curls one final time in the mirror, wanting them to fall just right. Then, with great care, he tames his bangs to lay perfectly in place. “She’s gonna come over here. I thought it’d be more intimate. Besides, I can’t exactly swing a reservation right now. I’ve been tight on cash this week.”

Your fingers come to a halt, the stinging sensation apparent. Looking over at him, your eyes meet his in the reflection. “Ya big dummy, you shouldn’t have bought me lunch when that money could’ve gone toward buying her a nice dinner.”

“Don’t start with that shit,” Eddie warns as he digs through his dresser in search of pants to wear. “I’m happy to do that for you,” He adds, pulling a pair of dark jeans from the bottom drawer.

“It really did make my day, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Having donned his pants, he nears his desk where his black grommet belt lies on the floor. Eddie threads his belt through the loops of his jeans, the buckle jingling before he secures it in place. “I felt better knowing you were taken care of.”

It’s only now occurring to you what he’s implied, and you think how absurd it is for him to host a dinner when he’s culinarily challenged. “Wait, since when do you cook?”

“Oh, I don’t. But you do.”

“Hardly,” you scoff, downplaying your abilities. Placing your magazine back in your lap, you flip the page despite not having read it. Unexpectedly, you feel the urge to quell his enthusiasm, to set him up for failure by trying to poke holes in his plan. “I mean, food is one thing, but atmosphere is another. Aren’t the guys going to be here?”

Eddie moves the clutter on his desk around in a quest to find something. “I kicked them out for the night.”

Like a spear plunged into your chest, you swallow hard. Not only is he having a girl over for dinner, but he’s gone out of his way to guarantee privacy because he’s hoping to get lucky too. More than likely right there, on that very bed, feet away from you. The cramped twin-sized mattress, where they’ll inevitably be body to body.

He turns to you after locating what he was searching for, fastening the slightly fancier watch around his wrist; it only supersedes his casio due to it being analog, as opposed to digital. “I’ve been wanting to try that dish you keep raving about. You can teach me how to make it. Two birds, one stone.”

“It’s not difficult, you could handle the recipe,” You shrug away the opportunity to cook with him because the domesticity of it would more than likely kill you.

“I wanna do it together,” his voice softens, genuinely asking as nicely as he’s capable. “Please.”

“Sure, yeah,” you maintain your downcast gaze and slump back in the chair, wishing for a black hole to open and swallow you up. “What if she doesn’t like it, or what if you don’t?”

“If you like it then it has to be good.”

Eddie’s seemingly endless compliments cause no sense of flattery. Instead, you’re consumed with persisting nausea as you envision a stunning girl seated across from him while they share laughter and partake in unspeakable activities in this very room.

Abruptly, a wave of heat washes over you, causing the soles of your feet and your palms to grow clammy. The scent of newly sprayed Old Spice floods the room and you’re overwhelmed by it, struggling to draw a breath. “I’ll be right back,” You all but choke on your words, swiftly rising to your feet and hastily leaving. Eddie watches curiously as you do.

In the living room, you push the heavy sliding door aside, stepping out onto the balcony to catch your breath. You inhale as deep as physically possible, and the stirring evening breeze cools the hot tears gathered along your lash line. Cars pass by, and you distract yourself by watching a person leisurely walking their dog. You do everything in your power to divert your thoughts away from him and the impending date.

A few minutes later, Eddie emerges from his room and slides open the door to the balcony, poking his head out to check on you. “Y’ready to go?” The shift in your energy is immediately evident to him, though he can’t quite pinpoint what’s amiss. He figures you’ve had a long day and you’re tired from your shift. Maybe you’re a little hangry, too.

With your arms folded on the balcony rail, you continue to look out into the neighborhood. “Go where?” 

“The store, duh. We’ve gotta get ingredients, do we not?” He says to the back of your head.

You nod meekly before turning to face him. “Right. Yeah, I’m ready.”

Eddie flashes a warm smile before sliding the door open wide enough for you to pass through. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand then, hot stuff. We’re losing daylight,” He says, striding toward the front door.

Arguably, you’re not losing daylight fast enough. You wish the sun would fall from the sky. That way, it would always be dark and you could hide in the shadows forever. You follow him inside and slide the closed with a subdued thud.

His car keys drag and jingle while he swipes them off of the counter. Once he reaches the entryway, Eddie drops the keys on the floor beside him as he kneels to put on his sneakers. A few seconds later, you’ve joined him to do the same. Eddie glances at you as he feels the evening breeze that slipped in finally reaching this side of the room. “It’s a little chilly out, wanna borrow a hoodie or something?”

Quickly tying your shoes to avoid prolonged eye contact, you get to your feet, hugging yourself as you do. “No, I’ll be fine.”

Eddie snorts and stands, his shoes now tied as well. “I’m getting you one,” He insists and heads to his room, gesturing for you to follow.

“I said I’ll be fine without one,” You opt not to follow, instead calling out to him to compensate for the distance and his half-open door.

“Shut up, I’m getting you one and you’re gonna wear it ‘cause I said so,” his tone drips with feigned amusement at your stubbornness. “Come in here.”

As you step into the room, Eddie offers you the hoodie, watching as you just stare at it. “Sweetheart, put it on. You’re gonna freeze to death if you don’t. Then, I’ll have no choice but to cancel my super hot date because I’ll be too busy defrosting my ice sculpture of a best friend with a blow drier. You want me to blow you all night? I know you-”

“Okay, okay! I’ll put the damn thing on,” you say, begrudgingly taking it from him. “Happy?”

“Try elated,” Eddie smiles from ear to ear and winks at you, content that you’re allowing him to do what he deems best for you, knowing you’re too stubborn to do so for yourself. He’s got your back, always. Even if it means enduring a bit of attitude in the process. Eddie likes that about you, he always has. With a final glance, he leaves the room, flicking off the light switch.

Left standing in the dark bedroom, you blindly navigate the article of clothing to locate the opening. However, as soon as you go to put it on, it occurs to you that this hoodie is not fresh out of the wash.

The distant floral scent left behind by dryer sheets mingles with his natural aroma, enveloping you as you pull the sweatshirt over your head. He grabbed whatever was at hand, inadvertently submerging you back into the very sensory experience you fled from. The spicey notes from his cologne turn you into a human lava lamp, effectively melting you on the inside.

The mingling of Old Spice, tobacco smoke, his unique essence, and a hint of spring meadow flood your mind. You consider the idea of keeping the hoodie. You could tell him that you forgot to return it, and he’ll forget about it. Eddie can afford to lose one hoodie, he’d survive.

“Let’s go!” He barks, impatience peaking as nerves gnaw at him with each passing minute bringing him closer to the dinner.

Exiting his bedroom, you find Eddie stationed at the front door, propping it open with his foot. Once within his view, you extend your arms and twist your expression to emphasize your annoyed compliance.

“One last thing,” Eddie withdraws his foot, causing the door to slam shut, its latch clanging twice against the wood from the force. He reaches out and pulls the hood up, adjusting it to cover most of your head. “There.”

You stick your tongue out at him, your grin eliciting one from him in return. “Alright, let’s-” He begins, but instead of turning, he fakes you out and grabs both drawstrings. Eddie tugs them, causing the hood to cinch tightly around your face.

“You’re an ass,” You whine.

“Yeah, well,” Eddie turns around to leave this time and holds the front door open for you. “You’re stuck with me.”

With a narrowed glare, you fix the hood and your hair on your way out of the apartment. Eddie is close behind, closing the door and locking it. You take the opportunity to collect yourself and adopt a supportive, cheerful demeanor.

These are gonna be the longest two hours of your life.

You can’t fucking believe it. You’re preparing a meal for another woman, and doing so willingly. You tried to guide him through the prep process, but he grew frustrated. Now, he’s on dish duty, conquering the mountain of dirty dishes piled up on the counter. 

She may be getting a delicious and intimate dinner, but at least you get moments like these. But soon enough, she’ll have them too. If everything goes to plan, the memories of these moments will be all you have left of Eddie. As you lose yourself in the sound of his voice, the ramblings about a sale he made at work eventually circle back to the topic of his evening.

As he excitedly goes on, his voice carries a boyish enthusiasm. Unseen by you, Eddie bounces on the balls of his feet while standing at the sink. Ten minutes seem to fly by unnoticed as you both focus on your tasks.

After taking the food out of the oven, his demeanor flips like a switch. “Oh, it’s time for me to leave apparently,” you acknowledge, barely having the chance to take off the oven mitt all the way before he’s practically pushing you out of the apartment. “Be sure to heat it up at 375 degrees,” You suggest as you struggle to put on your shoes fast enough.

“Sure thing,” Eddie confirms, “I’ll let you know how it goes!”

“Looking forward to it,” You lie. Eddie waves you off before closing the front door. Left standing alone in the eerily quiet hallway, you feel foolish.

Finally arriving home, you crawl onto your bed. The weight of reality crashes down upon you, and you physically collapse under the weight of your emotions. The pain in your chest burns up the back of your throat as you sob. This was a harsh wake-up call, but it’s what you needed to finally confront yourself.

It’s better this way. Not having to reject you outright or politely turn you down, Eddie doesn’t have to hurt simply because you are. This is best because Eddie doesn’t have to feel guilty or pity you. Just as you’ve loved him in silence, you can grieve the loss of him in it too.

Ten minutes pass and just as you’re starting to drift asleep from exhaustion, your telephone rings. The ringing in the kitchen pulls you from your room. You drag your feet on the way there, clearing your throat and taking a deep breath before answering the phone.

“Hey, uh,” Eddie sounds panicked, “Can you come back over? I forgot the most important fucking thing and-”

You cut him off, “Relax, I’ll be there in twelve,” Abruptly ending the call without another word, you rub your sore eyes, blow your stuffy nose, and splash your face with warm water. The last thing he needs is for his night to be ruined because he notices how hard you’ve been crying. If your feelings get in the way of him having a good time with the girl he’s head over heels for, then you don’t deserve his friendship.

Entering the building and letting yourself back into his apartment, you’re caught off guard by how different the space looks. He worked his butt off to tidy the living room and make certain that everything is presentable. Besides being notably neater, you also notice the faint smell of air freshener.

The apartment is blanketed in darkness, illuminated only by the flickering flames of candles and the light from the table lamp in the living room. Hushed music emanates from the record player in his room. It’s a genre you wouldn’t have expected him to own, because of how slow and romantic it sounds. You wonder whether he bought it specifically for this occasion.

Upon hearing the front door creak open, Eddie halts his pacing in the living room. “Thank god, you’re here.”

You teeter on the heels of your feet, feeling out of place in the carefully arranged setting that isn’t meant for you. “I really shouldn’t be. It’s quarter to seven, she’ll show up any minute now.”

Eddie makes his way over to you, rounding the dinner table and draping his arm along the back of the dining chair farthest from where you stand. “No, no. Don’t worry about that, she’s already here.”

Your eyes flit towards the bathroom, expecting to see a sliver of light escaping from beneath the door, yet the hallway is pitch black. There’s no dolled-up gal standing in his room either. You look back at him with a furrowed brow, confusion etched on your face. “Where, exactly?”

He can’t think of a time he’s ever had to remind himself how to breathe correctly. Eddie holds his hand out to you, his anxiety mounting. With hesitation, you extend your hand and place it in his. He wraps his trembling fingers around yours.

Rarely have you been in this position, and in those instances, it was never an act with deeper meaning. It’s only ever happened in urgent moments, like darting across a bustling street to avoid being separated—a mere safety measure.

Eddie’s attention fixates on your hands, willing them to respond to his touch. Then he notices your puffy, reddened eyes. “What’s the matter?” He asks, instinctively squeezing your joined hands.

“It’s stupid,” You pull away from him, retracting your hand to wipe away the smeared mascara beneath your eyes.

Rather than forcibly turning you to face him, Eddie gracefully moves around to stand in front of you once more. “I bet it’s not,” he says softly, his compassionate expression tinged with concern. He reaches for both of your hands this time, praying you can’t feel his pounding pulse through the contact.

Eddie delicately lifts your hands and peppers velvety kisses across the tops of your knuckles. The warmth of your skin against his lips sends a shiver shooting through his core, goosebumps rising across his body.

You emit a wet giggle from the shock, uncertainty, and embarrassment bubbling within you. “What the hell are you doing?”

He chuckles a little too, his eyes sparkling as they reflect the dancing flames behind you. “What’s it look like? This is all for you,” Eddie presses one more featherlight kiss to your hands before lowering them, but he doesn’t let go, keeping them securely in his own. “It’s our first date.”

You’re the prettiest little package of unusual. From the moment he first heard your song, he couldn’t shake you. Eddie couldn’t get your tune out of his system, but it’s not like he wanted to. Never before had anyone shown him such unconditional care; no one had ever gone out of their way to get to know him like you did. You’re the safest thing he’s ever known, but you’re also the scariest, in the best ways possible.

The thought of confessing how you make him complete, unlike anything he’s ever experienced, is nothing short of terrifying. Yet, the fear of not seizing the opportunity to love you outweighs the fear of rejection. There’s no turning back now.

Your eyes wander to the table, taking in the details: the thoughtfully arranged mismatched plates and silverware, the glasses filled with expensive wine. At the end of the kitchen island sits a teddy bear beside a bouquet. In addition to the flower petals, there are red, white, and pink balloons scattered across the floor.

You turn away before he can see your face contort, biting your lip harshly to suppress the sob rising in your throat. It’s all useless, though. A broken cry escapes your lips.

Eddie’s stomach lurches and pressure builds behind his own eyes. The change he just caused is palpable, the damage has been done. He releases both of your hands and plants his on the sides of his head, stepping away. “Shit, shit, shit. I’m such a fucking idiot. I read this all wrong, I thought-”

“You’re not and you didn’t,” you choke out. “They’re happy tears now.”

His frantic expression mellows out, his arms drop to his sides, and the tension in his body gradually dissipates. “Happy tears?”

You respond with a soft hum and nod, a grin forming as you admire the table setting and gifts once more before looking back at Eddie.

“Oh,” he chirps, wearing a cheek-splitting smile as he brings his palms to your face. He wipes away your fallen tears with his thumbs. Eddie studies your expression intently. “I didn’t mean to make you cry sad ones.”

“It’s not your fault,” You close your eyes, relishing the sensation of his fingers calmingly swiping along the apples of your cheeks.

“It is and I’m sorry,” Eddie inches closer, his toes now touching yours. “I wanted it to be a surprise ‘cause I thought spontaneity would make it more memorable.”

You look at him questioningly. “It’s not exactly spontaneous when you had me cook my own dinner.”

“Shit, fair enough. You’ve got me there,” Eddie thought it was a foolproof plan. If you made the food, there was no chance that you’d hate it. “I went about this all wrong, huh? I should scrap the whole thing and start from scratch,” He becomes distracted, his train of thought shifting to how he’s going to clean this up and figure out a different approach.

“Don’t do that. Just ask me,” you grasp his forearm to regain his attention. “Ask me out and maybe I'll say yes.”

“Maybe?” Eddie scoffs airily, unsure if you’re teasing or genuinely undecided. He clears his throat and theatrically composes himself, gesturing with a downward motion of his hand in front of his face. “Okay, uh, would you like to have dinner with me?”

“No.”

Eddie’s mouth falls open.

“I’m fucking with you,” You smile devilishly and wrap your arms around his middle.

Finally, he can hug you the way he’s always wanted. Eddie brings you in close and tight, his arms encircling your head. “You think you’re so funny, don’t you?” He murmurs into your hair, inhaling deeply to indulge in every aspect of you he can.

“A little,” You laugh. You remain in each other’s embrace for a moment longer before easing apart, though still connected by your pairs of lassoed arms.

Eddie’s laughter melds with yours, the relief in his tone evident. “Now that the cat's outta the bag, I can finally tell you that I absolutely love when you’re a crybaby.”

You pull a comical expression, raising your eyebrows and widening your eyes. “What, why?” You take in the scattering of freckles across his T-zone while he responds.

“Honest to god, it’s mesmerizing to watch you experience things so intensely. It’s fucking beautiful,” With nothing but adoration in his eyes, Eddie strokes your hair, relishing the way it feels against his skin. “Can I call you my crybaby?”

“No, you cannot!” You swat at his chest and attempt to push him away, but he laughs smugly and brings you back in close. Your hands find purchase on his biceps, surrendering to him entirely. Locked in each other’s gaze, time seems to crawl.

Eddie’s hands, having made their way down to caress your hips, settle on the small of your back. “How about just baby?” he nudges the tip of his nose against yours, his voice taking on an almost sultry tone. “You like the way that sounds?”

All you can do is nod dumbly, watching his eyes fall to your lips.

Eddie mumbles, “Me too,” His hands flex where they lay, tugging you slightly so that your bodies are flush and you have no choice but to lean against him. “Would it be okay if I kissed you?” Eddie licks his lips, his eyes finding yours again, the chocolate pools of his irises swirling.

You nod, slide your hands up his shoulders, and wrap them around his neck. The air was stolen from your lungs, rendering your voice a ghost. Eddie leans in and his lips hover over yours, your eyes fluttering closed in time with his. Then, you feel the gentle pressure of his lips against your own.

For a few moments, you’re out of sync, a mere beat behind due to nerves. But after taking a brief breath, you find each other without trouble. When you slot your lip between his, it’s as though there’s a sunrise in his veins; a new dawn spreads through his body. You tug a fistful of curls at the nape of his neck, your lips clicking wetly with one another, chests heaving in unison.

When the two of you finally have to part to breathe, Eddie whispers, “Holy shit.”

“You can say that again,” You exhale, releasing the grip you have on his hair and soothingly scratching the area with your nails.

“I mean I could,” Eddie borderline purrs, tightening his arms around your waist. “But I’d much rather keep kissing you.”

“Hard to argue with that,” you smile against his lips and give him a quick peck, which he happily returns. Then, your mind begins to wander. “You got me flowers?”

He can’t discern if there’s a trace of disdain or disbelief in your tone. Eddie knows that you consider flowers cliché and overrated; after all, you deal with them all day. But just because you see them that way doesn’t mean he does.

Eddie pulls away slightly to get a good look at you, “Yeah, of course I got flowers for my flower. How could I not?”

Truthfully, he’s bummed about not being able to find a bouquet as exceptional as you. You’re unlike anything from this world, resembling something from his cherished sci-fi novels. You’re resilient, showing up any old rose or daisy. You unfurled your petals solely for Eddie and allowed him to see you bloom. Nothing on earth compares to you. So, a regular bouquet would have to do.

You comment with a slightly teasing tone, “I had no idea you’re a hopeless romantic.”

“Too much?” Eddie bites his lower lip, afraid that you’re offended.

“No, not too much,” you remove your one hand from his hair and rest it on his chest, drawing mindless shapes while you avoid eye contact. “Far more than I deserve though,” You’re slightly taken aback when Eddie cups your face without hesitation, forcing you to look at him. Despite his assertiveness, his touch is tender.

“Sweetheart,” Eddie’s eyes carry an intensity you’ve never seen, brimming with affection and sincerity. “You deserve everything good that this world has to offer. I can’t give you that, but I can give you all of me. That much I can promise.”

Reblogs are greatly encouraged and appreciated! ♡

★My Masterlist

tags:@nj01@tlclick73

---

this made me audibly scream 🫢

whiplash - e.m.

eddie munson x fem reader

warnings: teeny tiny violence, reader has a panic attack, eddie is the sweetest, eddie and reader are in college

a/n: this is absolutely inspired by my first experience being shoved into a mosh pit at an avenged sevenfold concert when i was a wee teen. i hope you enjoy xx.

also shout out to my love @xxbimbobunnyxx for helping me with the title and some of the dialogue, and my bby @undead-supernova for beta reading for me. ILY BOTH SO MUCH 💕

hot, sweaty bodies were pressed against you at all angles, nearly suffocating you. at this point you couldn’t even see the band playing on the stage, a sea of taller bodies now blocking your view.

when your best friend asked you to attend a metallica concert with her you didn’t exactly know what to expect.

but this definitely wasn’t it.

the small venue was packed, the air filled with the smell of sweat, marijuana and cigarettes. your choice of a leather jacket felt incredibly stupid as it was now tied around your waist due to the growing heat surrounding you.

your palms felt clammy as they clutched onto the hem of your friend’s shirt. the constant moving of the crowd seems to pull her farther and farther away from you. until the swirling pit of metalheads swallowed you both whole, losing sight of her head of blonde hair instantly.

your panicked shouts of her name were drowned out by the screech of an electric guitar— your body now being shoved around to the chants of ‘pounding out aggression.’ the song eerily fitting as you see a ringed fist connecting with another man’s jaw.

your heart is beating in your ears, that familiar feeling of panic washing over you as you continue to be shoved around like a rag doll amongst the group of men. until you somehow landed on top of someone… who had been knocked to the ground moments before you.

before you have time to react a large hand quickly wraps around your forearm, yanking you up and out of the dizzying circle of death. you all but let the stranger carry you through the crowd. the male shoving past throngs of people until you’ve safely reached the back of the bar.

you barely register his voice as you lean against the brick wall, chest rising and falling at an embarrassingly fast rate. your eyes squeeze shut as you attempt to get your breathing under control. those same hands that pulled you out now resting carefully on your shoulders, helping to ground you.

“hey sweetheart, you alright?”

his face finally comes into focus as you blink your eyes open, your heart now beating against your ribs for a completely different reason.

he was painstakingly gorgeous, full lips lifting up into a soft, dimpled smile. “there she is— hey man can i get some water?”

he slaps his hand on the bar top, the clear liquid sloshing out as a glass is slid over to him. his chunky rings clinking against the side as he grips it, now holding it up to your lips. “it’ll help, trust me.” you gladly take the glass from him, gulping down the lukewarm tap water.

“thank you…” you mumble, setting the now empty glass back on the bar and wiping the corners of your mouth. mentally forcing yourself to stay put, despite the bigger part of you wanting to run out of the bar from sheer embarrassment.

“are you here by yourself?” he asks, as you shake your head in reply before resting it against the brick wall behind you. the brunette seems to be studying you as you take in some slow but shaky deep breaths. letting yourself do the same as your heart begins to return to a normal rhythm.

even in the muted light you can see his dark curls were damp with perspiration, bangs sticking to his forehead. no doubt from being in the middle of that pit for quite a while. his cut off band tee showing off an extensive collection of tattoos. that soft smile morphs into a small smirk, as you realize you’ve been gawking at him.

calming breaths long forgotten.

“you can g-go back out there… w-wouldn’t want to keep you from the show.” you fumble over your words, now finding the sticky floor and your beat up sneakers far more interesting than the gorgeous metalhead before you.

the male chuckles, casually resting his shoulder against the wall next to you. his hot breath fanning over your cheek as he leans closer, “not a chance sweetheart. until we find your friends, you’re stuck with me.”

you glance back up at him, surprise crossing your features. knowing most people would gladly leave you behind in the shadows, especially considering the band that’s owning the stage. that sentiment alone makes the butterflies raging your insides flutter even faster. the chaos of the crowd is now forgotten as he grins sweetly down at you.

“i’m eddie by the way.”

the music has seemingly gotten louder since the two of you left the crowd, now having to shout your name back in reply despite the lack of space between you. his smile only widens as you turn to face him fully, crossing your arms over your chest. “and what is a fair maiden like yourself doing in a place like this?”

you can’t stop the giggle from leaving your lips as he gestures dramatically around the dingy bar before his dark eyes are back on you. “oh no reason at all… just needed a study break.” he can tell from the ride the lightning t-shirt adorning your frame that you’re teasing him, but he plays along anyway.

“so you stumble into a random metal concert, only to get caught in a circle of death? that’s quite the break sweetheart.” he nudges your foot with his own, earning another giggle from you. “something like that, yeah.”

he hums in response, running a hand through his unruly curls. “duly noted— i’ll have to take study breaks like that more often,” the two of you quickly fall into easy conversation, no longer paying attention to the concert goers surrounding you.

despite having only met him less than half an hour ago, you both seem quite comfortable with each other. any embarrassment from your small panic attack now a fleeting memory as he tosses his head back with laughter. the sound warming you from the inside, out.

“gotta say i’m a little shocked, first show and you’re already hitting the pits like a pro.” he jokes, leaning in a little closer to you. the scent of his spicy cologne washes over you, making your head spin, “practically took that guy out by sitting on him.”

you groan in embarrassment, playfully shoving his shoulder as he laughs again.

“i’ll have you know i’m quite fond of the music… just not the…” you gesture towards the sea of bodies that are jumping, shoving and headbanging to for whom the bell tolls. “moshing?” he finishes for you, as you nod sheepishly.

before he has a chance to say anything else, a loud squeal fills your ears as a body slams into you at full force. nearly knocking you over in the process, “there you are babes! i’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

earlier you would’ve been relieved to hear your best friend’s voice, but now you can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. hoping your emotions aren’t written across your face, but she doesn’t seem to notice. she’s a little too preoccupied with staring at the male leaning next to you.

“now who is this?” her tone is overly playful, wiggling her eyebrows at you suggestively. before she can embarrass you further, you elbow her in the ribs. effectively stopping anything else from leaving her mouth besides a little huff.

“eddie munson, certified mosh pit rescuer at your service ladies.”

he does a little half bow, causing both of you to break into a fit of giggles. “wow… a modern day knight in shining armor huh?” she teases but seems impressed nonetheless, “wish i had a hot guy to pull me out of there, i basically had to army crawl my way out.”

even in the shitty bar lighting you can see his cheeks are tinted pink from her compliment, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “it was nothing really, just happy to help.” he shrugs before pushing himself off the wall, sliding his hands in the pockets of his ripped jeans.

“modest too? where did you find him?” she gushes, gently bumping her hip into yours. “and does he have a brother?” she whispers that part to you, ignoring the way you roll your eyes at her.

“well i see you’re in good hands now sweetheart, i hope you enjoy the rest of the show.” as he turns to leave you feel your friend shove you forward, giving you a look that screams, ‘are you insane? don’t let him get away!’

“eddie wait!” you shout, gently tugging on the male’s wrist before he gets too far. that dimple making another appearance as he turns back to you, “miss me already?” eddie teases, fully enjoying the flustered look that crosses your features.

“i uh, i-i’d really like to thank my knight in shining armor properly… maybe over coffee?” you nervously chew on your lower lip, praying that you didn’t read this entire interaction wrong.

but seeing his face light up squashes any doubt, watching as he grabs a pen off the bar. holding the cap between his teeth as he takes your hand, scribbling his phone number onto your palm with a satisfied grin.

“looking forward to it sweetheart.”

he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand before disappearing into the rowdy crowd.

tagging some moots who seemed interested 💛

@babygorewhore @hellfirenacht @thepurplelovewitch @impmunson @voyeurmunson @madelynraemunson @take-everything-you-can @corrodedcorpses @serasvictoria @munsonhoneybaby @splendiferous-bitch @eddiesxangel @taintedcigs

all dividers made by yours truly 💕

---

Life on Your Line (Ch. 1)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader

Summary: Cursed to sacrifice your life to save another, you were never able to connect with others, always meant to drift before you could belong. Death was all you knew. Then, one day in Brooklyn, you saved a young man, and for some reason, you kept seeing him again. And again. And again. No matter where you went, across decades, you always found your way back to him.

He was forced to live to destroy, you were forced to die to save—bound together in ways neither of you could understand.

Warnings: Angst (with an eventual happy ending). Death and Dying. Self-Sacrifice (Immortality / Resurrection). Canon-Typical Violence / Description of Wounds. Suicidal Thoughts. Implications and References to Child Death, Suicide, Self-Destructive Behavior / Self-Harm.

Notes:

No use of (Y/N), but you do go by a lot of different fake names over the years; if any of the fake names is your actual name, feel free to make up a name there instead.

Bucky calls you “Rose” (you’ll see why) and you call him "James." If your name is actually Rose... Sorry.

You had a family (specifically, you had a child you loved dearly... Please note "Implications to Child Death" tag).

PLEASE READ WARNINGS CAREFULLY. I will put a warning at the beginning of the chapter if the content is particularly dark. If I missed any warnings, please let me know.

Word Count: 4.6k

CHAPTER 1: August 1935 - June 1943

PART 1: LIFE ON YOUR LINE

How does someone tell a story if they don’t know how it started?

That question always tormented your mind when you opened your journal at the end of the day, staring at the next line waiting to be filled with tales of your life.

You knew how your life in general started. Born to two loving parents and given a brother a few years later. Worked day and night to provide for the family just like your mother did. Grew up with dreams, with some coming true, and always excited for the next day.

But now? You dreaded tomorrow. This dread began when your other life started; when a new story unfolded within you with no prologue—just chapter one and so forth.

Tightening your grip on your pencil, you started your entry the same: with the time and date: 

August 10, 1935. 7:09 PM

From there, you would either write about your day or close the journal, putting it in a large glass jar that’d get hidden next to the other journals, right in between some rocks that decorated your brother’s grave. Today, there was nothing to write about, so you stood up, lightly brushed the dirt off your dress, and then walked away.

<><><>

August 11, 1935. 8:01 PM

You paused, wondering if there was anything worth writing about today. A few seconds went by before you simply exhaled, feeling frustration creeping up in your bones. You shut your eyes, feeling the fading sun slowly take away the warmth on your skin. With another breath, you flipped backward through your journal.

August 10, 1935. 7:09 PM

August 9, 1935. 7:39 PM

August 8, 1935. 8:05 PM

You continued to flip through the pages until eventually, you found the last entry you wrote.

June 19, 1935. 7:56 PM

It’s Henry’s birthday today. It’s hard to believe how much time has passed. I finally went to Manhattan the other day and saw that Clara’s hair had turned gray, and Roy and Ella now have children of their own now. Their children run about happily, and yet I can’t help but think that Henry should have been there to see his grandchildren grow up.  

I can only watch them from a distance. I know I promised Henry that I’d stay close to Roy and Ella, but how could I when I look the same age as them now? They would be horrified if they saw me, and I don’t want my niece and nephew to be scared of me. I know Henry said I should tell them one day, but I never will.

How cruel must the world have been to take him away when I could’ve saved him? Of all people, my baby brother. Why can’t I use this curse to help those I love? Henry should be here. Why must this world be so merciless?

When I saw Clara from afar, I saw it in her body. How she carries the weight of Henry’s absence every day. I could’ve saved her husband. Why didn’t the world let me?

Damn this world. I hate it all.

You slammed the journal closed and dropped to the grass, shoving the journal back into the glass jar before hiding it between the rocks again.

<><><>

For the first time in nearly two months, you found a reason to write more than just the time and date.

August 12, 1935. 7:36 PM

I managed to save a boy’s balloon today. He couldn’t have been more than 15 or 16. He had a balloon and a car rushed by him and the wind made him let go of it. It didn’t surprise me. He was small. If the breeze today was any stronger, he might’ve flown off with it. 

The balloon got caught in the tree and he couldn’t reach for it. No one bothered to help him. Perhaps they expected him to man up and move on as if his sorrow over a lost thing was something foolish. Shame on them.

I went over and pulled it down for him. He thanked me, such a polite little thing, all blonde hair and blue eyes. He wasn’t ashamed for a second for letting a woman like me help him. He told me he was bringing the balloon home for his sick mother. What a good boy she raised. I wonder if my baby girl would’ve done the same for me, bringing me a balloon or pastries when I felt unwell.

Regardless, when I watched him leave, I felt wonderful.

You read through your entry one last time, wondering if there were any more details to add. With a soft smile, you closed your book but quickly paused, feeling a familiar sense of longing overcome you again. You hugged the journal, biting your lips while slowly lowering yourself onto the grass again. You stayed like that for a while, letting the sun slowly set.

It was nice to save something so simple.

<><><>

You were aching like hell, stumbling to your brother’s gravestone before falling to the ground. The grass soaked into your knees as you struggled to open the glass jar and release your journal. With trembling hands, you pulled out a pencil and flipped to the latest page, but you paused at your last entry.

August 15, 1935. 7:25 PM

You stared at it before shaking your head, quickly writing down the newest entry before you forgot any details.

September 16, 1935. 6:48 AM

I saved a boy on August 16, and I woke up feeling as if I were made of broken bones.

It feels as though people on the streets have been getting more reckless, driving around like they’re invincible. I was on my way here to write my next entry. I had stopped by the bakery first to get some eclairs. 

On my way here, I saw a boy and his friend. I recognized his friend, it was the blonde boy who had the balloon. This boy, on the other hand, was taller with dark hair. He also looked older than his friend, like 18 or 19, or maybe his friend was so small that I thought he was younger than he actually was. They were walking away from the deli with a bag full of what I could only assume were snacks.

Then they went to cross the street and I felt the pull. I saw the car right then and there so I ran for him. I pushed him out of the way just in time. It hurt. It really hurt. I believe the car that hit me sped away.

I laid there while people screamed around me. The boys were next to me calling for help. The dark haired boy I saved was crying. He had frost blue eyes and asked me to stay awake, but I knew I wouldn’t.

My body was screaming when I woke up, and yet I found myself on my living room floor. The world didn’t even give me the decency to let me wake up in my bed this time.

With a long sigh, you shut the book and tilted your head back, feeling the wind on your skin. Within one month, the morning sun felt cooler, still warm enough to slowly make your skin sticky, but it was clear that autumn was approaching Brooklyn. You looked back down at the journal, suddenly feeling a rush of resentment toward it. Biting your lip, you quickly hid it in its usual spot before you made any regrettable decisions—you’d made a few of those before. You stood up again with a gasp, patting your dress down before walking off.

You had the same routine every time you returned to life: get a new identity and pretend your past self never existed. You used to move to a different home to avoid walking to the same streets, bumping into the same people, but recently stopped as it became too exhausting to relocate every few months. It was just easier to lie and act like those who recognized you were mistaking you for someone else.

The streets were never quiet, but they were emptier, as it was still early in the morning. You sped toward your workplace, knowing your best friend would’ve already arrived. You could see the Riverside Bookshop in the distance, carefully moving past strangers in case someone familiar was among them.

You walked right in with a huff of breath, the bell above the door ringing. Footsteps immediately caught your attention, and you looked up to see a woman in her fifties walking around one of the bookshelves. She went to speak, but she froze.

“Hi, Minnie,” you said, shifting in your stance. “Um, so…”

“You look awful.” Minnie sighed before shaking her head. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks,” you murmured while approaching her. “I’d say I’m sorry for skipping work, but you already know the drill.”

“You bet I do,” she replied, her eyes scanning you. “You need Lewis to fix you up with a new identity?”

You exhaled with relief in your voice. “I’d appreciate that. Sorry, though. I know it’s only been a few months since—”

She raised a hand to stop you. “Don’t give it a second thought. He won’t mind a bit. It’s a shame, though. Sherry was a nice name for you.”

You nodded in exhaustion, fidgeting with your fingers as you tried to shake off the weight of it all. Minnie was still staring at you, watching you quietly.

“I heard what happened,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she gauged your reaction.

You froze, your heart skipping a beat as you quickly turned to her. “What? How did you—”

“Ada from church told me.” Minnie picked up a stack of misplaced books. “It was inevitable someone would talk about it. The ‘lady who died in a car accident saving a boy,’ you know? It was all anyone was talking about for days.”

A cold shiver ran down your spine. Though you had gone through this process numerous times, it was often in a quieter place, with fewer bystanders to witness your less dramatic death. You stood up straighter as your heart pounded against your chest. “Was…was anyone who knew me there?” you asked, your voice trembling a little.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “None of my friends. All they’ve been calling you is ‘the lady.’ That’s it.”

You let out a deep breath that was restrained, the knot in your stomach loosening. “That’s…that’s good,” you muttered. “No one knows it was me.”

Minnie watched you for a moment before sighing softly. “I don’t know how you do it,” she said, putting one of the books back in its original place. “Die and come back for strangers. Every time.”

Your lips went ajar as you looked at the floorboards. You shrugged, the familiar weight of it all pressing down on you once more. “It’s just…how it is,” you quietly said. “I feel a pull, and I know whoever is in danger right then and there needs saving. It’s like something inside me is telling me to do it. I don’t have a choice.”

Minnie watched you for a moment, her lips pressed together as she let out a slow breath. You could see the sadness in her eyes, though she said nothing. As your childhood friend, she had been with you since you were given this curse, keeping your secret while she grew older. She knew this was how it was, as much as she hated it.

“Do you want to work today, or would you rather take a day off?” she asked, her voice soft but steady.

“I’d rather work,” you answered rather quickly. “I feel bad for leaving you alone for a month.”

“We’ve been through this before, and it’s okay.” Minnie grinned before glancing at your knees. “Maybe you want to go home and change, though. Your dress is stained.”

You blinked before glancing down at where the grass had left dirt and morning dew on your knees. Your cheeks turned red as you cleared your throat, “I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Take your time. You just came back.”

You nodded, but you hastily left the store and rushed home, desperate to get right back to organizing bookshelves and cleaning the windowsills.

Right. That was also part of your routine: live your life as if you didn’t die a horrible death a month ago.

<><><>

June 12, 1943. 7:19 PM

June 14, 1943. 9:22 AM

For the first time in a long while, I’m late to write in this journal, and it wasn’t because I died. I ended up going to a little gathering Minnie hosted last night and it was fun. Well, I guess everything is always fun when people don’t really know who you are, right? You can make up any story you want. It’s always a little strange pretending to be Minnie’s niece… But still, it was really nice to find some joy in these times. 

It’s been scary. The war is getting crazier and they’re only dragging more people in. Minnie’s been upset over Robert getting dragged to war. I can’t blame her. She has every right to fear for the safety of her grandson. I’m just worried that she will have a heart attack like Lewis from this whole thing. I don’t want to lose her too. We can only hope that Robert comes back home safe and sound.

You paused, your hand suddenly trembling around your pencil. With a quiet, shaky breath, you finished the entry.

Sometimes, I wish I were on the battlefield next to Robert. Because maybe, if needed, I could save him like I should’ve with Henry.

Setting down the pencil, you shut the book and slid it into your bag under the front table. You swallowed the lump in your throat and forced yourself to stand up straight. It was hot and empty in the store, the kind of warmth that would annoy the average person, but you were used to it. You tugged on your collar, feeling the fabric peel from your skin, and you groaned. 

Okay, maybe you weren’t used to it as much as you hoped.

“It's hot, isn’t it?”

You looked up at Laura, Minnie and Lewis’s daughter who had taken over Riverside Bookshop since Minnie retired. It was still crazy to you that you watched Laura grow up her entire life, and there she was now, physically older than you. “Yeah, it is.”

Laura chuckled, dusting off the tops of the shelves, “At least we don’t have to spend our day outside.”

You hummed, stepping around the front desk to help with tidying up the store. There was not much to do as they hadn’t had a lot of people come in lately, as the war waged on, but you couldn’t just stand around and do nothing. You wiped down the reading areas, removing the dust from the tables when you heard the bell above the door ring.

“Hello! Welcome in,” Laura greeted the customers with melody in her voice, as if her son wasn’t currently fighting for his life on the other side of the planet. “Let us know if you’re looking for anything in particular.”

You briefly peeked past the shelves to see a boy and a girl. The teenage, dark-haired girl looked around the store in awe while the dark-haired boy—or rather, a young man—in a military uniform watched her with a smile.

“Like I said, you can pick any book you want,” he told the girl, who snapped her head up at him.

“Really? Jimmy, is that alright?”

“Of course it is, Becca,” he laughed, gently nudging her shoulder. “Just don’t tell Annie and Betty. I don’t need them thinking I have a favorite sister.”

“Even though I am?” she teased.

“As long as you’re quiet about it.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at their conversation. It made your heart warm to see siblings get along very well. You and your brother had been very close, with you starting as his protector and then switching roles once he grew taller and stronger than you. Lately, you had seen a lot of siblings argue and fight and refuse to talk to each other altogether. It made you want to scream; you wanted them to understand that their sibling was someone they could always trust to have their back.

So hearing those two giggle as they roamed around the store made your voice soft with your own giggles. You continued to tidy up the store, cleaning off dust from the lovely books and reorganizing any that were out of place. It was nice and calm in the room, and despite the heat, you felt yourself smiling like how your mother would when listening to you and Henry joke around.

Although you did sometimes forget that you were now around the same age as your mother when she passed away. An old lady in the body of a young woman, forever trapped in time.

“My brother is leaving tomorrow.”

You perked your head up, eavesdropping on the girl, Becca, speaking to Laura on your right. “He’s going to fight in the war tomorrow, so he wanted to get me a gift.”

Your smile vanished as you heard Laura speaking, immediately noticing the motherly terror in her voice at learning about the young man’s leave, “I see. That’s sweet of him to get you a gift. You like reading?”

“Honestly, I don’t read much, but my brother reads all the time and he used to share these stories with me. I guess I wanted to read more because of him.”

Her words soothed your heart, and you found yourself smiling again, only with sadness this time. Becca clearly admired her older brother, her voice tinted with sorrow while she put on a brave face for others. You softly sighed, gripping the book in your hand tightly before placing it back on the shelf.

Then, you began to hear someone walking closer on your left. You looked up to see the young man, Jimmy, approach you with a gentle smile, and you immediately grinned back without the sadness.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he started, his warmth radiating off of him, “do you know where I can find—”

He froze, his smile immediately dropping as his eyes locked onto yours. You faltered briefly, perplexed by the loss of warmth in the young man, and—though you didn’t want to admit it—you were slightly intimidated by his gaze. As a horrified frown took over his lips, you took note of his frost-blue eyes.

…Wait.

No, it couldn't—

“Yes?” you quickly spoke, trying to mask the sudden intensity between the two of you. You forced out a lovely smile, though his expression continued to twist. “How can I help you?”

But the young man didn’t reply. He just continued to stare so deeply into your eyes that maybe they were hurting a bit. Or maybe it was because you were trying to keep your own emotions in check. To stop any tears from forming. This was ridiculous—you shouldn’t cry over this, but you couldn’t help but wonder if this was really the boy you—

“It’s you,” he suddenly breathed out, his voice too soft for anyone but you to hear.

You blinked, pretending to be confused when you knew exactly who you were looking at. “I’m sorry? I don’t follow.”

“You—” He suddenly stepped back as if he was staring at a ghost; to be fair, you could be one. His chest heaved and his lips began to quiver. “You saved me. It’s you. It’s—”

You raised both of your hands quickly, plastering more confusion into your face while the concern was real. “Whoa, sir. Are you alright? You don’t look so well.”

“Jimmy?” Becca walked over from behind you, holding a book with furrowed eyebrows. “Jimmy, what’s going on?”

But the young man didn’t respond to his sister. He could only keep his eyes on you, and you could only do the same. Laura joined you all while you took a breath and put on another smile, more gentle and warm than the last, though chills continuously went up your spine. “I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow what you’re saying…” 

“I…” His hands lightly shook as his eyes shifted all around, taking in your face every possible way. Trying to digest the appearance of the woman who saved his life.

But she was dead. He learned later in the day at the hospital, where he had gone with his mother and his friend to thank the woman, that she had died. That her body had failed on her before she even made it to the hospital and was soon to get buried.

Her name was Sherry.

Upon hearing the news, the boy collapsed to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably as his mother tried to soothe him. He suddenly remembered the woman’s face so clearly—how the blood heavily coated her skin and light slowly faded from her eyes. It was his fault she died. 

The boy’s friend stood frozen, unable to process the death of the woman, watching his friend crumble before he lost it too.

Because maybe they were a bit more careful, you’d be alive.

You bit the inside of your mouth as Becca reached for her brother's shoulder, gently shaking him. “Jimmy…?”

He suddenly blinked rapidly, realizing his stance, and shook his head. “I, uh—” he cleared his throat and smiled embarrassingly, “I’m sorry. I’m fine.”

Laura narrowed her eyes, clearly concerned for the young man. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Um, I’m sorry, ma’am.” He turned his attention back towards you, his gaze no longer intense but now just heavy. “I didn’t mean to scare you out. I… You just look like someone I knew.”

Your stomach coiled. Suddenly, you felt so sick.

Although you couldn’t see her directly, you felt Laura’s eyes on you, realizing what the young man meant by his words. You forced a smile once again, acting like you weren’t dying on the inside. “It’s alright. I’m…I’m sorry that I’m not who you were expecting.”

He shook his head. “It’s not your fault. It’s just… The person you remind me of is very important to me. But that’s no excuse for scaring you. I’m sorry.”

He smiled at you again, but your chest only tightened by the hurt in his eyes. He desperately wished you were the one who saved him all those years ago—the one who pushed him out of the way and died in his stead—the one who he deemed to be very important in his life.

But you were. You really were. But you bit back your words and returned the grin. “It’s alright. It happens.”

He nodded, though the hesitation was evident. He turned to his sister and gestured to the book. “Is that the one?”

Becca, still eyeing him down with furrowed eyebrows, slowly nodded. “Yeah. Jimmy, are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m alright.” He nudged her shoulder playfully before taking her book. 

Laura gestured to the desk behind her. “I can take care of that for you at the front.”

Jimmy and Becca followed her to the front desk, their footsteps soft against the worn wooden floor. You lingered behind, drifting toward a nearby shelf and running your fingers along the spines of books. In reality, you were only putting distance between yourself and the young man, as if that could settle the unease curling in your stomach.

Still, even without looking, you could feel him glancing at you. A flicker of attention. A hesitation. A longing.

To force a sense of normalcy, you lifted your head and met his eyes with a polite, easy smile. Nothing too stiff, nothing too strained—just enough to make it seem like everything was fine. He faltered, his fingers curling around the book tighter while his lips pressed into a thin line. Then he exhaled and gave you a small, apologetic smile in return.

He was sorry, but for what? For your lies?

The siblings took their purchase and made their way toward the door—Jimmy didn’t dare to look at you again. The bell jingled as they stepped out, but the second they were gone, you spun toward the front desk. Laura stepped back with a quiet breath, watching you yank your journal from your bag and quickly flip through the pages.

“Auntie?” she said, trying to calm you down, but you couldn’t.

You couldn’t because you knew. You knew. But still, you just had to check. You had to make sure it was really—

The dark haired boy I saved was crying. He had frost blue eyes and asked me to stay awake, but I knew I wouldn’t.

The journal fell from your grasp as you stumbled back into the chair, tripping over it and tumbling to the floor. Clutching at your chest, you bit your lip as you tried to control your unsteady breathing. Laura swiftly kneeled next to you, holding onto your shoulders as she whispered.

“Hey, it’s alright. Auntie, it’s alright.” She glanced at your journal as if it carried some terrible omen. “Do you need a second?”

“I…” You inhaled sharply before letting out a slow breath. “I think I need a bit of water.”

“Alright, I can get that.” Laura stood up, uneasy about leaving you but still hurrying off to fetch a drink.

You just sat there. Staring at your journal.

At one point, Laura did come back and give you water. Let you hide behind the front desk on the floor, pretending you weren't in the room when other customers would stop by and wouldn’t see you. You sat there with the journal in your hands for a while, quiet in your whirling thoughts as the need to write crawled up your skin.

Soon, you found a pencil.

June 14, 1943. 10:47 AM

I lied. Not everything is as fun as it seems when no one knows who you are. How do you tell someone — someone who thinks you're dead — that you're so glad they lived?

I saved that boy so long ago and he recognized me. That never happened before — no one remembers me.

His frost blue eyes are as vibrant as before and I think he's roughly the same age as Robert now. How amazing is that? That he got to grow up that much? And he has a sister—I think he has a couple of them. He seems like such a sweet boy, buying his sister a book just to make her happy. He looked so happy doing it too.

I overheard that the boy young man is leaving tomorrow. 

Why? Why would they let him do this? They can’t. I saved him once, but now he’s off to a place where I know I can’t reach him. 

Why would the world let me save him just to let him die young?

That girl is going to lose her brother just like how I lost mine.

This isn’t fair. None of this is fair. I just want it to end.

NEXT CHAPTER >

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