Time's Never Been On Our Side - Chapter One
time's never been on our side - chapter one
pairing: bucky barnes x reader
summary: you and bucky happen to meet by chance one night, and it feels like there is a spark between the two of you - but he has to leave. was this destiny? or cruel fate?
word count: 3K
a/n: ahhhh first chapter of my new fic! i can't wait to write more and explore this plot. thank you all who voted in my poll! this was the fic i was leaning towards so i hope you all enjoy reading as much as i did writing :)
read the: next chapter
There’s nothing that Bucky enjoyed more after months undercover than a dive bar in the greatest city in the world – the city he was lucky to call home. New York had been there to wish him farewell when he left for the war and had welcomed him back with open arms after his deprogramming over seven decades later.
That’s why he loved the city; it changed rapidly but it never felt different.
He had a list of bars he’d like to frequent, most of them small and quiet, the sound of some 90s rock band coming from the speaker and the smell of smoke lingering in the air. He liked places that didn’t ask questions. Places that felt like he could blend in seamlessly.
His life as the Winter Soldier was so far removed now, a life where he had been both infamous and a ghost. They never saw the Winter Soldier, but they knew of his stories.
Now, he was just happy to be Bucky. Though, and he’d never admit it to Steve, he was tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of missions. There was always something new, though there was hope in the back of his mind that one day he could quit, settle down, start a new life. But that’s all it was, wasn’t it? Hope, not something he was capable of actually doing.
Bucky felty an immense amount of guilt about his time as the Winter Soldier, but he felt even worse when he thought about Steve. The man had done so much for him, he believed in him, he found him, he fought for him – when he called for another mission how was Bucky supposed to say no?
His thoughts are interrupted when he hears the door of the bar open, his ears perking up and his attention brought back to reality. That was how he was conditioned. There was always a threat, he always needed to be on guard.
He hadn’t been there long when you walked in, the ice in his whiskey had barely begun to sweat. His head turns to look at the front door, eyes watching as you sit down next to him at the barstool, not even sparing him a passing glance.
Bucky turns his head back to his drink, his brain working in overdrive to drown out the memories of his last mission. His therapist – ugh, he hated that – had suggested that continuing to fight might not be great for his stress but he couldn’t slow down. That’s when he felt like he would let Steve down and, honestly, that’s when the thoughts were worse.
“What’s good here?” Your voice hits him before he has a chance to realize you’re talking to him, his grasp on his glass clenches for a moment before he slowly turns his head, your gazes catching. It feels like ice is pumping through his veins as you two look at each other, a shiver running down his spine that he does his best to ignore.
Your eyes watch him carefully, this stranger is looking at you like you had just asked the most ridiculous question he had ever heard.
“Nothing.” His voice is gruff and unwavering, a hint of humor in it if you were to listen close enough.
You smirk a bit at his response, unphased by his disgruntled attitude towards you.
“Good to know.” You hum to yourself a bit, squinting your eyes as you look at the alcohol selection behind the bar, eventually just settling on a beer that seems safe as the bartender serves you.
You have Bucky’s attention now, he watches as you bring the bottle to your lips, your brows furrowed together as you wonder how a bar can get away with selling such stale beer.
“Not up to your tastes?” he asks, seeing the face you make after you sip.
“Try about five years past its expiration.” You say, head turning to look at the man next to you.
He’s watching you intently and you would normally feel exposed under such a gaze, as if he’s trying to read your every thought with just a look. But, there’s something warm and inviting underneath the cold stare, something that makes you relax a bit.
“I’ll give you some advice – when in doubt, always go with whiskey.” His metal hand picks up his glass, tipping it towards you before bringing it up to his lips.
You chuckle a bit as you hang your head, shaking it. What an asshole.
“You couldn’t have told me that like two minutes ago when I asked?”
He smirks for a quick moment; it fades as soon as it appears.
“You asked what was good. I said nothing. I didn’t lie.” He quips back. “I just didn’t think it was necessary to go into all the details.”
You rake your eyes over this stranger as he speaks. Despite being seated you can tell he’s tall, well built – no doubt. He looks like he hasn’t seen sleep in a few days, and the dark hair on his face is between scruff and a beard. And despite it all, handsome.
“Thanks.” You mumble sarcastically before tipping the bottle of beer again, taking another sip.
“You don’t seem like someone who frequents these places.” Bucky’s not entirely sure why he continues to engage with you. He visits these bars to get away from people, to not be disturbed, not to talk to some random woman who had just sat down. Though it’s very out of character for him, he continues nonetheless.
“That’s a bit presumptuous.” Though he’s not wrong, you make no effort to correct him. “And what do you mean by these places?”
“You know ...” he shrugs a bit, searching around the room.
You know exactly what he means. The bar is small, cramped actually, you two are one of five people in the place including the bartender. The walls were dark and uninviting, behind the smell of cigarettes was a deep rooted hint of musk. Beer signs hung on the wall, all which were slightly off centered, and the TV that hung, which was in fact muted, had been flickering for quite some time. It wasn’t a place that you would come to, but you had stormed out of another bar and this was the first place you landed on, and you needed a drink badly.
“Places where you don’t have to ask what to get.” He’s teasing, there’s a soft sparkle in his eye for a moment as he takes in your features. You roll your eyes at him, feeling your hand grip the bottle of your beer tighter.
“I was looking for a change of scenery.” You say. “ And my ex is at the bar I usually hang out at.”
You had been broken up for months, actually, he had moved on at this point. New girlfriend, new apartment, and there was no malice there, or jealousy. Sometimes it felt like you were stuck. Like you couldn’t move forward or find someone new. You stayed at your old job, in your old apartment, single. It wasn’t that you wanted him, it’s that it was too difficult to feel happy for someone when you weren’t happy in your own life.
“Ah, classic.” Bucky says, nodding empathetically.
“Yeah,” you shrug as you take another sip of your beer, it’s starting to go down a lot smoother now. “I didn’t get your name.”
You can see the hesitation in his eyes, like he doesn’t want to tell you, but it’s quickly replaced with something more meaningful, something you can’t really read.
“Bucky.”
“Bucky.” It rolls off your tongue easily as you repeat it, and it also fits him perfectly. He looked like a ‘Bucky’. You say your name back and you can see he makes a mental note of it. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He grunts a bit in response as he takes another sip of his drink, the liquor burning but he shows no change in his facial features.
“Are you someone who frequents these places?” You ask.
“You could say that.” He responds, his glass now resting on the wood bar, though he makes no attempts to clarify. “Are you from around here?”
“Yes and no.” You say with a shrug. “Grew up across the river, moved into the city once I was able to get a full time job. Now I live around the corner in the East Village in my shitty one bedroom that costs way too much.” He laughs at that. “What about you?”
“I was born and raised in Brooklyn.” Bucky explains, looking down at his drink. “Joined the army, did some things here and there, and now I’m what most would consider a nomad.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“Haven’t settled down … my work requires me to travel a lot for extended periods of time. If I find myself with downtime in a city I just usually book a hotel for a few days until I need to leave.”
Bucky cannot, for the life of him, figure out why he is telling you all this information. It’s like his brain is in some sort of fog and he can’t stop himself from speaking. He was leaving tomorrow for another mission, he didn’t need you, a random stranger, knowing all this about him. Bucky didn’t like to get attached, or feeling like he left any loose ends.
When he had finished his mission upstate earlier that day he was excited about some time off, being in New York was few and far between now for him so he wanted to make the most of his time. But, when Steve had called and said that he needed help on a month-long mission - how could Bucky refuse?
“What do you do for work?”
You can tell the question makes him shift a little in his seat, uncomfortable by whatever he does and the need to always be moving.
“I’m a soldier, of sorts.” He says, though he doesn’t elaborate. “Actually, I’m only in town for the night. I have a flight out in the morning.”
“Where to?”
“That’s classified.”
The response makes you chuckle a bit, feeling your cheeks heat up slightly. Of course it was. You were just enthralled by this enigma of a man that you couldn’t help but ask, it was worth a shot.
You and Bucky spend a few more drinks together, the night passing by quickly as the two of you talk. You pick up that he eyes his watch a few times, knowing that the hours are ticking by and it’s getting later, he had an early flight in the morning but he makes no attempts to stop your conversation, as if he’s just making a mental note of when he needs to leave.
It’s a little after midnight now, about two hours had passed since you had made your way into the bar. Somehow you two were huddled a little closer than what would normally be considered friendly, your elbows touching as you both lean on the bar. It feels like the universe is pulling you together, like magnets slowly inching their way towards one another.
Bucky’s in the middle of telling you a story about a friend of his, he makes no mention that it’s Steve Rogers, and the both of you are laughing at the absurdity of it.
“And then he says to me,” Bucky clears his throat before lowering his voice an octave to do an impression. “Now, Buck, if I could have a word with you. Have you ever thought of … smiling a bit more?”
“He said that?!” You ask, your eyes a bit hazy from the alcohol. You had made the switch over to whiskey per Bucky’s earlier recommendation. “In front of everyone?”
“In front of everyone!” He says, his eyes wide slightly. He’s glad you found the story just as absurd as he did. “Not that I care, but also why right at that moment?”
“Your friend sounds like something else.”
“You can definitely say that about …” he trails off, remembering that he didn’t want to mention Steve’s name. “... him. We’ve been buddies for a long time, I know he means well, but sometimes I wish he would just shut his mouth.”
The two of you laugh again, filling the otherwise silent bar with some much needed warmth.
“Hey,” you say after the laughter dies down and there’s a moment of silence between the two of you. “I’m sure you probably have to get out of here soon, but do you wanna stop and get a slice of pizza together?”
Drunk food sounded like heaven to both of you. Bucky hadn’t realized he was starving until you mentioned it, he actually wasn’t even sure he had eaten that day. The hours post missions tended to blend together most of the time until he was able to either sleep, or find some alcohol to down. And you didn’t realize how badly you were craving anything that wasn’t whiskey, you weren’t sure how this man drank this at all. You felt like your whole body was on a fire - though the more you thought about it, it could also be the scent of Bucky’s cologne that’s making you feel that way - but, the whiskey was definitely hard to stomach.
He nods his head over to the door, the two of you standing up from the barstools. Both of your tabs are paid by the time you make it out to the street, the cool air hitting you like a slap in the face. Bucky is behind you, shrugging on his leather jacket as you both begin to walk in the direction of the pizzeria.
“I’m surprised you’re not in Brooklyn.” you say to him, your head turning in his direction, watching as he puts his hands inside his jacket pockets. “You only have one night in the city and you decided to stay in Manhattan.”
“Yeah.” He shrugs a bit, not meeting your gaze. What he doesn’t tell you is how hard it is to go back to Brooklyn, to walk the streets he grew up on and know that everyone he’s ever loved had passed on, how all the memories he had were all just distant, haunting reminders of the life he wasn’t able to have. “Thought I’d change it up a bit.” He lies easily, wishing to drop the conversation.
A few minutes pass, and two slices are secured, both of you standing on the sidewalk outside the pizzeria trying to down them as you talk about everything and nothing. Now, in the streets of the city, the two of you are just one of hundreds of people enjoying their night, unlike the private, secluded nature of the bar. Although he doesn’t show it, Bucky is on alert, watching every person who passes by and treating them as a threat, all while maintaining a light conversation with you … and eating his pizza. He was a good multi-tasker.
It’s when the two of you are finished and were walking back in the direction towards Bucky’s hotel that the weight of realization hits both of you. This was the first and last time either of you would see each other. A one night only, ships passing in the night, hello and goodbye.
“I had fun.” You whisper softly, the quiet around the both of you suddenly feeling suffocating. Bucky doesn’t respond back, his eyes on the ground ahead of him, his thoughts of not wanting this to end weighing heavily on his mind. “When’s the next time you’re going to be in New York?”
“I’m not … I’m not sure.”
Your shoulder accidentally brushes against his as you walk and you’re sure that your whole body is on fire now. How unfair was this? Meeting someone new and exciting for the first time in months, someone who made you forget about the empty, lonely feeling bubbling deep in your gut? It was all a cruel joke set up by the universe. Of course he would be off tomorrow and you would most likely never see him again.
“This is me.” He says, as the two of you stand outside of his hotel.
Neither of you want to meet the other's eyes, neither want to make the first move to say goodbye. You barely knew him, yet something inside of you felt like you did, or at least wanted to find out in the future.
“You could text me some time?” You ask.
You watch his face and how he hesitates to say anything. His metal hand grips and releases into fists at his side. He’s thinking of all the ways he wants to tell you no. That he can’t let a loose end exist in his world.
“Sure.” His voice betrays his mind, he digs into his coat to grab his phone handing it over to you. You quickly type in your number and send yourself a text.
Bucky’s number .
He reads the text you sent when you hand him his phone back and he smirks to himself.
“How original.”
“It seemed like something you’d say.”
The both of you stand there for a moment, searching each other's faces, before Bucky takes a step back, the sound of his leather boot hitting the concrete snapping you back into reality.
“It was nice meeting you.” He whispers.
“You too, Bucky.”
He gives you one last glance over before he turns on his heel, briskly walking into the hotel and leaving you to the dark streets of the city. A gust of wind hits you and you pull your jacket closer to yourself as you head off in the direction of your apartment. Had it always been this cold? Or did the distraction of Bucky have you so far removed from reality you hadn’t realized?
It’s me :)
You text back as you stand in the elevator to your apartment. Three dots appear on your screen and quickly fade. It’s late. He had an early flight. Surely you’d hear from him soon enough. You hoped.
More Posts from Spookyreads and Others
body wash- bucky barnes avenger!fem reader x bucky ft bestie sam
A sweetness washes over you as you side up to Bucky and Sam, the familiar scent catching you off guard because it is not you who smells like that you are far from smelling pleasant. Dirt and blood cake your skin, tight braid holds your filthy hair back from your equally muddy face, but when Fury calls from a debrief, there is very little time to clean yourself up beyond a quick spray of the deodorant left behind on the quinjet and the canned summer floral breeze does little to mask the stench of earth and gore.
You file in between the two men. Sam equipped with his wings and Bucky's hulking shoulders do little to give you room to walk between the two of them but you manage, pushing back against your shoulders to keep pace.
"So which one of you two used my body wash?" you question as you turn the corner, eyeing Bucky, who is already staring at you, eyes narrowing before schooling his expression back into neutrality.
"Don't know what you're talking about, sweetheart." He quirks a smile at you before flicking his eyes to Sam. "But Bird Boy over there smells an awful lot like you."
"How do you know what she smells like, Barnes?" Sam is quick with his retort, knocking against your shoulders with his and on any other given day, you would have pushed him back but after the mission you had just been off, your body gave into the shove. Ricochetting into Bucky who is already holding his hands up and out to steady you as your sway on your aching feet.
Fingers slide over the small of your back, the other wrapping around your arm to hold you upright and just as quickly as you're knocked off balance, you're pushed back into equilibrium with the help of the super solider.
"You right, hon?" Bucky asks, voice softer than earlier, hands lingering on you as he waits for an answer.
For a moment the only thing you can focus on is the gentleness with which he holds you, never having experienced for yourself before only witnessing it on the battlefield and missions as he cared for women and children, soft hands and even softer tone guiding them to safety under his protection. It stirs something within you, something deep in your chest and even deeper in your gut, heat blooming where it should not. He is your teammate, your mission partner, maybe a friend on your good days so why were you feeling like you wanted him to hold you forever, to never move his hand from the small of your back, to grip you a little tighter, to... no.
"Yeah, I'm fine," you shake the thoughts away, the world swaying a little as your head moves in rapid succession. "Just a little tired."
Bucky does not remove his hands but the pressure on your arm lessens.
"Need me to carry you?" he teases, lips quirking in a smirk.
You debate taking him up on his offer not just because you are beyond exhausted but because you want to have him close. Find out if the muscles that fill out his shirt work, to feel the cold of his arm, his heartbeat, stubble on your forehead as he presses a kiss to your hairline. What would he kiss like? Is he someone who rushes with heavy breaths and lots of tongue or is he soft and slow pulling moans and gasps from you like honey from a jar? Would he hold your cheeks, stroking his thumb over your skin or keep you close with a hand on the back of your neck? Is he the type to savour the feel of your mouth on his or does he explore, tasting the skin of your neck and collarbones, following the line of your shoulder, then back and down and down and-
"Hey, kid! You alright?" You're shaken out of your thoughts, body swaying as Bucky tries to get your attention. "Do you need to go to the medic?"
"I... no....I'm..." your stuttering does nothing to ease the growing tension radiating from Bucky. "I'm okay, I just got a little distracted. I'm okay." You pull your body out of his grip, bumping into Sam as you wretch yourself free.
Another pair of hands grip your shoulders and hold you upright but even as Sam holds you with the same gentleness Bucky did, there is no fire, no static beginning to buzz in your fingertips, it's just Sam.
"Are you sure? Did you hit your head or something?" Concern creases Bucky's forehead as he ducks his head to get a better look at you. He clasps your chin between his thumb and forefinger, bringing your gaze up as he scans your eyes for concussion. Blue eyes frantically search yours and you feel the heat blooming again.
"Buck, I'm fine." you shake your face free, pushing against his shoulders to create distance in an effort to smother the fire building under your skin. "I've just finished a week-long mission, I'm tired and I stink and I just want to get this over with."
Sam's hands loosen on your shoulders as you step forward out from between them. "Honey-" Bucky tries again but you hold up a hand to cut him off.
"James, I'm fine. I just got distracted for a second thinking about which one you stole my body wash." the attempt to change the subject is weak but it's better than standing there with him so close. "I'm gonna see if I can get his meeting over and done with-" you jab your thumb towards the end of the hall. "and then if you don't hear from me by tonight, then you can come and check on me but let me shower and get back to being a human, yeah?"
Step by step you inch away from the two until you are far enough away you can turn and head to the door with heated cheeks and a racing heart. Fuck.
----
"What did you do to her, man?" Sam accuses, shoving Bucky's arm.
"I didn't do anything!" Bucky shrugs as he starts to go over the last few minutes in his mind but nothing stands out as out of the ordinary.
"Well, you obviously did something. I've never seen her freaked out like that" Sam gestures towards your retreating figure.
"Do you think it was the body wash thing 'cause I only used it 'cause I had nothing left." Bucky's confession is whispered, afraid you might hear him and come back for revenge. He knows how pedantic you are about your bath and body products but he really did run out of his usual soap and he wasn't not going to wash himself. "Plus it smells nice, I like the way she smells."
Sam squints at Bucky, trying to connect the pieces as to whether or not his friends had something more than they were letting on.
"I'll buy her some more in the morning." Bucky nods, turning his attention the the sound of the door closing at the end of the hall.
"I don't think it was the body wash, Buck."
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader
Prompt: Y/N and Bucky are always arguing but underneath the arguing there is something more.
---
The safehouse was quiet, save for the scratch of Y/N’s boot across the floor as she paced in tight, agitated circles. Sam sat on the worn couch, nursing a coffee, watching her with an amused expression.
“You’re gonna wear a trench in the tile,” he said.
Y/N didn’t look up. “Then maybe someone will finally fix the plumbing while they’re at it.”
Before Sam could respond, the door opened with a low creak.
Heavy boots. A leather jacket. A glint of metal. Blue eyes.
Y/N stopped pacing but her heart began to beat faster.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered.
“Good to see you too,” Bucky Barnes said flatly, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him.
Y/N’s eyes swept over him before she could stop herself.
His hair was shorter than the last time she’d seen him, the scruffy length replaced by something neater, sharper—but it didn’t make him look any less like trouble. If anything, it made the angles of his face more striking, the steel in his eyes harder to ignore.
He wore a pair of dark blue jeans that fit him a little too well, paired with a simple gray t-shirt that stretched just enough across his chest to be distracting. Over it, the familiar dark leather jacket—worn at the edges, like it had seen more than its share of nights just like this one.
Still him. Still Bucky. A little more tired. A little more unreadable. Still ridiculously, unfairly good-looking.
Sam groaned, standing on the opposite side of the room, already knowing what was about to take place. “Here we go…”
Y/N crossed her arms, eyes narrowing like she’d just been handed a punishment rather than a mission. “I thought you were off brooding in Brooklyn or whatever it is you do when you’re not starting bar fights.”
“I got a call,” Bucky replied, jaw already tight like it physically pained him to be in the same room. “Didn’t realize you’d be here, or else I would’ve said no.”
Y/N blinked slowly, unamused. “Aw, and here I thought you missed glowering at me across the room.”
Sam raised both hands, already regretting life. “Okay. Ground rules—no stabbing, no sniping, no snide comments, no killing each other.”
Y/N and Bucky immediately replied, deadpan and in perfect sync: “Then they have to leave.”
Sam sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “God, I miss Steve.”
Bucky smirked. “He wouldn’t have let her talk to me like that.”
“Oh, please,” Y/N shot back. “Steve was team me the second I showed him how to do a proper disarm.”
“You cheated” Bucky gritted. “You used pepper spray.”
“It was tactical.”
“It was petty.”
“It worked.”
Sam muttered under his breath, “I swear I’m too old for this.”
Y/N turned to him, innocent. “What? We’re just catching up.”
“Yeah,” Bucky added dryly. “You know, bonding.”
“If by bonding you mean barely tolerating each other’s existence,” Sam mumbled. “Sure. Great. Love that for us.”
Y/N smirked. “Oh, c’mon, Barnes. Don’t pretend you didn’t miss me.”
He shot her a look. “Like a rash.”
“Like an itch you can’t quite reach?” she teased, stepping just a little closer.
“Like a headache that talks back.”
Y/N clutched her chest dramatically. “You do care.”
“I’m praying for an excuse to leave.”
Sam muttered something about regretting all his life choices and walked into the kitchen, leaving Y/N and Bucky staring at each other, the tension in the room thick.
---
Later that day, the three of them were staking out a suspected Flag Smasher hideout—Bucky in the alley, Y/N on the rooftop, Sam above them both in the drone.
“Your comms are off again,” Y/N said through gritted teeth.
Bucky’s voice crackled back. “Maybe I just wanted some peace and quiet.”
She huffed. “God forbid someone try to help you.”
“I don’t need help.”
“You keep saying that. I keep not believing it.”
He sighed heavily. “Look, I’ve been doing this long before you started playing sidekick to Sam—”
“Excuse me?” she snapped.
“You heard me.”
There was a tense silence over the line before Y/N muttered, “You’re impossible.”
“And you never shut up.”
“You never smile.”
“You never stop talking long enough to make me want to,” Bucky snapped.
Sam’s voice crackled in: “I swear to God, if you two don’t start flirting with less hostility, I’m going to crash this drone.”
---
There were moments—small, unspoken ones—that carried more weight than any argument ever could. Something neither Y/N nor Bucky dare speak of out loud.
Like when Y/N stumbled during a chase, her footing lost for just a split second—and Bucky was already there. His hand on the small of her back like it belonged there, steady and sure. She stiffened, spine straightening as she glanced at him with a flicker of defiance. “I’m fine,” she said, brushing it off like it didn’t matter but in reality her heart was pounding. Not from almost falling but from the placement of his hand- afraid to admit she liked it.
He didn’t move, not right away. His hand lingered—just long enough to say everything he didn’t. “I know,” he murmured, low and steady.
Or the night she’d fallen asleep at the table, exhaustion pulling her under while intel files lay all around her. Bucky had watched her for a moment, then eased the tablet from her fingers with more care than most people gave breakable things. He draped his jacket over her shoulders—soft, worn, and carrying the faint scent of him—without a word.
Then there was the time she caught him staring. She’d felt it first, like warmth on the back of her neck, and when she turned, there he was—blue eyes locked on her like she was something worth memorizing. He looked away too quickly, but it was too late.
She’d seen it and had already begun to feel the same way.
---
The tension between them finally snapped, unraveling in the aftermath of a mission gone sideways.
The safehouse was dim, still humming with adrenaline and silence too loud to ignore. The echo of gunfire clung to Y/N’s skin like smoke, and Bucky’s jacket was still spattered with dirt and blood that wasn’t his.
“You almost got yourself killed!” she exploded, her voice sharp as she began pacing, hands clenched at her sides. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I had it under control,” Bucky growled back, arms folded tightly across his chest.
“No, you didn’t! You jumped in front of that guy like—like your life doesn’t matter!”
He stood slowly, deliberately, tension rippling through his shoulders. “And what? You care now?”
Y/N stopped mid-step. Her breath hitched.
“I see how you look at me,” he said, quieter now. “Like I’m a grenade that hasn’t gone off yet.”
She laughed, bitter and breathless. “You think that’s it? You think I argue with you because I’m scared of you?” Her voice cracked as she stepped closer to him. “You don’t scare me, Bucky. You never have.”
He froze, surprised—caught off guard by the softness buried beneath her anger.
“I argue with you,” she continued, more gently now, “because you make me insane. Because you throw yourself into danger like you’ve got nothing to lose. Because you act like you’re not allowed to matter to anyone.”
His jaw twitched. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“So what?” he asked finally, voice low, unsteady. “You’re saying you care about me now?”
“Yes!” she shouted, exasperated. “You stubborn, reckless idiot.”
Bucky just stared at her, stunned into silence.
She broke eye contact, running a hand through her hair with a shaky breath. “God, I didn’t want to feel anything for you. I told myself you were a headache, a pain in the ass, someone I had to put up with. But somewhere between the death glares and the brooding... I started to see you.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And I realized I care. And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.”
A beat passed. Then another.
Bucky stepped forward, slow and cautious.
“You don’t have to do anything with it,” he murmured. “Just… don’t take it back.”
Y/N met his eyes again. For once, she didn’t have a comeback. Just silence, and the distance between them—closing inch by inch.
Then, softly, Bucky said, “I care about you too.”
Y/N turned to him.
“I just... don’t always know how to show it,” he added.
She stepped closer. “Try.”
And he did.
---
The kiss wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t all heat and urgency or cinematic sparks.
It was something quieter—gentler. A moment that didn’t demand attention but deserved it, soft and grounding in all the ways neither of them expected.
His metal hand hovered just above her hip, uncertain, trembling with the weight of hesitation and history. Like he was afraid to touch something too good, too real.
But his other hand—his human one—was surer. It cradled her cheek with aching tenderness, calloused thumb brushing her skin.
She leaned into the touch before she could think better of it, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.
When they finally pulled apart, Y/N smirked faintly. “That wasn’t terrible.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth tugged upward. “You never shut up, do you?”
“Not unless you kiss me again.”
He did.
Evil Woman, Don't You Play Your Games With Me (Same fics as the other list, but in chronological order.)
If you are a blank or ageless blog who interacts with a fic that contains as Do Not Interact (DNI) warning, you will be blocked.
🧡 - Regularly scheduled light-hearted fun. 🖤 - Shit just got real. 💛 - IDK man, this one just kind of wrote itself. 💖 - Wait, there's romance now?
1984 Three Days 🖤🧡 Evil Woman, Don't You Play Your Games With Me 🧡 The Ups and Downs of Dating a Trash Panda 🧡 I Hate Mondays 🧡 Go Get 'Em, Tiger 🧡 The Nerd King Cops a Feel 🧡 Flying Monkeys Couldn't Drag Me Away 🍂🧡 Stargazer 🧡 Best Seat in the House 🧡 The Best $7 Eddie Munson Ever Spent 🧡 The Long Con 🧡 Dummy and All 🧡 It's Okay If You Are 🧡 Wrapping Paper 🎅🧡 The First and Last Breakup of Eddie Munson and Evil Woman 🖤
1985 Tangled 🖤 Boys Are Idiots 🖤 (Alternate Version) Classy Girl and the Scruffy Boy 🧡 Have You Ever Choked a Chicken? 🧡 Werewolf Children 🧡 Define Romance 🧡 Eddie Munson and the Best Anti-Valentine's Day Ever 💝🧡 Pinch Proof 🍀🧡 The Breakfast Club 🧡 Bloodletting 🖤🧡 I'm Gonna Love You Forever 🖤🧡 This Is Better 🧡 It's the Easter Dragon, Eddie Munson 🐣🧡 A Situation 🍍🧡 There's No i In Sickness 🧡 Eddie Munson Is My Babydaddy 🧡 Knock 💛 Smoke Break 🧡 The Case of the Missing Eddie 🖤🧡 Look At Him Now 🧡 A Very Important Date 🎂🧡 Evil Woman and Baby Bro vs. The Worst Summer Vacation Ever 💛 The Little Air Conditioner That Could 🔥🧡 Secret Weapons 🧡 Can't Take You Anywhere 🧡 The Fuck Did You Just Say to Me? 💛💖 Who's Your Fucking Daddy? 💛💖 You're the Fucking Worst 💛💖 Fangs for the Mammaries 💖🧡 Don't Move 💖 Late 🖤 The Last First Day 🧡 The First Lazy Thanksgiving 🦃🧡 The Family Holiday 🎅🖤 I Promise 🎅🧡 A Slightly Late Munson Christmas 🎅🧡 The First Countdown 🎇🧡
1986 Did I Forget to Mention That? 🖤🧡 I Heart U 🧡 The Freak and His Evil Woman Do Valentine's Day 🧡💘 I Touched Banana Bubblicious For You 🖤 Evil Woman's Tit-Warming Service 🧡 Me Without You 🖤🧡 Moment of Truth 🖤🧡 Revenge of the Freaks 🧡 A Proposal 🧡 Evil Woman Sees (Big) Red 👊🖤 Do It Yourself (Or: How Eddie Munson Chipped His Tooth) 🧡 Taking Matters Into Your Own Hands 🧡 The Fastest Fix-It 🧡 The Devil's Trip 🧡 What If Real Life Is the Nightmare? 🖤 What If Real Life Is Good? 🧡 The Letter 🖤🧡 Insatiable 💖 Heaven and Hell (Or: Eddie and Evil Woman Do… Prom?!) 🧡 How to Get a Hot Date 🖤🧡 Brawl in Hallway B 👊 Gonna Need A Bigger Bathtub 🧡🐠 Munson v. O'Donnell 🖤🧡 Wake-Up Call 🧡 Corroded Coffin v. Slip 'n Slide 🧡 The Legend of Lobster-Dick 🧡 Sweet New Tatty 🧡 Ghost-Fuckers 🧡👻 The Sacrifice 🧡🦇
AUs, Not the 80s, Misc. Eddie Munson and the Worst Valentine's Day Ever (1974) 💝🖤 Fucking Fireworks (1987 AU) 🖤🎇 It's a Wonderful Life (Even in Hawkins) 🖤🎄 Clown Around and Find Out (1990) 🤡💛 Draw Me Like One of Your Dwarf Girls, Eddie (1998) 🧡
Teenage Dirtbag
Pairing: Eddie Munson x short, plus-sized, girly-ish, female reader.
WC: ~9K
Warnings: cursing, eddie being a lil bit of a horndog, unrequited but not unrequited love
A/N: This song screamed Eddie Munson to me and I had to write it, I don't know what to say for myself lmao I thought it was going to be 1K at most. Welp.
Masterlist || AO3
Eddie Munson knew he wasn’t the smartest person in town. He was far from the dumbest, Jason Carver took that title by a landslide.
In fact, Eddie would dare to say he was actually pretty intelligent. He wasn’t book smart, not with subjects he didn’t give a shit about, but he had common sense. Which, clearly, wasn’t so common – especially in Hawkins.
However, even Eddie had to admit that he was the dumbest son of a bitch on this planet sometimes.
The primary example was when he managed to fall in love with you, his English tutor.
After Eddie had bombed the first major test – on his second go at his senior year – his teacher had assigned him a mandatory tutor.
“I know you think I don’t like you,” Ms. O'Donnell said, her sharp eyes softening when Eddie snorted, “but I want you to succeed. You’re smarter than you let on and I can see that.”
“Don’t feel bad. All teachers hate me,” Eddie joked, a thread of truth to it.
“Well not me,” she said, “and to prove it to you – I’m going to assign you a tutor.”
What? “Aw, come on,” Eddie groaned, “I’ll do better on the next one!”
Ms. O’Donnell rolled her eyes. “That’s what you said all last year. I was the one who signed off on you using my classroom for Hellfire Club you know. It’s been four years and I’ve seen some of the things you come up with. You’re good at writing, Mr. Munson. You just need to apply yourself.”
Wait, she knew about some of his campaigns? “Which I’ll do from now on!” The comical expression on her face indicated that Eddie was not getting through to her.
“Trust me,” she said, “she took my advanced placement course as a sophomore. She’s a senior, like you, and she’s willing to do it as a favor to me.”
“Is this mandatory?” Eddie winced when his teacher’s sharp gaze returned.
“Yes,” she said, her expression softening when Eddie slumped. “I’ll make you a deal, just let her tutor you for the next quiz. If you get higher than a C, with genuine effort, you can opt out.”
“Deal,” Eddie sighed.
And now here he was, four months later and definitely more than one aced quiz later, with you in your first sundress of the season. Eddie had been waiting for you at the library, the same table in the back – hidden behind the cookbook shelves – when you walked in. The thin straps drew his attention first, his eyes trailing down to the neckline which exposed the swell of your breasts in a way that had Eddie shifting nervously in his seat.
You’d apologized, sitting down hastily, your breath coming out in quick pants. Your car hadn’t started this morning so you had to ask Dustin, your neighbor, to borrow his bike to get here.
The image of you biking in that dress was something that he didn’t know he needed.
Like always, you pulled out your battered copy of The Great Gatsby and got to work. Eddie had read the book, you’d been right – he did like it – but spent most of the first hour watching you explain the chapters he’d been assigned.
There was just something about the way your eyes lit up when you started rambling about literary terms and characterization. You tended to speak with your hands, cherry-colored nails flying as you waved a hand in the air.
Oh, you were saying his name. “Are you listening Eddie?” You asked, eyes shooting him a knowing look.
“Shortcake, I always listen to every word you say,” Eddie joked, winking. A flustered expression overtook your face and Eddie watched your fingers come up to your hair, a sure sign that his comment had hit. He hated the rush of serotonin that gave him.
See? Complete dumbass behavior.
“Pay attention, you have a quiz next week and then we start working on your final paper,” you said, tapping his hand softly. The warmth of your skin sent an electric current up his arm and straight to his chest. “Here, I brought an outline of what I thought would be good topics for you to choose from. I’m partial to Shakespeare – oh don’t give me that look – but I listed other options too. Let me see if they finally got that book that I was looking for.”
Eddie nodded and failed to avert his eyes as you walked away. Your hips swayed as the black patterned dress rippled with your movement.
It wasn’t his fault, not really. Eddie glanced at the paper you’d handed him, your handwriting neat and precise. He’d been dreading meeting you when Ms. O’Donnell had mentioned your name. You weren’t a cheerleader but you basically friends with the whole squad. He’d seen you at parties when he was selling, you always seemed nice but Eddie knew from experience that the popular crowd were just vultures waiting for a sign of weakness. Eddie wasn’t going to be stupid enough to expose any.
“Oh, hey, Lucas!” Your voice carried from a few shelves away. Eddie straightened. “I haven’t seen you since the last campaign!”
Eddie couldn’t hear what Lucas answered but your quiet laughter sent the equally stupid butterflies in his ribcage into chaos. Eddie fought a groan and pinched the bridge of his nose. Honestly, he could hardly be at fault when you had the audacity to have a laugh as cute as that.
“Did you look over the outline? Oh, are you okay?” You asked, eyes pinched in concern. Eddie shook his head, his hair settling around his shoulders.
“I’m fine, just a little tired,” he lied. “Was that Sinclair I heard?”
You beamed at him and Eddie swore he felt his heart stop in his chest. Jesus H. Christ, he was going to send you the bill when you sent him to the ER. “It was! I can’t believe he’s taller than me now,” you said, wrinkling your nose when Eddie laughed, “oh shut up. I meant, I used to babysit them. They were all little munchkins a few minutes ago. Now they’re freshman. That’s wild.”
“Calm down there, grandma,” Eddie retorted as you rolled your eyes, “besides, it’s not exactly hard to be taller than you nowadays shortcake.”
Eddie could tell you were trying your best to bite back a grin. “You know, I’m the one who brought your grade up from a F to a B minus, you should be nicer to me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, did I offend you your highness?” Eddie swooned, hands on chest, as he leaned back in his chair. “How can I ever thank you for saving me?”
“By passing your last quiz of the year,” you said dryly, eyes lighting up, “and maybe picking Macbeth for your final essay.”
Eddie snorted. “Not likely.”
“And that’s how you treat your hero?” You asked him, batting your eyelashes.
Fuck, those should come with a goddamn warning.
“How about I make you a mixtape?” Eddie joked, chewing at the end of his pen and giving your outline another look.
Your face, however, completely lit up. “Deal!”
“What?” Eddie stammered, dropping the pen from his mouth.
“No take-backs Munson!” You laughed, shrinking when the librarian shot you a look. Eddie huffed a laugh at your contrite expression and watched you turn back to him. “You get a passing grade on these last two assignments and you make me a mixtape as a physical form of your eternal gratitude.”
“Shortcake, I don’t think we have the same music tastes,” he said, eyeing the Walkman you’d left at the corner of the table with your bag.
A haughty look cross your face and the stupid butterflies slammed into his small intestine painfully. “How would you know?” You asked. “You barely ask me anything outside of English.” The second part was quieter, almost involuntary and Eddie was suddenly struck by something.
Eddie had never pushed for anything more than you had freely given. He tried not to ask about what you were doing, what you liked, or what your weekend plans were. You’d smile to him in the hallways at school but you had completely different schedules so you rarely saw each other. Besides, Eddie had an ingrained self-preservation intuition and vehemently avoided any contact with the popular crowd.
While Eddie was not a betting man, he took calculated risks. You were – beyond the ability to analyze. But…the way your face had twisted, maybe he’d gotten his signals wrong? Had you wanted him to be your friend? He’d always assumed you were doing this to fulfill some extracurricular activity. Wouldn’t you be…embarrassed to be seen with him?
“Alright sweetheart,” Eddie said eventually, “educate me then.”
You stuck out your tongue, breaking the tension and tucked your Walkman into your bag. “Too late. You snooze you lose Munson,” you said, packing up your stuff. Eddie glanced at his watch and was once again astounded to realize two hours had flown by.
“I’ll see you next week at the same time?” You asked. “Drop your paper outline in my locker and I’ll take a look at it so we have something to cover.”
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am,” Eddie saluted.
“Oh,” you said, hand elbow deep in your bag, “you see Mike tomorrow, right? At Hellfire?”’
Eddie frowned, unsure. “Yeah?”
“Can you give him these?” You asked, dropping a set of die in his hands. “He wanted to borrow my old set.”
Glancing at the well cared for set in his hand, Eddie gaped. “Are these holographic?”
You grinned and pulled your backpack onto your shoulders. “Yeah! Dustin got them for me for my birthday a while ago. They’re custom! He painted them for me.”
Eddie felt his throat dry up and was almost positive he’d floated up into the stratosphere. Seriously, a semitruck could’ve trampled him and he would’ve been less surprised.
“You coming?” You asked, totally unaware of how close Eddie was to offering you his heart on a platter.
Spurred into action, Eddie pocketed the set carefully and grabbed his bag. “Yeah, I- I’m coming.” He took in your carefully stacked bracelets and dainty necklace. Your pink sandals echoed in the hallway as you made your way to the familiar bike chained outside. How did someone like you play dnd?
“Dustin taught me,” you said as you walked the bike next to his van.
“What?”
You laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and squinting a little at the sun in your eyes. The air in his lungs caught at the sight of your skin in the light. Were you holographic? “Dustin and the other kids I babysat taught me how to play. I’m not very good,” you admitted sheepishly, “that’s why I never told you.”
“Oh,” he said, because his brain still wasn’t totally back from its trip into space.
“I’m an elf rogue,” you said, shrugging, “Will said it suits me since I used to practice archery.”
Eddie bit down on his cheek hard enough to almost draw blood. He fought every nerve in his body to not glare at the sky. Really universe? Really? Was his daily pining not enough?
“You’re a box of surprises, aren’t you, shortcake?” Eddie said, rocking on his heels.
You grinned. “I’m rusty at that too. My aunt lives in Indianapolis and she’s won a few competitions in archery. I’d stay with her over the summer breaks and she taught me. It was fun to run around thinking I was some kind of mini-Hawkeye or something.”
At that, he couldn’t hide his surprise. “Marvel?”
“I told you,” you said, looking incredibly flustered, as your eyes went down to your feet, “I babysat Dustin. For years. Some of it stuck.”
Say something, he urged, voice stuck in his throat.
“Uh, so I’m going to go,” you said, bright smile back on your face.
Eddie scratched the back of his neck. “Do you want a ride?” He asked, gesturing to his van. Great, that’s the best he could come up with?
You turned your smile in his direction and Eddie almost stumbled at the power of it. Jesus, he really needed to get a grip on himself. This couldn’t be healthy.
Nodding, you’d taken a step towards him when a loud honk popped the bubble you both were tucked into. Eddie glanced over your shoulder and felt reality sucker punch him in the throat.
“Hey baby!” Nick shouted, torso almost hanging out that stupid Camaro window. “I’ve been looking for you. Your sister said you’d be here.”
Aaaand that was the second reason he was a complete dumbass.
“Sorry,” you mumbled, looking embarrassed. “Thanks for the offer.”
“Mhmm, see ya,” Eddie said, darting towards his van and completely missing your look.
Eddie started his van and shot out of the parking lot. He risked a glance in his rearview mirror and immediately regretted it. You were tucked into the quarterback’s arms, his face ducking down to yours, and Eddie tightened his hold on the steering wheel.
You had a boyfriend – a jock no less – because of course you did, since when did life ever like to be fair to him? Why would it ever start now? Eddie scrambled for the cigarette carton in his passenger’s seat and lit one up. Nick Jackson had been the one who almost broke Gareth’s nose last year in gym class. Nick Jackson would absolutely kick his ass if he knew how gone he was on his girlfriend.
What type of asshole had two first names anyway? And how the hell had he managed to land someone like you?
He knew the answer, obviously, but he was still in shock despite the fact that Eddie had seen you two together for the past month.
Whatever. Fuck high school. The second he had that diploma in his hands he was driving out of here and not looking back.
Eddie was over school. He’d finally gotten the news that he’d been given the green light to graduate and the first person he wanted to tell was you.
So, to mediate that, he decided to skip his last two classes and gone out to the picnic table in the woods behind the school to smoke. Taking another drag, Eddie leaned back onto the rough wood table and snorted. Who would’ve thought? He’d known ’86 was going to be his year.
Although it was in no small part thanks to you. Eddie had seen you this morning – dressed in a blue ruffled skirt, with a cardigan and a shirt that hid absolutely none of your curves. He’d felt like someone had slammed a locker door in his face, blood rushing to the bottom half of his body.
The sound of a branch snapping had Eddie jumping up, instinctively flinging the joint off towards the trees. He turned towards the sound, excuse on the tip of his tongue, when his throat closed. You stood there, shy smile on your face, hands gripping your bags strap tightly.
“Hey Munson,” you said, motioning to the table. “Can I join you?”
“Uh, yeah shortcake, please,” he gestured grandly to the old, rusted table like it was worth a million bucks. “Welcome to my hide out. Uh, sorry for the smell and the smoke.”
You laughed, eyes wrinkling and mouth turning up like he was hilarious. “I actually wanted to ask if I could buy some off of you,” you scrunched your nose and Eddie felt his heart stop. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“What?” Eddie smacked his hand to his chest exaggeratedly. “Me? Make fun? Of you? I’m insulted.”
“Ah yes, because you’re so friendly,” you joked. “I’ve never smoked before so could you sell me something already rolled?”
Eddie grinned. “You’re in luck shortcake,” he said, patting his denim vest for the bag he knew was keeping for later, “I’ve got some for you right here.”
“How much?” You asked, searching for your wallet.
Waving off your offer, Eddie dropped it onto your bag. “Consider it a thank you for helping me get to graduation.”
You froze, eyes darting up to his and Eddie couldn’t help the grin that grew on his face. “Oh my God, Eddie, don’t joke with me about this.”
“I’m not!” He laughed, opening his arms and throwing his head back. “I’m finally fucking out of here!”
Without warning, you threw your arms around him. Eddie stumbled, more than a little surprised, and stilled for a second. His arms, however, were much smarter and quicker than the rest of him because they settled immediately on the curves of your hips. You squeezed him tightly, your fingers scratching almost subconsciously at his back in soothing circles. “I’m so proud of you! I knew you could do it Eddie, I knew it.”
Eddie leaned back to see that you were beaming, eyes bright and smile so wide it looked like it could crack your face in two. The sun pierced through the shade of the trees, landing on you like a natural spotlight – because of course it did. “Well, it’s mostly thanks to you. I couldn’t have done it without you,” he said. Which, was a hundred percent true.
He watched your eyes drift down his face, and for a millisecond he could’ve sworn they landed on his lips, but before he could confirm – you’d darted away. Hands fluttering down your pink cardigan, you soothed out the non-existent wrinkles and frowned.
“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, “I didn’t mean – I know people hate when I – I’m sorry.”
“When you what?” Eddie furrowed his brows, confused. “Don’t be sorry.”
You wrung your hands together and Eddie hated how small you tried to become. “I – uh, Nick hated when I just hugged him out of nowhere,” you sighed, “I’m sorry.”
Reason number one that jock was a dumbass. If Eddie had the chance, he’d cling to you like a goddamn koala.
“Hey, what’d I say? We’re friends, right?” Eddie asked, ducking to try and catch your eyes.
“Are we?” You said, surprised.
Eddie clutched his heart, looking down at his hands as if there were blood, and blinked at you. “I didn’t know you came here to shoot me straight through the heart.”
A beat of silence echoed in the clearing before you laughed, delighted by his antics. Eddie smiled at your joy; you were one of the only people in his life that never complained about his general over the top flair. “I’m sorry,” you said, tone adorably earnest. “I didn’t mean it like that – I thought, well, I thought you didn’t want to be friends with me.”
He couldn’t help it, he really couldn’t but he let out an unattractive laugh and shot you a look. “Shortcake, if anyone was embarrassed to be seen with the other it’s definitely not me.”
An indignant sort of expression settled in your entire body. Eddie watched you, fascinated. He’d never seen you be anything but a human personification of a sunbeam.
“I’m not embarrassed to be seen with you,” you huffed, crossing your arms and Eddie’s eyes darted to the top of your head. Jesus Christ. He was not going to stare at your chest like a fucking pervert. He was not. Completely oblivious to his plight, you continued huffing. “I’ve tried to say hi to you like three times since I started tutoring you. You always looked like I was a lion who’d caught a mouse.”
“Because popular kids don’t talk to the outcasts, sweetheart. Don’t take it personally,” he sighed, “it’s a self-preservation tactic.”
You blinked at him. Eddie cringed internally – of course he fucked this up not even two minutes in. He scrambled to think of a way to rectify it when you sighed.
“Nick said he didn’t want me tutoring you anymore,” you said quietly.
Eddie didn’t know he could hear a heart shatter but he was positive that his just fell to the floor beneath him. That asshole. Didn’t he have enough? Thanks a lot universe.
“He said it wasn’t becoming of me to keep doing this so he wanted me to stop. I knew it was because he didn’t like you though,” you admitted.
Sighing, Eddie sat back down onto the table and pulled out another joint. Lighting it up he took a drag and blew the smoke towards his left. “So, I guess this is goodbye?”
A bird nearby sang, as if knowing he needed a soundtrack for this car crash waiting to happen. “No, you idiot,” you snapped, “I broke up with him.”
Everything tilted sideways and Eddie was sure someone had smacked him in the head with something. Maybe his hearing was off? “I’m sorry, I think I had a small seizure. Did you say you broke up with him?”
You nodded, coming over to sit across from him. “I never really liked him that much anyway. Chrissy thought we’d be cute together but I’m pretty sure I’m not his ideal type.”
“What, why is perfect too intimidating for him?” Eddie asked, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them. Jesus fucking – just take him out. Universe? You can take me out now! He screamed internally.
“Shut up,” you mumbled, ducking your head. Eddie saw the pleased smile on your face before you hid it away and it sent a stupidly happy pang through his body. “I meant, well – you know.”
“I really don’t.”
Sighing, you motioned to your body. “You know, someone skinny enough to be a flier on the cheerleading team.”
Eddie felt his spine solidify. “Did he…did he say that to you?” He asked, his vision darkening. “That absolute fucking shithead.” What an asshole. Not only did he have the hottest girl in the entire fucking town but he was taking jabs at you? Eddie wanted to punch something.
“Wait!” Your cool hand wrapped around his wrist and Eddie hadn’t even realized he’d stood and walked in the direction of the school. “Munson! It’s okay – he didn’t say it out loud! Holy shit you’re a lot stronger than you look.”
Eddie felt you wrap your torso around his arm in an attempt to stop him. Your chest pressed against his bicep and Eddie had to close his eyes and think of his great-aunt. A soft poke to his cheek had him looking down at you, amused. You looked like a squirrel clinging to a tree. With a slow nod, he let you walk him to the bench.
“Was that a dig at my body?” He asked. “Do I look weak?”
A mortified expression settled on your face and you immediately shook your head. “That’s not what I meant at all! I just – I meant, I’m – oh, you’re teasing me,” you said, exhaling a loud breath. “I hate you.”
Smiling, Eddie bumped your shoulder with his. “No, you don’t.”
“There’s no hurt feelings, I promise,” you told him, referring to Nick, “I wasn’t what he wanted and he wasn’t what I wanted.”
“Yeah?” Eddie took another drag of his discarded joint. “What’s your type? Swim team? Basketball team? Wait, soccer player.”
You rolled your eyes and bumped his shoulder again. “No,” you said, crossly. “I don’t know. For starters maybe someone who doesn’t think Metallica is just random noise.”
Eddie sighed. He looked up at the sky, a common occurrence at this point, and wondered if whoever was up there was having fun torturing him. You played dnd and you liked Metallica. Sure. Why not? He hoped Mother Nature or God, or whoever, was having a great laugh at his expense.
“I had you pinned for a Madonna girl,” he said eventually, reeling in the affection that seemed to be pouring off him in waves.
“I am, I like a ton of music,” you said, “I’m not condescending with my music tastes.”
Gaping, Eddie shot you a look and fought his smile at your mischievous look. You were going to be the death of him.
“Hi Wayne!” Your voice floated through the front door. Eddie straightened, eyes darting around the room to make sure anything embarrassing was hidden away.
“Hi honey. You know you don’t have to bring me something every time you come over,” he said, sounding pleased. Eddie rolled his eyes. In the past two months, you and Eddie had become fast friends. In fact, Eddie didn’t know how he’d gone almost the entire second half of the school year without bombarding you with questions.
He wanted to know everything about you – he’d take any crumble you’d give him. You’d shown up to Hellfire a few times, went to movies together, and religiously showed up to the Hideout to see him play. Eddie wasn’t sure he remembered his life before you. So, obviously, like nephew like uncle and Wayne had instantly loved you the way Eddie had.
“Munson, you better be decent,” you said, not waiting for an answer and kicking the door down.
“If you really want to see me in a state of undress so badly, all you have to do is ask shortcake,” he said, loving the flustered expression he could draw out of you so quickly.
“I hate you,” you said, daintily sitting on his bed and handing him a napkin full of cookies. You’d made it a habit of baking on the days you were coming over and while Eddie definitely appreciated it – he knew you were bringing them to Wayne. Who, like Eddie, completely fell for your sincerity.
“Whatever you need to tell yourself to get to sleep at night is fine with me,” Eddie said, eagerly throwing half the cookie into his mouth. “Denial isn’t healthy though.” He winked.
“Jesus, does this have an off button?” You grumbled, flopping down onto his bed.
Eddie gave himself five seconds to appreciate the way your skirt hitched up higher on your thighs as you laid down, the bright purple material easily the most colorful thing in his room. He felt his eyes glaze over a little, imagining his teeth sinking into the meaty part of your inner thigh, the noises you’d made. Suddenly, you shot up, and Eddie tried his best to look like he wasn’t just being a goddamn pervert.
“Oh, I love this song!” You said, eyes lighting up.
His heart tripped over itself at the sight but he tilted his head and realized he’d left his stereo on as he was stitching a new patch, one you’d gotten him last week onto his vest.
When you know that your time is close at hand
Maybe then you'll begin to understand
Life down here is just a strange illusion
“That’s Iron Maiden,” Eddie said, stupidly.
You rolled your eyes. “I know, shithead,” you joked and Eddie blinked – he didn’t know why the way you cursed like a sailor was still so strange to him. Someone who wore pastels, bright colors, was in track to be valedictorian, and had a smile that rivaled the sun wasn’t someone who he’d thought would be ready to swing at the first sight of conflict. “We’ve been over your music superiority complex already, remember? I’m a woman of many interests.”
Eddie grumbled. You were right – you’d been the one who had bought him Metallica’s new album at the record store downtown when it’d just released. He thought he’d have to fight his way into getting his hands on it but, like always, you were there.
“So, do you remember how much you love me?” You asked, teasing. Eddie’s pathetic heart thumped against his ribcage and he glanced up at you.
“Why does that sound like the prelude to something I’m going to hate?”
You smiled, batting your eyelashes, and pressing your folded hands under your chin. “I need someone to go to the mall with me on Saturday. Pretty, pretty, please? I’ll do anything you want!”
Eddie’s brain short circuited for brief moment, imagining the list of things he’d both dreamed and would trade his soul to be able to do to you before he realized you were waiting for an answer. “Shortcake, I treasure our friendship but there are some things my fading sanity can’t take.”
You quirked a brow and Eddie had to fight not to visible react to your pout. He often wondered how it’d feel if he bit down on it. “Eddie?”
“Sorry, what?” He shook his head, returning back to the present.
“I said, and the mall would zap the last bit of sanity you had?”
Eddie nodded emphatically. “I’m not that strong.”
“Well, despite your complete betrayal,” Eddie rolled his eyes, “Nancy said she’d go with me and helped me find a dress. I just wanted to see if you’d come with.”
“A dress?” Eddie asked. “You going somewhere fancy?”
Laughing, you shot him an incredulous look. “Wait, are you serious?”
“Yeah, where are you going?”
“Prom, Eddie,” you said with a weird look on your face, “aren’t you going?”
At that, Eddie snorted. “Me? At prom?”
“I mean, I’ll be there – so will Robin and Nancy. Gareth and Jeff told me they’re going too,” you mumbled.
“I – do you want me to go?” Eddie asked, confused. “I can drop you off and pick you up if you want. My chariot is your chariot.”
Something flashed across your face but it was gone before Eddie could decipher it.
“Oh, no, thanks. I think Robin’s getting a ride from Harrington and they’ll give me a lift,” you said.
Eddie hated how well you and Steve got along. He shouldn’t have been surprised, considering he ran in the circle you did, but when he introduced you to his friends, he hadn’t expected how quickly you bonded. It’d taken him four and half months to hurl himself out of the acquaintance zone and Steve did it in five minutes.
“Sure,” Eddie said, going back to sewing a new patch onto his vest and trying not to stab himself.
“Would you go if I asked?” You said after a beat of silence.
He was almost sure he’d snapped something important in his neck with the speed in which he turned to you. At his expression, you straightened. “I mean, like would you go to prom and hang out with us? You don’t need to go with me.”
Deflating, Eddie tried not to let it show. Of course, you hadn’t asked him to go with you. You probably had a date or at the very least someone interested. Even then, he didn’t want to lie to you.
“Yeah, shortcake, I’d go if you asked me to.”
The smile on your face was small and grew gradually into something blinding. His heart flipped, the butterflies yawned awake, and Eddie sighed. He was pathetic.
Eddie knew his strengths and weaknesses. Thanks to Wayne, he was pretty decent at fixing cars. He knew more about music than most people he’d come across. And when it came to guitar? He wasn’t humble enough to deny how good he was. However, he was blatantly aware that math and science were subjects from the depth of hell. His driving had been criticized once or twice, and, he wasn’t that great at sounding particularly eloquent.
He'd never been more aware of that than in this exact moment. Eddie was leaning against Steve’s car. His red BMW was recently cleaned and Steve was hanging out the driver’s window, telling him about his most recent date. The tie around his neck felt like it was choking him but he wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t due to the anticipation.
Wheeler and Byers stood by their car, fumbling with her corsage and his tie. Robin’s front door opened and she came bounding out, her suit a bright blue that fit her perfectly. Her hair had been curled and she only seemed to wobble once on her heels as she made her way to the car.
“Man, if I don’t break my ankle before the end of the night,” she muttered, leaning on Eddie for support. He helped her catch her balance and smiled when she flushed at the compliments from everyone.
“You look good Buckley,” he told her, nudging her with his elbow.
Robin beamed. “You clean up well too,” she said, pulling at the suit he’d borrowed from Wayne. It was a little too big but Nancy had assured him no one would be able to tell. “I see you couldn’t resist,” she said bumping his converse with her pointy heel. “Why do you get to wear comfy shoes? She wouldn’t let me go in mine!”
“Because it ruins the look, Rob!” Your voice said from the front steps. Eddie glanced up and immediately felt the world freeze. Your dress was…molded onto your body. It was a long, lavender, flowy thing. It dipped low in the back and Eddie sighed. If the neckline was enough to give him a stroke, the back was going to have him flatlining. Your heels clicked against the stone as you hugged Robin’s parents goodbye.
“For fuck’s sake,” Eddie said under his breath, “that’s just not fair.”
Robin and Harrington, clearly heard him, snorted. “Careful there Munson, you’ll drop too much of a hint of how deeply in love with her you are if you keep that up.”
Eddie’s jaw snapped and he turned to glare at Robin. “What?” She said after Harrington snorted. “It’s true. They’re idiots.”
“Let them figure it out themselves,” Steve said. “We promised.”
“It’s infuriating,” Robin said, narrowing her eyes. “You’re both infuriating.”
“Alright, I’m all set,” you said, leaning forward to squeeze Steve’s hand. “Thanks for the ride, Steve.”
“No problem, you wanna ride with me or Byers?” Steve asked, settling into the seat.
Turning to him, he saw the question in your eyes and he cleared his throat. “Uh, wherever you want to,” he croaked.
Robin snickered and headed towards the passenger seat. Eddie shot her a glare but was interrupted by your hand on his arm. “You look great,” you said quietly as you waved to Jonathan. They honked at you as they took off down the street. “Thank you for coming.”
“For you? Anything,” he said, his tone a little too sincere than what he meant it to be. The blinding smile on your face after though, made it worth it. “You look…incredible,” he finished lamely. He heard hushed laughter from the car and fought the urge to scratch the back of his neck.
“Thanks,” you said, picking up the bottom of your dress in one hand. “I was worried I’d look dumb but Nancy was adamant this was my dress.”
Eddie needed to get Wheeler a gift. “Remind me to thank her because, shortcake?” You glanced up at him. “That dress was made for you.”
With a shy and pleased smile, you slid into the backseat and settled close to Eddie. Holy shit, you smelled amazing. Eddie barely managed to keep from dropping his nose to the crook of your neck. He slowly dropped his arm over your shoulders and grinned when you leaned into him.
Grabbing a parking spot near the entrance, Steve pulled into the school. Hopping out, he offered his arm to Robin who took it gladly.
“Are you guys ready for the last night of your high school career?” Steve asked, eyes on the doors.
“Yeah,” Robin said, “fuck this place.”
Eddie bumped her fist and you grinned. “After party at your house, Harrington?” You asked.
He knew you had to have been invited to a few afterparties – Robin had promised to make an appearance at the house of some kid from band. He’d heard you tell Nancy that you’d be going with Robin. Steve had assured him that they’d tag along too.
“More like the after after party when you two are drunk off shitty vodka,” Steve said motioning to Robin, who rolled her eyes and made a silly face.
“It happens one time…”
Nancy waved a hand in the air before disappearing through the doors. “Come on!” She shouted over her shoulder. You huffed a laugh and linked your arm through his.
“Ready?”
“Not really, but I’ll follow you into hell apparently.”
“You say the sweetest things,” you told him, deadpan. He snorted, other hand coming to squeeze the one you were resting on his forearm.
Eddie immediately squinted in the cloak of darkness that was the gym – he had to give it to the committee, he hardly recognized the place. A ridiculous pop song came on just as you waved to a few of your friends. “Look, Nancy found a table. Want to drop off our stuff and dance?” You asked the group. Robin nodded, already making her way towards the table and Eddie had to admit he felt a little out of place.
The itch under his skin yelled at him to run but the happy smile on your face when you patted the empty seat next to you kept him tethered to you – because how could it not? Eddie was sure you could ask for the disco ball and he’d risk his diploma to get it for you.
“Drinks?” Eddie asked, overwhelmed by the five nodding heads. Byers, with a small smile, got up and offered his help.
While Eddie had grown, no matter how reluctantly, close to Robin and her sidekick Harrington. Jonathan had only recently become a new addition. His family had just moved back and he seemed too quiet to really like the chaos that Eddie knew he tended to attract. His kid brother however, Will, was one of his favorites. Not that he’d ever tell Dustin that. The kid had a jealousy streak a mile long.
They had both just settled into their seats, everyone with a drink in hand, when another pop mess song came on. Robin and you straightened, eyes going to each other before you scrambled to your feet. “I’ll be right back,” you said, dropping a kiss to his cheek that had him stunned for a moment. Robin grabbed your hand and you both ran towards the dance floor.
“It’s their favorite song,” Steve explained, watching them wave over a reluctant Nancy. You both bounced around, heads shaking, and zero care that a few people were shooting you looks. “You gonna ask her to dance tonight?”
Eddie shot Steve a look and hated that Steve felt comfortable enough now to ignore him.
“Don’t give me that look man,” Steve laughed, “you came together! You can’t not ask her to dance.”
“We didn’t come together,” Eddie muttered, taking a sip of the disgustingly sweet punch, “she made that pretty clear.”
“Or you heard what you wanted to,” Nancy said, finally standing with Jonathan’s and in hers. “Because from what I know, she thinks you’re here together.”
“Wait, what?” Eddie shouted at Nancy’s retreating back. He turned to Steve, who looked like he was hiding a laugh, “What the hell does that mean?”
“That you both have your heads stuck in the grass,” Steve sighed. “I promised Dustin that I’d let you two figure this shit out on your own but I’m giving you a needed shove. Come on Munson, we’re going to dance.”
He opened his mouth to protest but Steve put a hand under his arm and all but shoved him in your direction. Robin cheered when she saw him, her head bobbling wildly. You beamed, hands coming up to his and twirling prettily around him. His eyes were drawn to you like magnets, he couldn’t help it. You danced with abandon, graceful but chaotically at the same time. Eddie shouldn’t have been surprised but, he really wasn’t sure how much more in love with you he could get.
“I’m thirsty!” Robin shouted, pointing back to the table. Steve let her take his hand and dragged him off towards the sides.
You turned to Eddie, smile wide, and he watched it falter when the faintly familiar pop song turned slow. His feet froze and he glanced towards Wheeler – finding her arms around Jonathan’s as they swayed slowly. She widened her eyes and looked pointedly towards you.
Alright, he could take a hint. He wasn’t that stupid.
With a flourish, he bowed deeply and outstretched his hand. “Can I have this dance milady?”
Your laugh was muffled by the music but the electricity across his skin crackled as you took his warm hand with your cool one. How were you always so cold? He pulled your hands between his and tried to let some of his heat sink in. You grinned up at him, eyes soft, and he placed his own at your waist. “Okay?” He asked.
“More than,” you said, leaning your head onto his chest. He was worried you’d hear how fast his heart was racing but by the small, happy, sigh you let out – he didn’t think you’d mind.
“If you would’ve told me last year that I’d end up graduating this year, with a grade higher than a C, and that I’d be at prom with you – I would’ve laughed,” Eddie said.
You wrinkled your nose at him. “Am I that bad of a date?”
Date? Holy shit, was Wheeler being honest?
“Shortcake, you’re the best date. I just didn’t think you’d want to hang out with the likes of me,” he clarified, “I’m either invisible or a cult leader. Take your pick.” He tried to play it off as a joke but he knew you’d hear it.
“I’ve always noticed you, Eddie. You’re not invisible to me,” you said quietly, your big eyes looking up at him beneath your lashes. Jesus Christ, how much more of this could he take? For once, you seemed to share his sentiment because you took a step back, out of his arms and excused yourself. He watched you dart across the gym, grab a bewildered Robin, and pulled her into a solitary corner.
Mystified, Eddie walked back to the table and Steve raised one of his brows. “What’s happening? We’ve only been here for like an hour.”
“I have no idea,” Eddie admitted. He started to worry when he saw your purple nails from the distance flailing left and right as Robin’s hands came down on your shoulders. She said something that clearly stunned you. After a beat both of you turned towards him and he darted his eyes away to act like he wasn’t being nosey.
“Uh, that doesn’t look good,” Steve muttered. Eddie glanced back up and watched as you made your way quickly over to him. A determined expression was etched onto your face and Robin followed at a slower pace, a smug look on hers.
Without a word, you grabbed his sleeve and pulled him into the hallway when a teacher had their back turned. “Uh, shortcake?”
“Shh!” You admonished, still leading him down the hall. You don’t stop until you find an empty classroom, the lights were on and door unlocked but it was clearly deserted.
He watched your chest rise and fall quickly, like you’d run a mile, and before Eddie could ask you what was wrong – you all but chucked an envelope at him. He’d almost ducked instinctively but he managed to catch it in his hands. Where the hell had that even come from?
“What’s happening right now?” He asked, holding the envelope in his right hand. “What’s wrong?”
“Open it,” you said, your fingers went up to tug at a lock of your hair – a telltale sign that you were nervous.
“Sweetheart-”
“Eddie, open the envelope,” you stressed.
With a wary glance towards you, Eddie flipped the hastily taped tab and slid out a pair of tickets.
IRON MAIDEN, JULY 1ST INDIANNAPOLIS, IN.
“Holy shit, are these floor tickets?” He squawked, hands shaking. You had Iron Maiden tickets! How the hell had you managed that? “Shortcake, where did you get these? I thought they were all sold out.”
“My dad knows someone,” you said waving a hand like it wasn’t important. Like you hadn’t just handed him a priceless gift. “I got VIP passes too.”
Eddie’s soul was gone. That’s it, it was back up on the moon, throwing a party.
“It’s not my birthday, you know,” he said, barely containing his excitement. He rocked back and forth on his heels. Holy shit, he was going to see Iron Maiden! With you!
“I know,” you said, biting your bottom lip. Eddie’s soul slammed back into his body and he realized you were wringing your hands again.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
“These are for us,” you said, pointing at the tickets.
“I assumed so,” he joked.
You closed your eyes, shoulders tense. “No, like… a date.”
Eddie snorted and immediately regretted it when he saw your head duck down. Shit, you’d been serious? You couldn’t have been serious. He knew Steve and Robin gave you both shit for it these past few months but there was no way in hell that you’d ever want to go on a date with him. He would’ve noticed. He absolutely would’ve noticed the signs.
“Oh,” you said, you voice incredibly sad, and Eddie wanted to slap himself. Okay, maybe he wouldn’t have noticed.
Eddie scrambled forward; tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. “No, wait – I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, words jumbling together. “I didn’t realize you were serious. I thought – I thought you were joking.”
You winced. “I get it. I’m not…your type, we’re friends, it’s fine. You can take both tickets and take one of the guys.” The expression on your face was enough to make him want to face plant. You turned on your heel and walked to the door.
Eddie’s heart dropped to his feet and he lurched forward, hands reaching for you. “Wait, wait, that’s not what – please. Shortcake, let me speak. I just need a moment to process.” You tried to wrestle your wrist out his grip but Eddie clung on for his life. You were not just going to turn and run after dropping a bomb like that on him.
“It’s fine, Eddie. I promise I’m not – I’ll get over it.”
“I didn’t even know you liked me!” You shot him a contemptuous look and he refused to cower back. You were scary when cornered but he knew you had a soft, gooey center. Whatever he said now was important. He had to get this right.
“Sweetheart. Look at me,” he said, pulling you away from the door. “I swear, I didn’t think you felt like that towards me.”
Your hardened look softened a little when he ducked down to catch your gaze. Blinking, you frowned a little and straightened. “You’re not joking?”
“I have never in my life been more serious,” he huffed, “and I really mean that.”
Exploding, you waved your animated hands in the air and Eddie jerked back to avoid being smacked by one. “How the hell did you not notice? Everyone noticed! Even the cheer squad knew. I asked you to go with me to prom!”
“What?” Eddie’s voice cracked. “You said not with you – to hang out or something!”
“Yeah, I only said that after you looked like I had smacked you over the head!”
Eddie groaned. “Because I didn’t think you’d ever want to go with me!”
You crossed your arms and rubbed one of your temples. “It’s against school policy to tutor a student for longer than a month or two. It’s not fair to the program so we swap consistently. It’s a way to make sure everyone gets the coverage they need from the different tutors. Didn’t you question why we went from meeting at the school to the public library?”
“Uh, no?”
“Well,” you huffed, looking a little embarrassed, “I liked you from like the first session. You, obviously, looked more interested in watching paint dry so I thought I could win you over. After the month I told Ms. O’Donnell that you just needed some guidance and I’d sign off on your paperwork. I told you that we needed to start meeting at the public library instead.”
“But, what about Nick?” Eddie was so confused. Had he entered an alternate dimension again? He glanced around for any sight of the dust. “You had a boyfriend up until like three months ago!”
“Because I thought it would make you jealous!” You huffed, exasperated.
What.
“Well, it did!” Eddie shouted back, the words falling before he could stop them. “I wanted to punch his goddamn face in.”
You blinked. “But…you didn’t seem all that eager to be my friend. You barely asked me about my weekend plans. I couldn’t have dropped more hints!”
“Shortcake, you’re not only out of my league – you’re in a different dimension. I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable!”
“Well, you didn’t!”
“Great!”
“Perfect!”
“Amazing.”
“Stupendous.”
“Are you going to keep trying to have the last word?” Eddie snorted.
You rolled your eyes but he saw your hands reach up for your hair. “I know I don’t dress like those girls at the hideout and wear too much yellow and pink and you think I’m popular and that my taste in music is overrated – which really proves my point that you’re pretentious – but –”
Eddie barely heard a word you were saying, his eyes watched your hands dance in the air, and your eyes dimming the more you spoke. How the fuck could you have ever believed that he wouldn’t like you? You still believed that, his mind supplied helpfully, anxiety evident in the rigid set of your shoulders. He knew from experience that if he let you keep going, you’d go on for hours. So, he grabbed your arms and pulled you into his chest. Startled, you stumbled and glared up at him.
“Shortcake?”
“What?”
“Please stop talking,” he said and dropped his lips to yours. Without hesitation, you wrapped your arms the best you could around his neck and pressed your body against his. Your cool fingers tangled themselves in his hair and he shuddered when your nails dragged along his scalp. Eddie, finally, bit down on your bottom lip and the low groan you let out shot straight to his dick.
Shit, even after imagining this moment for months – it really couldn’t compare. You tasted like punch, strawberries, and faintly of candy. He pulled back for air, your breath coming out in quick huffs. Eddie smiled, his heart racing at the sight of your dazed look. He did that. You liked him. He’d shared his life with you and you still liked him. Did shit like this really happen?
“So, you want to go to the concert with me?” You asked lightly, smile twisting your mouth.
Eddie threw his head back and laughed. “I want to go everywhere with you, shortcake.”
“Everywhere is good, I like everywhere,” you babbled, “...well, Steve’s house has a lot of rooms. Maybe everywhere can include that at the end of the night?”
Shutting his eyes, he valiantly tried to exercise self-control and not imagine you naked on a bed squirming beneath him. Failing, just a little, he nodded enthusiastically. “Should we go right now? Because I’ll grab Steve if we need to.”
You laughed, the sound warming him even further. “We still need to go with Robin to that afterparty.”
Eddie let his head loll as he groaned. “Conformity is so much work.”
“I’m sure you’ll be okay,” you teased, kissing him again. “Come on, someone’s going to catch us if we stay away too long.” Honestly, Eddie was willing to risk it but he knew you didn’t want to miss this.
As you both crept back towards the gym, your hand tucked in his, Eddie wondered if he was dreaming. He passed one of the wide windows in the hallway, the gym only a few yards away, and he pulled you to a stop.
“What?” You asked, peeking out through it.
Eddie ducked to look out the glass and caught sight of the dark sky and the full moon. He winked and pointed up at it. “You had me going there for a while, but this makes up for it. We’re even!”
“Who are you talking to?” You asked, glancing around.
“The moon. Or God. Maybe the universe?”
You nodded. “Okay,” you said, shrugging like it was completely normal.
Jesus Christ, he loved you.
The familiar chords of Kiss floated out of the open doors to the gym and Eddie perked up. “Is that…”
Tonight, I want to give it all to you
In the darkness, there's so much I want to do
“Kiss?” You asked, grinning. “Yeah, I promised the DJ half a gram from you if he’d play a few songs you like.”
Yeah, he was gone for you. Totally gone. If he had any dignity or pride left, he’d be a little embarrassed but he really couldn’t work up the energy.
“Come on!” You said, tugging him back into the gym and onto the dance floor. A few jocks looked disgruntled at the change of music but Robin and Nancy were out on the dance floor, so were a few others. You immediately jumped around, eyes bright, hips swaying, and Eddie’s heart felt like it’d jump out his chest at any moment.
“And I can't get enough of you, baby. Can you get enough of me?” You sang, turning to wink at him. Steve and Robin waggled their eyebrows, shooting him knowing looks and he shook his head. Nancy laughed, offering up her fist and Eddie couldn’t help but bump it.
Alright universe, he thought, you win, you totally win. I owe you for the rest of my life.
Eddie wrapped an arm around your waist and beamed when you leaned into his touch. Your lips came up to his jaw and he sighed. Maybe the shit show that was the entirety of high school was worth it if you were waiting for him at the end.
I was made for lovin' you, baby
You were made for lovin' me
Sunflower
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Summary: When Y/N joins the team, Bucky isn’t fond of her but as time goes on, she begin to form bond with the team and with him.
Warning: Swearing, torture, violence, death
Words: 20,971
A/N: All translations were made using Google, so sorry if they are wrong! This is also my first Marvel fic, and my first Bucky fic, so all feedback is welcome!
Master List Tag List
May
You’re nervous. Your palms sweat, even with the air conditioner pumping through the compound, and your heartbeat is elevated. You know that your presence is allowed but you don’t know whether they will accept you. After all, you were part of one of the most atrocious organisations that had ever existed.
Keep reading
｡⋆𖦹.✧˚──
the tower isn’t what it used to be. no more clean metal shine. no more stark’s weird robot jazz echoing off the walls. now there’s throw blankets that don’t match, mismatched mugs in the kitchen sink, and half a pizza box abandoned on the coffee table under a forgotten tablet glowing faint blue. the new avengers are spread across the sectional like dropped laundry. yelena belova was upside down with her legs hanging off the top, scrolling on her phone like the fate of the universe depends on it. john walker's asleep with one arm tossed over his eyes, pretending not to be listening. and you, you’re tucked in next to bucky barnes cause it’s always been that way.
his arm’s around your waist, the metal one, heavy and cool through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt. your legs are half across his lap. there’s a blanket barely clinging to both of you. you lean in slowly, kissing the corner of his mouth first, he hums something. so you do it again, softer. your lips trail across the edge of his jaw, warm and lazy. and he finally looks at you, real slow, real tired.
“you tryin’ to distract me?” he says, voice rough with sleep or maybe something else.
“from what?” you whisper. “yelena's tiktok rabbit hole? pretty sure the world’ll keep turning.”
he chuckles, breath fogging warm against your temple. “you’re gonna get us kicked off the couch.”
“then we’ll take the beanbag. better view of the stars anyway.”
there’s a long pause, no one talking, just the low thrum of the tower’s power system and distant sirens down in the city, muffled by double pane glass and altitude. bucky doesn’t say much when he’s tired. doesn’t need to. his hand settles over yours, thumb dragging lazy circles over your skin.
your powers flicker under your skin when you’re this close. heat like static behind your ribs. reality bends easier around you when he touches you. he doesn’t flinch anymore when it happens. the way light bends a little around your fingertips. how your shadow twitches half a second slower than your body.
“you’re glowing again,” he mumbles.
“can’t help it.” you grin against his throat. “you make me all… photonic.”
“that a scientific term?”
“yup. real cutting edge. avengers approved.”
he turns toward you fully then, presses a slow kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, then your lips. it’s nothing hurried. like sunday mornings. like breath.
near you, yelena mutters, “jesus. get a room.”
you don’t look away. neither does bucky. just smirks against your mouth.
a/n: i actually hate this so much! but forgive me for i was puking my brains out yesterday when i wrote this.
Harmless Masterlist
Summary: Bucky volunteers to go stop a small time villain, but nothing can prepare him for what exactly he has to deal with. (Bucky x villain!reader, series)
Keep reading
Lucky | Bucky Barnes
Part:1/2
Bucky x movie star!reader
Word Count: 19k
Warnings: Angst, fluff, ect
A/N: Found this in my google docs when i was looking for my layout of Yours, Always, it was supposed to be a long one shot but Tumblr wont let me post a 35k fic lol so its broken up in two parts, Its not proofreading it or edited
Last Part
Masterpost
------
The lights are blinding.
That’s the first thing you feel, not the cold wind slipping down the back of your silk dress, not the too-tight smile tugging at your lips, not even the ache in your ribs from the corset they cinched too hard. Just the lights.
They’re white, hot and endless.
“Y/N, this way!”
“Look over your shoulder!”
“Give us that million-dollar smile!”
“Who are you wearing?”
“Are the rumors true? Are you dating anyone?”
You turn, you pose.
Left side. Chin down. Eyes wide.
You were taught this. Programmed.
Smile like it doesn’t hurt. Laugh like the world hasn’t caved in three times this week.
Behind you, flashes burst like fireworks, one after the other, click, click, click. You’re the show. The proof that beauty exists. The doll everyone wants to dress up, photograph, praise, tear apart.
“She’s glowing.”
“She looks stunning.”
“She’s so lucky.”
You’re not listening, not really. You can’t hear anything over the pulse in your ears.
You shift your weight in your heels. Smile again. Flash another glance toward the cameras. They eat it up, you give them more.
Every pose is polished. Every hair is perfectly placed. Every reaction is rehearsed. But no one asks if you’re happy. No one would believe you if you said you weren’t and maybe that’s the worst part.
Because on nights like this, under the golden lights and velvet ropes, you’re not a person. You’re a thing. A body in couture. A name they know. A face that sells and the show must go on.
Always.
So you blow a kiss toward the crowd. You laugh at a joke you didn’t hear.
----
The kitchen at the compound was unusually quiet for 8 a.m.
Steve sat at the island with a tablet, squinting at whatever article caught his interest. Next to him, Bucky flipped through the newspaper, actual paper, the only man in the building still committed to ink and print.
“…They’re remaking Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” Steve muttered.
Bucky didn’t look up. “Blasphemy.”
Footsteps, then a voice, too cocky for the hour. “Morning, grumpy,” Tony announced, striding in like he owned the place, which, technically, he did.
Bucky lowered the paper an inch. “Don’t.”
Tony stole Steve’s toast. Steve scowled. “Seriously?”
Tony dropped a thick folder onto the counter with a theatrical thud. “Got a mission for you.”
That got Bucky’s attention. He folded the paper, leaned back, arms crossed.
Steve raised a brow. “He’s not cleared.”
Tony shrugged, chewing toast. “This is different. No fieldwork, no guns. No jumping off buildings, unless she throws him off one, which… fair bet.”
Bucky opened the file. Glossy photo, sunglasses, silk scarf. Smiling like she had the world in her pocket, which he would come to learn she did.
“Who’s this?”
Tony smirked. “Y/N L/N.”
Steve squinted. “The movie star?”
Tony nodded.
Bucky blinked. “Why would a movie star need me?”
Sam entered just in time. “Wait, who’s getting you?”
“Y/N Y/L/N.” Tony pointed at Bucky. “He’s going to be her bodyguard.”
Sam nearly dropped his protein shake. “No fucking way.”
Tony grinned. “Knew you’d appreciate it.”
Sam grabbed the file, flipping through. “Dude. She’s massive. Like… stalkers, paparazzi, sold-out appearances, screaming crowds. Her life’s a circus.”
Bucky looked unimpressed. “So send a security team.”
“She asked for you,” Tony said. “Well, her team did. Wanted the best.”
Bucky scoffed. “Why me?”
Tony smirked, because of course he did. “Because you’re the best. I hate that you are, but facts are facts and I love facts.”
He dropped the folder on the counter like it weighed nothing. Bucky stared down at it like it might explode. Bucky stared back at the photo, you were beautiful there was no doubt. You looked perfect, but you were just some girl in diamonds and silk and an expression that didn’t mean anything. You looked like every other starlet in every other ad. All light, no weight.
“Why the hell would someone like her need someone like me?”
Sam plopped down at the counter, flipping through the file like it was a magazine. “Because she’s got stalkers. Serious ones. There’s one guy, I saw on this gossip site I follow, who has been sending her letters since she was sixteen. Broke into her house twice. Held her captive once, for, like, 24 hours.”
Bucky shook his head. All of it felt ridiculous, like a plotline from one of those movies you were probably in.
You were famous, beautiful. Everything he wasn’t. He was a mess of history and metal and trauma in a jacket that didn’t fit right.
“Do I have a choice?” he asked flatly.
Tony took a long sip of his coffee and turned for the hallway. “Nope.” Then he was gone, because of course he was.
Bucky looked down at the photo again. She was laughing in it. That fake, trained kind of laugh. He knew it because he’d worn the same one in his file photos. The ones they used to show he was “adjusting well.” Your smile didn’t reach your eyes.
A hand clapped him gently on the shoulder, Steve. “It’s not gonna be that bad,” he said. “At least you’ll be out of the Tower. Doing something, something normal.”
Bucky stared at him, normal….right. He was a guy with blood on his hands and a barcode in his brain. A guy who hadn’t had a real conversation that didn’t involve tactical strategy or surveillance in… well, ever…and now he was supposed to babysit Hollywood’s favorite face?
He sighed and picked up the file. “She probably smells like perfume and entitlement,” he muttered.
Steve just smiled, too used to him by now.
Bucky didn’t smile back.
----------
Your suite smells like roses, burnt espresso, and tension. “Absolutely not,” you say, calm and clipped, as you scroll through your phone. “Get someone else.”
Your manager, Brett, sighs like he’s been holding his breath since 6 a.m. “Y/N. It’s not up for debate.”
You set your phone down slowly. “It is if you expect me to share space with a guy who used to kill people because someone said a few magic words.”
“He’s not like that anymore.”
“Right,” you mutter. “Because trauma just disappears.”
There’s a pause, another voice, one of your publicists, because apparently you need more than one, Leah, trying to sound gentle. “He’s the best we could get. Discreet, physically intimidating and he’s an Avenger.. We need you alive, you have contracts to complete..”
You glance between them. Brett’s jaw is tight. Leah’s trying too hard. You already know this is non-negotiable, nothing ever is anymore.
You pick up your phone again and say coolly, “Fine, bring in the ex-brainwashed assassin.”
They exchange a glance. “He prefers ‘Sergeant Barnes.’”
-----
When you first lay eyes on him, he walks in like he doesn’t want to be there. You don’t blame him, you don’t either. Leather jacket. Black jeans. Expression like thunderclouds. You already know who he is before anyone says a word.
He’s not what you expected. You thought he’d look more… broken or brutal. Instead, he looks like someone holding himself together with string. Sharp eyes. Quiet fury, but those blue eyes, god they were gorgeous, he was too.
He doesn’t smile, doesn’t flinch. Just stands there while Brett introduces him. “Y/N, this is Sergeant Bucky Barnes.”
You glance at your manager, then at Bucky. “Do I salute, or are we skipping that part?”
Bucky raises an eyebrow.
“Guess we’re skipping it,” you say, grabbing your coffee from the table and walking past him.
“Don’t talk to the press,” you toss over your shoulder. “Don’t talk to me unless it’s necessary and don’t fall in love with me.”
You’re joking, no one ever would
----
Bucky rides in silence. You’re pretending to be texting someone, pretending to be fake-laughing at a meme. Your assistant is reviewing your schedule: press junket, interview, table read, fitting.
You don’t look at him. He watches you through the rearview mirror. Everything about you is curated. Nails, lashes, the way you sit, like you’re always in a frame, always on camera.
He doesn’t see the appeal.
He’s not impressed by fame. He’s seen the world from the shadows. Glitter doesn’t mean safety. Glamour doesn’t mean goodness. You’re just another rich girl in a diamond cage. Still, he watches you like a soldier, like a threat.
You breeze past him into the building, sunglasses on, smile ready. He trails behind, clocking exits, cameras, fans, your security team.
Inside, it’s chaos, assistants shouting, lights flashing, everyone talking about you like you’re not standing there. You say nothing. Just nod, pose, walk where you’re told.
You’re perfect, plastic.
You sit in a chair, silent, while three people adjust your outfit. Bucky leans against the wall.
Someone says something about your last breakup. You laugh, it’s fake….empty. But they all buy it, he doesn’t
Your phone buzzes. You read it, then lock the screen without reacting. Bucky notices your hand twitch, a tiny, involuntary move. No one else does.
You glance at him once in the mirror, just once and he swears he sees something in your eyes but then the mask is back.
----
He walks you to your suite. No one talks.
Your heels click against the marble, each step echoing like punctuation. You don’t look back. You don’t slow down. Your assistant is three steps behind you, frantically unlocking the door like her job depends on it because it probably does.
You step inside the suite without acknowledging either of them.
White roses, chilled water, room temp lighting. Everything exactly the way your team demanded it. The air smells like money and tension.
You don’t even glance around. Before the door closes behind you, you pause one heel pivoting delicately on the floor and glance back over your shoulder.
He’s still standing there. Stiff and ilent. Arms folded like he’s waiting for an excuse to walk off the job.
You tilt your head. Smile.
But it’s not a sweet smile. It’s the kind that’s been sharpened over years of interviews and red carpets. Poisoned at the edges. “You always look this miserable, or is that just for me?”
He doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t.
You smirk, slow and mean, a laugh without sound, and shut the door in his face.
The lock clicks and outside, Bucky exhales like he’s just made a deal with the devil.
This job is going to suck.
----
You wake up before your alarm.
You always do.
It’s not anxiety, not really. It’s… habit. You’ve trained your body like a machine. Five hours of sleep is more than enough when you’re running on caffeine and compulsion.
You lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. Neutral cream color. No photos on the walls. No sound except for the hum of the air conditioner.
Someone knocks, twice, precisely. That’s the cue. You don’t speak, you don’t need to. This part doesn’t require you. The door opens, and the day begins
You know Brett will want a smile today. Leah will say you look tired. Marcy will try to shove that green juice down your throat again. You’ll let them, that’s the deal. You don’t own your mornings, haven’t in years.
Somewhere between the third nomination and the second perfume line, you stopped asking for space. They never gave it, and you stopped missing it.
They take your phone before you can read any texts, not that you would have any real ones. “You don’t need distractions,” Brett says, without looking at you, you nod.
They unlock your bedroom door from the outside. You don’t react.
You sit still as they go through your day. Makeup in thirty. Car at eleven. Don’t speak to press directly. Don’t touch fans, don’t make eye contact unless it’s on a red carpet.
You sip the green juice.
You pretend it tastes good.
You don’t remember what you actually like anymore.
Bucky’s already waiting.
He watches, arms crossed, as Brett speaks to you like you’re a child. Leah adjusts your coat. Your assistant carries your bag, even though you could carry it yourself.
They swarm around you, and you don’t say a word. They move you like you’re part of the scenery. He notices your silence first. Not out of peace, out of resignation.
He notices how you never touch your phone. How you’re never the one who opens a door. How you glance at Brett before answering a question.
You don’t move unless told, you don’t exist unless activated. You’re like a prop in your own life. He’s seen prisoners act freer and the worst part is you let them do it.
------
You’re perfect.
Dress like liquid diamonds. Hair pinned like an old Hollywood starlet. Lashes long enough to cast shadows.
You smile on cue. Laugh at questions that aren’t funny. Tilt your head just slightly to the left, it photographs better that way.
Bucky watches from behind the velvet rope. Arms crossed, shoulders tight. He’s not fidgeting, but he’s bracing. Always is, around this kind of crowd. The glitz, the lights, the smiles that don’t reach the eyes.
He hears someone say you’re “effortless.” He wants to laugh. Nothing about you is effortless. You’re a war machine wrapped in satin.
Inside, you take your seat. Cameras move around the announcers, the lights dim. They’re showing the nominees now, Best Actress.
Five clips, five women, one winner. Bucky scoffs at the reality of it all, how stupid this all truly is. But he can’t stop watching thinking back to Sam’s text from earlier ‘$20 says she takes it home’ Bucky responded back with ‘$50 she doesn’t’
The first few are polished, clean. Impressive, maybe. But calculated, controlled.
The screen fades in: it’s you, 1940s costuming. Hair curled and pinned. A wool coat, buttoned wrong because your hands are shaking. You’re walking up a long stretch of dirt road in London, a telegram crumpled in your fist.
The sound design is too quiet. The only thing you can hear is your breath, shallow and shaky and the crunch of your shoes on the frostbitten earth.
A voice reads over the shot. Cold, military, detached.
“We regret to inform you…”
You don’t speak, you run.
You stumble as you sprint up the front steps of a brownstone. A woman in black opens the door like she’s been waiting for you. There are more behind her. Neighbors, wives, sisters. All of them dressed in mourning.
You don’t look at any of them.
You try to step forward, but your knees give. They hit the concrete. Hard. You fall like you’ve been shot.
Bucky sees the scrape on your knees as the camera pans in, blood smearing across grey stone. He wonders if that was real or scripted. He votes scripted, but the way your face twists in pain makes him doubt it.
Then you scream, It rips out of you like something that’s been caged.
“NO!”
The whole auditorium flinches, your voice cracks wide open.
“No, no, no—he promised! He PROMISED me—! He said he was coming back!! NO— I don’t believe you! No, no, no, no….”
You’re not crying for the camera. You’re grieving, your body is shaking, your heaving like breathing physically hurts you.
You pound your fists into the stone. You shove off the women who try to gather around you. They’re crying too now, holding each other as you come undone in the middle of the street.
You don’t sob, you wail and it’s a sound Bucky’s never heard before or maybe one he’s tried to forget.
It’s the sound he imagines came out of his mother’s chest the day a man in uniform knocked on her door. It’s the sound he hopes to god he never has to hear again.
His jaw tightens, his throat locks, his eyes sting, but he doesn’t blink. Because he can’t. He straightens his spine, just like he was taught. Tighten the muscle, stand tall, don’t feel it, not here, not now.
The screen goes black, applause follows. Loud, immediate…earned.
But Bucky doesn’t move. He looks down at his hands, balled into fists at his sides, slowly, he looks at you.
You’re sitting in the front row, smiling politely, accepting the praise like it’s just part of the job.
But he knows what he saw, that wasn’t a performance. That was grief, that was real.
The presenters open the envelope.
There’s a joke about the glue being too strong, the crowd laughs. So do you, you tilt your head just right, camera-ready.
Bucky exhales like he’s underwater.
“And the winner is…”
A pause.
“Y/N L/N!!!”
The crowd explodes, a standing ovation. Cheering like it’s the end of the world.
You stand slowly, carefully, like you’ve practiced this before. You smile like someone just told you they love you.
You make your way up the stage, dress flowing like silver water under the lights. You hug the announcers, take the heavy glass statue, and step toward the mic.
The room quiets as you speak.
“Thank you.” Your voice is calm, measured. Just the slightest crack around the edges. “This role was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.” You glance out at the crowd, eyes glassy.
“To imagine living in a time like that, being in a world where people didn’t know if the person they loved was coming home, where a letter could end everything… it shattered something in me. It really did.”
“And I’m standing here because women lived through that. Women endured that and so did the men they loved and I wanted to honor them, I’m thankful I got to.”
You swallow hard, look down at the award.
“Acting has given me so much. But more than anything, it’s given me a voice I didn’t always know how to use.”
You look up again, past the cameras, past the lights.
“To the fans, to the crew, to the people who believed in me when I didn’t even believe in myself, thank you.” You blow a kiss into the air.
The room swells with applause. You smile one last time and you walk offstage, heels echoing like gunfire, shoulders slumped like you’re carrying something heavier than glass.
Backstage, Bucky doesn’t take his eyes off you. Someone hands you champagne, you drink it from the bottle. You hand off the award without looking at it, your face drops and your eyes go distant.
Bucky only takes his eye’s off you when his phone buzzes.
Sam: knew she’d win. she always does, you owe me $50.
Bucky stares at the text for a while.
He wants to write back: you should’ve seen her backstage.
But he doesn’t.
---------
You’re staring out the tinted window, face unreadable, while your assistant scrolls through your calendar.
“Lunch with Vogue,” she says.
You blink slowly. “I hate the editor.”
“She loves you, though.”
You nod. Because that’s enough of a reason.
Bucky sits in the passenger seat, watching your reflection in the mirror.
You haven’t said a word since you got in. Not to him, not to anyone, unless prompted. He chalks it up to ego or moodiness.
You bite your lip to stop the shaking. You smile when the camera flashes outside the car.
Bucky rolls his eyes. “Unreal.”
You hear it, you say nothing.
You’re filming a commercial. Champagne, slow-motion smiles. Music blasting. You’ve done this campaign six times. You fucking hate champagne.
“Again,” the director says. “More playful this time, Y/N.”
You do it again, you laugh on cue. You toss your head back. You hate how your earrings pull on your earlobes, but you don’t touch them. You hate the smell of the set perfume, but you don’t flinch.
From the sidelines, Bucky watches it all. Leaned against a lighting rig, arms crossed.
“She loves the spotlight,” someone says behind him.
Bucky doesn’t disagree. You stand in it like you were made for it, the way your chin tilts just enough for the cameras, the way your lips part in that rehearsed, polite smile. You seem to drink it in, all the flash and noise and attention. You look like you belong there.
But what they don’t see is that you haven’t eaten all day. That the corset is too tight, cutting into your ribs, that every breath is a performance, sometimes you wished you weren’t breathing at all. No one notices, no one asks.
They don’t know you haven’t really laughed in months. Not the kind that starts in your chest and makes your eyes water. Just the polite kind. The one they teach you for red carpets and late night interviews. The kind that photographs well.
They don’t know about the days where it all feels too quiet, even when it’s loud. When you drive up the coast alone and wonder how fast you’d have to be going for the curve to take you off the edge. Not out of sadness. Not even out of fear. Just… curiosity.
You don’t want to die. Not really. You just want to feel something that doesn’t come with a script.
After the take, you walk off set and sit in a chair by yourself. Bucky watches you hand your phone to Leah without being asked.
He watches Brett adjust your robe before you even touch it. He watches you smile at a crew member and then go completely blank the moment they pass. He thinks you’re cold, you think you’re conserving energy.
Bucky sees it from the hallway. He wasn’t meant to. Your door’s open slightly. You’re standing in front of a mirror, holding your face with both hands like you’re trying to keep it from falling apart.
You whisper to yourself, something he can’t hear and then slap a smile onto your face. You turn, open the door.
You jump when you see him standing there. “Jesus,” you mutter. “Creep much?”
He doesn’t apologize.
You brush past him, coat draped over one arm, pretending like you didn’t just rehearse a fake expression for the last two minutes.
Bucky shakes his head as you go. He still doesn’t get it.
You eventually get home and strip yourself of everything the day gave you, you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, again. The TV is on but muted. You don’t know what channel. Your phone buzzes, Leah sends a revised schedule for tomorrow. You don’t respond, you don’t cry.
You just blink, slowly, and say to the ceiling, “Get through one more day.” You don’t believe it, but you say it anyway.
-----
The trailer lot was a mess.
Lights everywhere, crew yelling, someone spilled coffee on a cable and now half the power was out. The shoot was running behind…again.
Bucky stood with his arms crossed by the production trailer, watching the chaos like it personally offended him. He didn’t do chaos unless it involved something he could punch and then came the voice.
Yours. Loud, sharp enough to cut glass. “No! Absolutely not. I said no to the green one, does no one ever listen to me?!"
You stormed out of your trailer, heels clicking like gunshots, satin robe flowing behind you like a cape.
Your hair was half done, makeup already starting to melt under the lights, and you were holding what looked like a couture dress with two fingers like it personally insulted your family.
“Do I look like I just walked out of Mamma Mia?” you snapped at your stylist, voice cutting. “No? Then why the hell would I wear this?”
People scattered. Your manager started apologizing before you even finished talking.
Bucky just watched blankly. Spoiled, he thought. Completely unhinged, an un grateful brat who probably didn't know what a hard day actually was.
You tossed the dress at some poor assistant and marched back into the trailer, muttering something about firing everyone and never working in this town again.
“She’s exhausted,” someone said nearby. “She hasn’t had a day off in months.”
Bucky didn’t even look at them. He didn’t get it. Exhausted? For what?
You stood on a stage and talked. You wore pretty clothes and smiled at cameras. He’d lived in the woods for weeks eating bugs during wartime. He’d bled out in alleyways, dug bullets out of his own thigh. That was exhausting.
This? This was pretend. This was fake, you were fake. He didn’t say it out loud. Just shook his head, turned, and kept walking. That’s when he heard it.
The trailer door, not your trailer, but the office one was cracked open just enough. He didn’t mean to stop. He didn’t mean to listen. But your name came up, and his legs rooted themselves to the ground.
“He was outside her hotel again.”
“How the hell does he keep getting this close?”
“They think he’s hacked into call sheets. He’s finding her schedule before we even approve it.”
“He’s escalating. The notes are more aggressive, more personal.”
“She doesn’t even react anymore.”
“Yeah, well, she never does.”.
“We should lock her down this weekend. No events. Nothing public. Spin it as a scheduled break.”
Bucky blinked, slowly. The air felt heavier all of a sudden.
She doesn’t even react anymore.
He didn’t know why that line stuck, just that it did. Later, Brett flagged him down near the lot exit, sunglasses on like he was someone important.
“You’re off this weekend,” he said, waving it off like a minor inconvenience. “She’ll be locked in at the house. No press, no events. All quiet.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow. “And the stalker?”
Brett shrugged. “She’ll be fine. We’ve got in-house security. You’ve earned the break. She’s a lot, but… nothing at all. You know what I mean?”
Bucky didn’t. He didn’t know what any of it meant. But he didn’t argue. Didn’t even know why he felt the need to argue. This was a job, you weren’t his problem, you never had been and never will be.
He took his keys without a word.
You were heading to your car at the same time, heels off now, coat thrown over your shoulders like armor, hair pinned perfectly again, mask back in place. The driver was already waiting, of course.
You stopped at the car door, glanced over. “So,” you said, voice softer now. “You’re off this week?”
“Apparently.”
You smiled. Not the one from press junkets or award shows. A smaller one, more human. It didn’t reach your eyes, but it was the closest he’d seen. “Enjoy it.”
He didn’t smile back, just grunted. “Try not to cause any more trouble.”
Your laugh was quiet. Not a performance, just something real, pushed through exhaustion. “I’ll do my best.”
You slid into the car, the door shut and just like that, you were gone.
Bucky stood there for another full minute before walking away. Still trying to figure out why he felt like he’d missed something important.
————
Two days later, Bucky was back at the Tower. The city felt quieter here, less like performance, more like breathing. Steve and Sam were already in the kitchen, post-run, towels slung over their shoulders, sweat still drying.
Sam tossed Bucky a water bottle. He caught it one-handed. “So,” Sam said, leaning against the counter, “how’s the movie star?”
Bucky scoffed. “She’s a piece of work.”
Steve glanced up from the paper he was pretending to read. “That bad?”
“She doesn’t talk unless she has to. She’s always on, like everything’s some promo tour. Even off-camera, it’s exhausting.”
Sam raised a brow. “She’s been famous since what, ten? Maybe she doesn’t know how to turn it off.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “Her team treats her like a product. I watched some assistant take her phone out of her hand mid-text. She doesn’t even open her own car doors. They tell her what to eat, where to go, what to say. She just does it, doesn’t blink.”
Steve frowned. “And she just… takes it?”
“She doesn’t flinch, it’s like she’s not really there.”
Steve folded the paper and set it down. “That kind of sounds like survival.”
Bucky looked at him, scoffs. “You’ve never met her, you wouldn’t know.”
“I don’t have to,” Steve said gently.
Bucky ignored him. “I watched her snap at some poor girl the other day over the color of a dress.”
Sam snorted. “You snap when we move your knives or reorganize your ammo stash.”
Bucky turned, glaring. “That’s different.”
“If you say so,” Sam said, smirking. “Come on, movie night. You’re coming.”
“I don’t—”
“Nope,” Sam said, already walking. “You’re coming.”
The Tower’s theater room was dim, the seats stupidly plush. Steve had a bowl of popcorn bigger than Bucky’s head. Sam handed him a beer with a shit-eating grin.
“What are we watching?” Bucky asked warily.
“It’s a surprise,” Sam said.
That should’ve been the first red flag, the lights dimmed, and the screen lit up. Bucky’s face twisted the second the title card appeared. “No,” he said flatly. “Absolutely not.”
“Sit down,” Sam said, tugging him back into the seat. “Watch the art happen.”
Your name lit up the screen, In The Quiet After. The same film from the award show, Bucky sighed so hard it came out like a growl.
Of course it was that movie, the one you won for. The one everyone was still talking about in quiet tones like it was sacred. Sam smirked and passed him the popcorn, Bucky didn’t touch it.
He was already watching and he hated that he watched
The first scene opened with a wide shot, London under a grey sky, everything washed in a cold, early-morning haze. A train pulled into the station slow and quiet. Inside, you sat by the window, your cheek pressed to the foggy glass, lips parted slightly like you’d just forgotten how to breathe. You didn’t say anything, didn’t need to.
Your eyes were already telling the truth, hollow, wide, tired. Like you were mourning something you hadn’t lost yet or maybe something you’d already lost long ago, but hadn’t let yourself feel.
It wasn’t acting. Not the kind he was used to, anyway.
The story unfolded slowly, like memory. You played the fiancée of a soldier who’d been missing in action for nearly a year. The war was winding down, but hope, the kind that hurt still lived in you.
There was a scene where you folded his letters, over and over, until they were so creased the words disappeared. Another where you danced alone in your kitchen with a record playing, eyes shut, holding a sweater like it was a person. Bucky didn’t breathe through that one.
Bucky sat forward, elbows on his knees, beer forgotten. Then the telegram came, the scene they showed when you won that award. A different scene started when you didn’t cry at first. You just stood in the hallway, dress wrinkled, light slanting through a window like it was trying to reach you. Your legs gave out again. Just crumpled underneath you, the sound you made this time wasn’t a sob, it was a whimper, low and shaking, like something breaking in a place no one could see.
You stood in front of his empty closet, touching the things he left behind, a medal, a book, a shaving kit and when you pressed your face to the shirts still hanging there, Bucky had to blink fast, jaw clenched.
There was a scene, a short one where your character sat at the edge of the ocean, shoes off, staring at the water like it owes you something and you whispered, “I wasn’t afraid until they told me he was gone and now I’m afraid of everything.”
That one stayed in his chest, the last shot was you sitting at the window, hair half brushed, looking out at nothing.
Not waiting, just existing. The screen faded to black, the credits rolled. The room was quiet. Sam shifted beside him, eyes still locked on the screen. Bucky sat there, frozen, a fist pressed to his mouth and when the credits rolled, he didn’t move.
Sam leaned over. “Admit it. That was good.”
Bucky didn’t say anything. He blinked, fast, and wiped a tear away so quickly it almost didn’t count but Sam saw it.
“Not you too,” Bucky muttered when he heard Steve sniff beside him.
Steve just shrugged. “She’s good.”
Bucky didn’t say anything.
He was still thinking about the look on your face in that last shot, how it wasn’t dramatic, or showy, or polished. Just tired, real. That scared him more than he’d admit. It felt real, he’s felt that feeling before himself. He swallowed hard.
The film moved him, it felt like what could have been if he found someone before he got his papers, watching you dance in the street with a man you loved, laughing like it hurt and when he died, you crumbled in silence, not tears. Just… nothing.
He was still watching the dark screen littered with white words of everyone who made the film, he couldn’t stop thinking of the scream. Not yours, but the one he never heard from his sister, or his mother, or the world that mourned him when he disappeared.
——
The silence at your house was overwhelming, it usually was.
No cameras, no crew, no voices in your ear telling you where to be. Just the soft hum of the fridge, the creak of the floorboards under your bare feet, and the muted echo of a house too big for one person.
You hadn’t turned the TV on, you didn’t want noise, not the fake kind. You sat at the piano in your sunken living room, hair pulled up, hoodie sleeves pushed to your elbows. You let your fingers hover over the keys for a long time before pressing the first note.
You wrote without meaning to, it came out slow, low, soft.
They put me in diamonds, tell me I shine. Pose for the photos, say the right lines. But nobody asks if I slept last night. Nobody asks if I’m really alright.
You played the chorus over and over until the melody started to hurt.
It's quiet now, no scripts, no gold. Just me in the dark, getting tired of roles. They all say I’m lucky, but they don’t have a clue…what it’s like to be seen and never seen through. When the laughter fades to air, I’m just a girl with no one there.
Your voice cracked once, but no one was around to hear it.
You liked singing more than acting, always had. Singing felt like you, writing felt like something real. But that didn’t sell, not the way your face did, not in the way your body did.
They’d said it so many times, you’d stopped arguing. You had the kind of face that belonged on billboards. So that’s where they put you, said you were too pretty to hide behind a mic. That your voice was fine, but your face was profitable. So you shut up and smiled and gave them what they wanted, you always ended up here, playing music for a room that would never applaud.
-------
The studio was freezing. The kind of cold that crept under skin and made bones ache. Probably on purpose, keep the talent uncomfortable. Keep them alert, keep them obedient, its what they use to do for him.
Bucky stood just outside the wardrobe trailer, arms crossed, metal fingers flexing now and then just to feel something. He didn’t shiver, he didn’t feel cold like that anymore.
He was watching nothing and everything at once, lights shifting across the lot, assistants rushing like ghosts with clipboards and coffee. The hum of production noise buzzed in the background. Mostly, he ignored it.
Until your voice cut through it. “I don’t want to do this!”
It made him blink.
He’d never heard you say no to anything. Not to your team, not to the cameras. Not to the weight of your own exhaustion. Now that he thought about it, that was because no one had ever listened long enough to hear you.
“I said I don’t want to do this,” your voice rose again, cracking on the edge. “I’m not doing nudity. I told you that!”
A pause.
A sound that made Bucky’s stomach turn. That sick, sharp snap of skin on skin. A sound his body recognized faster than his brain.
A slap.
He didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. He just moved. The door slammed open hard enough to rattle the hinges. Cold air rushed in behind him.
You were standing in the middle of the trailer, stiff and trembling. Satin robe gripped tight around your frame like armor. Your makeup was half-finished, but your eyes were all fire and fear. A bright red handprint bloomed across your cheek like war paint.
Brett turned, visibly irritated. “This doesn’t concern—”
Bucky stepped in front of you, slow and dangerous. “Move.”
Brett straightened his spine like it might make him taller. “You don’t tell me what to do! I tell people what to do.”
Bucky’s voice was like ice. “You gonna move me?”
Brett didn’t blink, but he didn’t answer either. Because the truth was: everyone knew who Bucky was. Maybe Brett wasn’t afraid of you, but he was sure as hell afraid of the man standing between you and him now.
Brett backed away, grabbed his tablet, muttered something about schedules, about budgets, about “not being done” but he was already retreating. The door slammed shut behind him.
The air in the trailer changed, it was thick and heavy. You didn’t look at Bucky right away. Just stood there, unmoving, one hand slowly rising to your cheek, like your body couldn’t decide whether to comfort itself or feel the bruise.
“Thank you,” you said, voice soft but unsteady.
He didn’t move either. “Just doing my job,” Bucky muttered.
You nodded, but something in your face cracked when he said it. Like the words “job” hit a little too hard, because of course he was paid to protect you.
“Of course.” It came out flat and empty.
Bucky shifted, watching you. You looked small at that moment. Not weak, just… unguarded. Like someone who was running out of ways to hold themselves together. “You okay?”
You nodded, eyes still on the floor. “Of course.” But the second time, your tone was different. Like you didn’t believe yourself either.
You didn’t wait for a response, you just walked out.
Chaos hit less than an hour later.
You were walking to the car, head down, wrapped in a coat you didn’t remember putting on, when the entire lot seemed to shift. Shouts rang out, radios crackled. Security scrambled to lock the gates. Flashes went off, someone screamed. The sound of feet pounding pavement.
Bucky was already moving. He didn’t wait to be told. He didn’t need clearance. He stepped between you and the sound, body tight and still, pressing close until your back touched his chest.
You didn’t flinch, of course you didn’t. Because this wasn’t new for you. None of it was, not the panic, not the threat. Not the way you had to keep walking like you weren’t being hunted. You didn’t even seem to care about your life being in danger.
Your publicist, Leah, came running, phone pressed tight to her ear.
“He’s here,” she said, breathless. “We think he followed her from the last hotel. How the hell does he keep finding her?”
Bucky’s jaw locked. His eyes scanned the crowd, already calculating exits, cover, line of sight. He reached for your hand, not hard, just firm and tucked you behind him like instinct.
Bucky was still inches from your back when Leah caught up to you both, still talking fast. “We’re not sending her to that appearance Friday. We’re leaking it anyway, we think he’ll show. In the meantime, Sergeant Barnes, you’re with her 24/7, you’re staying at the house.”
You didn’t argue, just nodded. “Why’s your cheek red?” Leah asked, barely looking up.
You adjusted your sunglasses. “Ran into a door.”
Leah rolled her eyes. “Of course. The beauty, but with no brains.”
Bucky winced at that one. He looked at you, waiting for your reaction but you didn’t have one, you didn’t respond, nothing you just kept walking.
———
You didn’t speak on the drive home.
When you unlocked the door and let him in, you didn’t say welcome. You didn’t offer a tour, you just kicked off your shoes, dropped your bag by the wall, and disappeared into the kitchen like he wasn’t there at all.
Bucky stood in the foyer for a minute, looking around. The place was immaculate, modern and well magazine-worthy. But there were no photos. No personal touches, no signs of family, no warmth. It was clean to the point of being sterile. You lived in a house that looked staged for a sale.
His footsteps echoed. You came back with a bottle of water, handed him one wordlessly, and went upstairs. The silence in the house wasn’t peaceful. It was suffocating, he couldn't imagine having to live here.
Bucky sat down in one of the perfect chairs in the perfect living room and stared at the wall across from him. This wasn’t how he imagined the world's biggest movie star to live, this was how ghosts lived.
The door buzzed just after six.
Bucky had been sitting on the perfect chair, trying to figure out what the hell to do with himself in a house that didn’t feel lived in. He opened the door before the second knock. The woman standing there didn’t even blink.
“Relax,” she said, holding up a tiny keypad and some wires. “Just updating her security. Won’t take long.”
She didn’t ask for permission. Just stepped inside like she owned the place. She didn’t even take off her heels.
“Gina,” she added, like that explained anything. “I’m her publicist or one of them, technically. You probably already met Leah, she's the hands on one, no way I could deal with our little diva all day.”
Bucky followed her as she moved to the wall near the front door, unscrewing a panel and installing a new keypad. He stayed quiet, watched every move. She knew she was being watched and didn’t care. “Just showing you where you’re sleeping,” she said casually. “Couple of days, right? Guest room’s down here. Hers is right above it.”
She motioned toward a sleek white door by the front hallway.
“Help yourself to anything,” she added. “Don’t touch her piano, don’t wake her up unless there’s an emergency. Don’t ask her too many questions, she won’t answer them.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow. “What’s the plan for the guy?”
Gina checked something on her phone. “We leaked that she’s going to an event on Friday. We’re hoping he shows, cops will be watching.”
Bucky crossed his arms. “Has he ever tried anything violent?”
Gina paused. “There was one incident. A few years ago, but she talked her way out of it. Manipulated him, acted her way out of it, that’s what she’s good at.”
She glanced at him, eyes sharp. “That’s why she wins awards, she’s good at faking it.” She smiled, a little too smug and walked out the door without waiting for a response.
Bucky waited until she was gone, then pulled out his phone. “Steve,” he said when the line clicked on.
“You good?”
“Define good,” Bucky muttered. “She’s locked in her own house because she has this stalker. The place has high level security. Some publicists just came by to upgrade the system even further, it's crazy for just one girl.”
Steve’s voice came calm. “The stalker?”
“Name’s Elias Corrin.”
“I’ll look into it.”
“Yeah okay,” Bucky said.
He hung up and leaned back against the door, staring into the quiet. He didn’t know what the hell he’d walked into. But he didn’t like how deep the hole looked from here.
That night he found you outside.
You were barefoot on the patio, legs pulled up into the chair, arms wrapped tight around your knees. The lights from the pool lit your skin in pale, blue glimmer almost otherworldly, like moonlight underwater. One empty bottle of wine sat on the table. Another was already open, half-gone.
You didn’t hear the door open. You didn’t hear his steps. It wasn’t that he was trying to be quiet. You just weren’t listening, your mind too loud.
You turned when you finally heard the soft slide of glass. Your voice was low, hoarse from the day. “You want a drink?”
“No thanks,” Bucky said. “I can’t get drunk.”
You tilted your head, like you were trying to figure out if that was sad or not. “By choice?”
“No, the serum.”
“Oh,” you murmured. “Right, super soldier.” You paused. “Weird that that stuff actually exists.”
He nodded.
You gestured toward the chair across from you. “You can sit. I’m not gonna throw anything.”
He hesitated, then sat.
You were humming something, a soft, sad thing with no real melody. Like you were just filling the silence so it didn’t swallow you. It wasn’t a song, it wasn’t for him. It was just for you, but Bucky… felt it. Low in his chest, somewhere hard to reach. Like the ache of something he hadn’t admitted yet.
You didn’t look at him when you said, “I know what you’re thinking.”
He didn’t answer, just kept his eyes on you.
“This house is cold, empty.” You took a sip. “Want to know something stupid?”
He waited.
“I used to dream about my perfect house. Not like this, not marble floors and designer furniture. I wanted a little white one. Big wraparound porch, a garden, wind chimes. Maybe photos on the walls of all the friends I’d have. A kitchen that actually smelled like something.”
You smiled at your wineglass. It didn’t reach your eyes.
“I pictured pots and pans hanging over the island. You know, the messy kind. With a coffee mug that doesn’t match the rest. Something that looked like someone lived there, oh my god, I can't forget about stained glass windows so when the sun shines, my house would be happy to.
He looked around at the manicured patio, the spotless glass, the perfect silence. “Why don’t you make it that?”
You shook your head like he didn’t understand.
“It’s never that easy,” you said. “Money buys a lot, but not silence that doesn’t feel like you’re drowning in it. Not real people, not anyone who stays.”
He watched you carefully, the way your voice dipped like a record dragging on the wrong speed.
“Aren’t you happy?” he asked.
“If there’s a camera around? Yeah,” you said, pausing briefly you took a deep breath, then softer, almost a whisper, like it wasn’t meant to be heard, “But no, not really.” The words hovered between you like smoke.
You stared out at the water, blinking slow. “I wanted to sing. That’s all I wanted. Just… write songs, play piano, maybe disappear into it.”
Bucky didn’t speak. He didn’t want to interrupt whatever this was, the first time in the weeks he’s been assigned to you that he saw you be real, and he wouldn't admit it but he was fascinated by this lifestyle that was the complete opposite to his.
“But they said my face was too pretty to waste, and said acting sold more. Said I’d be stupid not to take the offers.” You snorted into your glass. “So I did, because I didn’t know what else to do, who else to be.”
You shook your head. “Now I’m rich, alone…exhausted and everyone thinks I’m this spoiled little thing who throws tantrums about champagne or shoes or the wrong shade of lipstick…. sometimes I do it, y'know? Throw fits everyones expecting me to throw, just to feel something more than what I do.”
You turned to look at him. “But I don’t even know what I want anymore, Bucky. I just know it was never this.”
His name sounded different coming from your lips. It wasn’t flirtation or business, it was something honest. Like you were asking him to just see you, not fix you. He stayed silent. Sometimes silence was safer than saying the wrong thing, his mind was too busy reeling the you he made up in his head, the you that screamed for a different coloured dress because you were a brat, not the you that did it to give the people what they made you, to give yourself something to feel.
You took another sip, lips curling slightly. “You wanna hear something really fucked up?”
He gave you a slow nod.
“Every year, on my birthday, they throw these huge parties. Red carpet, champagne, some exclusive venue with a million fake people. The same faces, the same photos. But every year, I show up, smile, and think…” you laughed bitterly, “God, I can’t believe I made it another year.”
He frowned, finally responding. “What do you mean?”
You looked up, eyes shining with something sharp. “I mean, how does someone live this long,” you said, “without feeling anything at all?”
Just like that, the air shifted, it's like the earth felt it to become the wind picked up. Bucky felt it, the weight in your voice, the truth behind the joke. The kind of sadness that doesn’t scream or cry or beg. The kind that just exists, quiet and constant.
He didn’t know what to say, he barely did day to day with basic, easy conversations so he just stayed, like Steve did for him when he needed him to and that mattered.
You looked at him again, and this time, your voice cracked a little. “Don’t look at me like that, like I’m breakable.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m looking at you like you’re real.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I get it,” he said. It was barely more than a whisper.
You blinked. “You do?”
“Parts of it.”
You didn’t say anything back. Just stared at him for a long time, until the silence wasn’t heavy anymore, just quiet, then you just poured another glass and kept humming.
--------
The house is quiet again. Not in the eerie way it used to be, where silence felt like a scream. This kind of quiet is soft, bearable…almost warm. No one’s called for you. No cameras, no red carpet, just Bucky.
You woke up late, no alarms, no stylists, no fake lashes. Just sunlight cutting through the blinds and the faint clink of him making coffee downstairs.
He didn’t speak when you walked in, just slid a mug across the island like it was something he’d done a hundred times. You sat across from him in an old sweatshirt, knees curled under you. No makeup, no walls. He didn’t stare but he noticed. He always does.
It’s strange, how fast the noise fell away.
The city is still out there, of course. Cameras, crowds the mess of it. But here, even in this steril house it’s quiet in a way he doesn’t mind.
He watches you more now. Tries not to, but he does. You hum while you make toast, barefoot on marble floors. You read paperbacks and roll your eyes when the plot disappoints you. You talk more, not much, but more.
Yesterday, you asked about Brooklyn. About what music he liked before the war. Not as an interview, but just… because. He didn’t give you much. But you didn’t look disappointed and that scared him a little. Because this was supposed to be a job.
It’s late when it happens, hours past the point where anyone normal would be asleep. The house is dim, quiet. Bucky’s sitting in the armchair by the glass doors, a book open in his lap he’s not reading it’s just… there. Then he hears it, soft scuffling in the kitchen. A cupboard door thudding shut, another opening. A drawer slammed a little too hard.
“HA! I found ’em!” You pop up from behind the island, holding a crinkly bag of marshmallows like you just won the lottery.
He doesn’t say anything, just watches. You’re wearing flannel pajama pants and one of his sweatshirts you borrowed two days ago and never gave back.
You spin around, holding the bag in front of you like a trophy. “Come on.”
He raises an eyebrow. “No.”
You pout. “Come on, Sarge. I need you to start the fire or I’ll probably burn the house down.”
He groans but you hit him with it, the puppy dog face, not just any the best he’s ever seen, big eyes…lip jutted. That kind of ridiculous, manipulative sweetness that shouldn’t work on him but it does.
He sighs, pushes up from the chair. “Fine.”
Your whole face lights up and it’s not fake. Not for the cameras, just real and because of him and that’s when he thinks in this moment you don’t remind him of the sun. You remind him of the stars, bright, but only in the dark.
The fire pit flickers out back. You’re curled up with a blanket draped over your shoulders, holding a roasting stick like it’s some ancient tool. Bucky crouches near the flames, getting the wood just right.
“I feel like I should be paying you,” you joke.
“You are,” he says.
You laugh, really laugh, the kind that reaches your eyes. You hand him a marshmallow. “Don’t burn this one.”
He does, immediately but you make him eat it anyway.
You talk, and it’s easier now. You tell him about your first audition. How you tripped on your own heels and nearly threw up in front of three casting directors. You tell him about learning to cry on cue, about learning to smile when you wanted to scream.
You ask him about his family, not like you’re prying, but like you actually care.
He tells you about his mom. How she used to braid his sister’s hair before school, how she always left the porch light on for him, even when he came home past curfew. How his dad never said much but always made sure the heater worked. He doesn’t say much more. But it’s something.
You’re staring into the fire, the flames rising and sinking like they’re breathing. Your last marshmallow is too close, the edge catching and curling black. You don’t flinch. You let it burn a little longer before pulling it back, watching the char bubble and blister.
You pop it into your mouth anyway, ashy, sweet. You barely taste it. Softly, too softly for how heavy the words are you speak.
“I used to think I’d die young.”
It comes out like a throwaway thought. Like something you’ve said before to the ceiling at 3 a.m. But now it’s out here in the open, between you and the fire and him.
You roll your eyes at yourself, laughing once, dry and bitter. “Not in some big dramatic way. Not pills or headlines or anything that’d ruin the brand.” You shake your head. “Just… quietly. Like, one day I’d stop, fade out, a footnote.”
You glance at him, just for a second, then back to the flames.
“But yet here I am,” you murmur, “with a super soldier, roasting marshmallows, under lockdown because some guy thinks…” You don’t finish that sentence.
Bucky’s jaw ticks. His body goes still, but he doesn’t interrupt. You get the sense he knows better than to.
You keep going, because if you stop now, it’ll crush you.
“I’ve had everything they said I should want. All of it. Magazine covers, designer gowns, awards with my name etched in gold like that’s supposed to mean something.”
You laugh again, hollow this time. “I’ve been told I’m beautiful by people who don’t even make eye contact. I’ve smiled through breakdowns. I’ve clapped for co-stars who took everything I wanted and through it all, I thought eventually….eventually I’d feel full.”
You pause, let the fire crackle for you.
“But I don’t.” Your voice is lower now. “Most days, I don’t feel anything at all. Just… tired. All the time. Like I’m running on autopilot. Like I’m standing in the middle of a room full of people screaming my name and I’ve never been lonelier.”
The wind shifts and fire flickers. You don’t look at him when you say it, but it’s the truth that floors him.
“This is the most joy I’ve had in years and I’m paying you to be here.”
That quiet silence hits hard. You feel your throat tighten. So you turn to him, finally, and your eyes are glassy, not full of tears, just… worn.
“Does that make me crazy?”
Bucky doesn’t answer right away. He watches you, really watches you like you’re not a headline or a paycheck or a woman wrapped in satin on someone’s magazine cover. You’re just a person now, barefoot, burned out, asking if your emptiness means you’re broken.
“No.”
You blink at him.
--------
Wednesday morning starts slow, the kind of quiet that hangs gently in the air, like the house itself is still asleep.
Bucky’s already out on the patio, sitting on the bench, coffee in hand. His hair is still damp from the shower, sticking up a little at the back, and he’s wearing the same navy t-shirt from the night before, stretched a bit at the shoulders.
The air is cool, and the sky is soft gray. He’s not thinking about much, or maybe too much. He doesn’t know the difference anymore. Just staring at the garden, at the fence line, at the leaves trembling in the breeze. He hears the creak of the sliding door.
You step outside barefoot, sleeves too long on a borrowed hoodie. You’re balancing two mismatched mugs in your hands like they’re made of glass. You don’t say anything.
You just hand one to him. He looks up, surprised. He takes it without question, and puts his other one down.
You sit beside him, folding your legs up into the chair, knees pulled to your chest, like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. Your mug disappears into your hands.
Neither of you says a word for a while. The only sound is the wind brushing the trees and the faint clink of ceramic when one of you shifts. You sip slowly, so does he. You hated the quiet but this, felt different, this quiet sounded different.
You don’t look at him when you speak. “I hate the quiet, it makes me feel like I failed.” Your voice is soft and thoughtful.
Bucky turns his head, watching you.
You’re staring at the trees like they’ve got all the answers. “I know its stupid but if it isn't loud, if people aren't clapping, I thought it meant I wasn’t enough.”
You rest your chin on your knees. “I didn’t know quiet could feel… nice."
Bucky nods, not quick, just slow. Like he’s been thinking the same thing for years and never knew how to say it.
“It’s the only time I know I’m okay,” he says quietly.
You look back at him for a second, not too long just enough to let the words settle. “Yeah,” you say.
---
You’re in the screening room. You’re the one who picked Casablanca. Bucky didn’t argue, anything to get the last movie he saw out of his head, your movie.
The lights are dim, you’ve got a blanket wrapped around you, feet tucked under your legs, and a bowl of popcorn between you that neither of you are really touching.
He’s not watching the movie, he’s watching you.
The way you mouth the lines under your breath. The way your eyes crinkle slightly during the airport scene. The way your voice is quieter when you say: “We’ll always have Paris.”
You notice him watching. “What?” you whisper.
He shakes his head. “You’ve seen this a hundred times.”
You smile. “That obvious?”
“You don’t even look at the screen during the last scene.”
You shrug. “I know how it ends.”
He leans back, watching the flickering light dance across your face.
“You ever wish you had that? The whole ‘we’ll-always-have’ moment?”
You go quiet. “No, I think I’d rather have something that stays.”
You look at him, neither of you says anything after that. The credits roll, you don’t hit pause, don’t get up.
You both sit in the low blue glow, blanket still wrapped around your shoulders, his hand resting lightly on the couch between you. Not touching. Just there and when you eventually stand, stretch, and yawn into your sleeve, you look at him and you wish he was not just someone paid to be here.
He watches you leave, he memorises the way the blanket slips off your shoulder, the way your bare feet pad across the floor, the way you glance back once but don’t say anything.
He doesn’t move, doesn't stop you. Why would he?
But something in his chest feels…off. He wishes, just for a moment, that he wasn’t just the guy on the couch, the bodyguard. He wishes you had stayed, turned around or said his name again like you meant it. Long after you disappear, he keeps staring at the empty hallway. Still warm from you, still quiet in that way that feels like something is missing.
------
The Thursday morning sun is high when you find him.
You’ve just finished lunch or at least pushed half of it around your plate while pretending to eat and you spot Bucky out in the backyard. He’s sitting under the shade of the lone tree near the edge of the property, sleeves pushed up, hair messy, working on something with his hands.
At first you think it’s a knife, but as you get closer, you realize it’s a small block of wood. He’s carving. You’re not sure what, and you don’t ask.
You just drop down into the grass beside him, not bothering with grace or performance. Just you, in worn leggings and an old band tee, barefoot, your hair a little messy from the wind.
“What are you making?” you ask, casually.
He shrugs. “Don’t know yet.”
You watch his hands move, steady and careful, everything you wish you had. You realise you're staring at his hands too long, you decide to start a conversation “Tell me about Steve.”
He raises an eyebrow without looking up. “Why?”
You shrug. “You talk about him like he’s some mythical figure.”
Bucky smirks. “To me, he kind of is.”
You pick at the grass near your ankle. “What was he like? Before he got all tall and shiny.”
That makes him laugh, not some big one but real, you realising it's the best thing you ever heard.
“He got beat up every day,” Bucky says, carving knife still moving. “Small guy, loud mouth with a heart way too big. He was always standing up for people who didn’t ask him to. Even when he didn’t have the strength to back it up.”
You nod, resting your chin on your hand. “What about Sam?”
Bucky’s mouth pulls into something softer. “He’s the best guy I know. Smart, always knows what to say. He jokes a lot but… he means well, he sees people…really sees them, he saw through me. Sees the good in people before they see it.” He pauses. “They are two sides of the same coin, they’re the best people to have on your side.”
You pause. “You love them.”
He glances at you. “Yeah,” he says. No hesitation. “They’re family.”
There’s a moment of silence, the breeze picks up, ruffling the loose strands around your face. You lean back into the grass, legs stretched out, eyes closed against the sun. You speak so quietly he almost doesn’t catch it. “I don’t think I’ve ever had that.”
He sets the carving knife down slowly.
You open your eyes but don’t look at him. “Someone who just… knows me. Without all the filters, not the version of me they pay for. Not the headline, just….me. The way you talk about them.”
You exhale like you’ve been holding that sentence in for years. “I think I’d trade everything for that.”
You’re not expecting a response. You don’t even know why you said it.
But Bucky’s voice comes low. “You're not alone as you think.”
You turn your head to look at him, eyes narrowing just slightly, you don’t believe him but then he meets your gaze without flinching and your chest loosens, just a little.
You’re both in the kitchen. The sun’s gone down, but neither of you noticed, it’s the kind of night where time slips sideways.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the marble counter in worn socks and his hoodie, picking through the fridge drawer for grapes like you live there. Bucky leans against the island, arms folded, watching you with the kind of expression that’s halfway between amused and curious.
The little bird sits on the table behind him. It’s still rough around the edges, but it’s starting to take shape, something delicate carved out of something solid, just like him you think.
The air is calm, you’re not trying to fill the silence. You just exist in it together. You toss a grape at him, he catches it.
Out of nowhere, you say something, you don’t even remember what. Something sarcastic and weird and a little too honest about celebrity facial treatments or the time someone tried to sell your bathwater online.
Bucky snorts, actually snorts. It’s sudden and unexpected you freeze, mid-chew, eyes wide…then you snort, louder, messier, completely involuntary.
It hits you both at the same time.
You start laughing, big, belly-deep laughing. The kind that catches you off guard, the kind that makes your cheeks hurt.
“Oh my God,” you wheeze, pointing at him, “you snort when you laugh!”
His ears flush, but he doesn’t stop smiling. “Apparently.”
“Who would’ve thought? Sargent Barnes, war hero….snorts.”
He shrugs. “Haven’t done it in years. Maybe not since… my sister.”
That quiets the laughter, but it doesn’t kill the warmth. You shift, leaning back against the fridge. “What was her name?”
He nods. “Rebecca, I called her Becca. She was younger, smart….tough. Used to pretend she hated me, but she’d cry if I didn’t tuck her in when Ma was working late.”
You smile softly. “You were good to her.”
“I tried to be.” He swallows, “What about you? Do you have any siblings?”
You pause, then tilt your head. “You didn’t Google me?”
Bucky chuckles, low and tired. “There was a file. Mostly about your stalker. Ellis, right?”
You nod once. “Yeah, him.”
“Didn’t say much else,” he adds. “No siblings, no school records. Nothing normal. Just interviews and promo stuff and… threat reports.”
You look at him, expression unreadable. “I guess that tracks.”
He pushes off the counter, grabbing a glass of water. “I’d rather learn the real stuff from the source anyway. The internet’s mostly crap.”
That makes you smile, you nod. “I don’t have siblings, it was just me and my parents weren’t really in the picture, oh and I was homeschooled.” You don’t elaborate, and he doesn’t push.
Your eyes drift to the little bird on the table. You nod toward it. “What’s with the bird?”
He glances back. Picks it up in one hand, brushes his thumb over the grooves. His expression goes quieter, faraway.
“Birds don’t stay anywhere long,” he says. “They don’t belong to anyone. But they always find their way back, no matter how far they go.”
—————
It's Friday morning and you’ve barely touched your toast.
It sits cold on your plate while you curl into the window seat, knees drawn to your chest, sleeves pulled over your hands. You watch the driveway like it might come to life, like your stalker might materialize out of the shadows and end this awful waiting.
The house is too quiet, even the birds outside sound cautious. Your stomach churns, but not from hunger, from dread.
You keep hearing the same line in your head, over and over: They’re supposed to catch him tonight. As if that makes it safe, as if that makes it over. It doesn’t feel over. You don’t think it ever will.
Bucky finds you just after lunch, when he notices you’re not downstairs, not in the kitchen, not anywhere.
He walks past the stairwell and sees you, still there, still staring and something in him just knots. He doesn’t say your name, he just sits down beside you. The cushion shifts under his weight.
Your voice is quiet. Barely there. “You ever sit so still, it feels like the world’s moving around you?”
He nods, eyes on the window. “Yeah.”
You take a shaky breath. “They’re supposed to catch him tonight.”
“I know.”
You don’t look at him. Your voice is soft but sharp. “He sent me a letter once. Said he watched me sleep, said I looked like an angel.”
Bucky stiffens. Every instinct in his body coils tight.
“I was sixteen. I didn’t even know what the hell that meant. I just knew it made my skin crawl.”
You laugh once, it’s not a real laugh…more of a release. Bitter and brittle. “He thinks I belong to him. He’s… quiet. Calculated, smarter than anyone gives him credit for and he always finds me. No matter how many houses I buy. No matter how many bodyguards they hire.”
His jaw tightens. He wants to say he understands but he doesn’t. Not really, he’s been the shadow before. The one who follows, he knows what that kind of obsession looks like, what it feels like.
But this is different, this is….you, unraveling slowly in front of him, all he can do is offer his presence. “You’re safe now,” he says, his voice low. “With me, you are.” He swallows, “I wouldn't, I won't let anything happen to you.”
You turn to him, eyes tired. “I feel safe…here, with you.”
He doesn’t say anything, he does something he’s never done before…he just lays his hand over yours.
It’s warm and steady, something you’ve never felt before and to his surprise you hold it tighter than you mean to.
By Friday night he can tell you’re still wound up, still stuck inside your own head, even after dinner.
You smile at him when he offers tea, but it’s automatic. Your shoulders are too tight, your eyes are too far away.
So he says it, casually, like it’s nothing. “You play piano?”
You blink. “What?”
He shrugs. “Saw it in the sitting room, you said you loved music more right?”
You raise a brow. “What, you wanna sing a duet?”
Bucky huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “No, no, I just… miss music sometimes. Real music, not the garbage they play in stores now.”
You smile for real this time. It’s small, but it’s there. “I could play for you.”
He doesn’t answer, just gestures with his hand.
You lead the way. You sit on the bench and let your fingers rest on the keys, just for a moment. You don’t speak, you don’t explain what you’re about to play. You just start..it’s soft, slow. The kind of melody that makes the walls feel like they’re holding their breath.
Bucky leans against the archway, arms crossed, eyes locked on your hands. You don’t look at him, you’re somewhere else entirely.
Your fingers glide across the keys like you’ve done it a thousand times. Like the music lives in you, just waiting for the silence.
He watches and he feels something inside him break open a little. Because this? This is….you. No press, no cameras, no posing.
Just raw, haunting beauty.
He can’t imagine what your voice would sound like and maybe he doesn’t want to. Not yet. Because this, just this is already more honest than anything he’s ever known.
You finish the last note, and it lingers in the air like a held breath. You look over at him, eyes wide. A little nervous. “Well?” you ask.
Bucky just shakes his head once. Voice barely above a whisper. “That was… beautiful.”
You smile, but your eyes are wet. You don’t cry. But he sees how badly you want to.
———
It’s Saturday morning now, you barely slept.
You kept shifting beneath the sheets, cold despite the weight of the blanket. Your mind wouldn’t stop looping: He’s going to be caught. It’s almost over. He’s going to be caught. It’s almost over.
But it didn’t feel like peace. It felt like the second before an earthquake. Like stillness before glass shatters.
Your chest aches with nerves, your skin feels too tight. So you get up just after five. The sun hasn’t even risen, the sky is that pale kind of blue that makes the world feel like it’s holding its breath.
You pad into the kitchen in thick socks. Hair messy, hoodie hanging off one shoulder. You tie your hair back lazily and open the fridge, staring like you’re waiting for it to give you purpose.
You don’t know why you start making breakfast. You just… want to do something kind, something normal.
You make everything because you don’t know what Bucky likes. Toast, eggs, bacon and coffee in that old mug he keeps using. You cut the strawberries into little perfect slices. You line them into a fan on the edge of the plate, even though no one’s going to notice.
For a second, it feels like a house, like a home even in the white marble, sterile kitchen. Not a set, not a stage. A home. .
The front door slams open, you flinch so hard the knife in your hand clatters into the sink.
Footsteps and voices echo off the walls. Brett. Leah. Two others. Storming in like they own you, which they do. You let them.
“He’s in custody,” Brett announces, breathless, already half on his phone. “He was parked a block down. Had maps, call sheets, photos…creepy shit.”
You don’t move. The strawberries still in your hand. You don’t know if you feel relief or anything at all.
Bucky wakes the second he hears the noise. He comes down the hall shirtless, tugging a tee over his head, dog tags thudding softly against his chest, eyes sharp with instinct.
“What the hell’s going on?” he says, voice gravel and steel.
Leah doesn’t look at him. “We got him, it’s handled.”
She turns to you. “You need to go make yourself presentable. Interviews start at ten. There’s a presser at the hotel. You’ll speak briefly. We’re drafting the statement now.”
“I—” you start, dazed. “I made breakfast.” You say it like it matters.
Brett looks up from his screen, scoffs. “You’re on a diet. You don’t need this. We’ll order a green smoothie or something. Go change.”
And it’s gone, everythings gone. That small, warm thing you’d tried to build. Gone. You nod, slowly, like you’re moving underwater. Everything feels muted, numb. You started to feel real, feel human over the last couple days and just like that, like your shedding skin, it’s gone.
You turn toward the stairs. Bare feet soundless on the wood, skin cold against the polished surface. Everything feels far away, your body, your voice, the day itself. Like you’re floating inside a version of yourself that isn’t quite real anymore.
“I made you breakfast.”
You barely recognize your own voice. It comes out quiet, fragile. A whisper, almost childlike in its softness. Like if you speak louder, it’ll crack.
Bucky stops mid-step, freezes. You feel him turn, feel his gaze land on you and you hate how exposed you are.
You’re standing there in a faded t-shirt, too big on your frame. Sleeves shoved up to your elbows. Your hair’s still tangled from sleep, lips dry, eyes tired but not defeated, not yet.
You look at him like you’re trying. Like you’re trying so hard to keep this one little thing from slipping through your fingers. Trying to hold on to something normal, something kind. Just one moment that’s yours, he sees it.
He steps toward you carefully, slow, cautious. Like you might shatter if he moves too fast. Like you’re a bird that’s already half-decided to fly away.
He reaches out and wraps his fingers around your wrist. Not tight, just enough to anchor you.
You both just stand there, surrounded by chaos, shouts from down the hall, footsteps thudding across tile, Leah barking about call times, Brett’s voice cutting in and out of a phone call.
But all of it fades. It’s just you and him now, suspended in the noise.
Your voice cracks when you speak. “I just wanted to say thank you.”
He opens his mouth, voice low. “You don’t have to thank me. I—”
“I know.” You nod quickly, cutting him off, eyes flickering toward the floor. “You’re just doing your job.”
He shakes his head before you even finish, like he can’t stand hearing you say it.
“No,” Bucky says, and his voice is rough now, unsteady in a way that catches you off guard. “I’d do it again. In a heartbeat.”
That silence between you swells, full of every word neither of you has the nerve to say. Something real, something dangerous.
“Let’s go! We’re already late!”
Brett’s voice cuts like glass.
You flinch, again. Shoulders twitch up like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. Eyes drop, hands pull in close to your chest like you’re retreating and you start to turn, you always do.
But Bucky doesn’t let go. Instead, he reaches into his pocket. His hand brushes yours, careful, deliberate. He slips something into your palm, small, warm from his touch. His fingers fold yours around it like a secret.
You glance up at him, brows drawn together, confused.
He doesn’t explain, doesn’t speak. Just gives you the smallest nod, like he’s handing you something he didn’t know how else to say.
And you go, you don’t look back. Not until you’re behind the door of your bedroom, alone again. Where it’s quiet. Where you’re allowed to fall apart. You sit on the edge of the bed, your hand still closed in a fist.
When you finally open it, it’s the bird. The one he carved, the one he made.
It fits perfectly in your palm, smoothed down along the wings. Made with hands that have destroyed and protected and carried too much.
It’s not just a carving. It’s a message. I see you.
You let out a small gasp when you realize that someone finally sees you.
Bucky watches you disappear up the stairs barefoot, shoulders drawn, your fist still wrapped tight around whatever he gave you.
He lingers at the bottom for a moment, listening to the storm of voices in the hallway. He turns. “Where exactly was he?”
Leah barely glances at him, arms crossed, Bluetooth earpiece flashing as she flips through a stack of printed call sheets.
“Two blocks down. Surveillance caught him in his car, windows blacked out, engine running. He had her itinerary on the passenger seat. Press stops, hair appointments. Shit even we didn’t approve yet.”
Bucky’s jaw tenses. “And?”
“And nothing,” Brett cuts in, stepping out of the dining room, already dressed like he’s about to walk a red carpet himself. “NYPD took him in. He’s being processed. PR’s drafting a statement now. We’re controlling the narrative.”
“Controlling the—” Bucky stops himself. Takes a breath. He steps closer. “What exactly did he have?”
“Maps. Photos. Schedules. Hotel room numbers. Stuff that hasn’t gone public.” Brett shrugs like it’s just another day at the office. “Creepy, sure, but nothing that’s gonna stick longer than a few news cycles. We spin it right, she’s golden.”
“She could’ve died.”
“She didn’t,” Brett says, smiling like that’s the end of it. “And now she’s trending.”
Something hot twists in Bucky’s chest. Something that used to come before violence. He shoves it down.
He looks around the room, sees assistants carrying in garment bags, stylists setting up makeup lights by the floor-to-ceiling windows. The kitchen island is already cleared for curling irons and hot tools.
“She’s not even ready yet,” Bucky says, trying to track where you went.
Leah turns, pulling a compact from her purse and flipping it open. “She won’t need to be. We’ve got wardrobe, glam, full team en route. Hair in thirty, face in forty-five. Out the door in ninety.”
Bucky frowns. “She just woke up.”
“And?” Brett says, already texting again.
“She hasn’t eaten. She—” Bucky stops, then says it quieter, rougher, “She made breakfast for us.”
That makes Leah laugh. “Oh God, was that what that was?”
“She needs—”
“What she needs is to get out the door in full glam and pretend she wasn’t almost murdered again,” Brett snaps. “We’ve got donors expecting a statement. Sponsors asking for visibility. You want to be helpful? Stay out of the way.”
Bucky looks at both of them and all he sees are people who profit from your pain. You’re not a person to them, you’re a product. He turns before he says something he’ll regret.
Bucky wants to check on you, he wants to climb up those stairs so badly. God, he wants to, wants to knock gently on your door and ask if you’re okay. Not as your hired help, not as the guy who keeps things from getting too close.
Just as Bucky, as the guy who got to see you, the real you over the last few days but he doesn’t.
Instead, he walks out to the porch, still hearing the chaos inside the team barking orders, stylists setting up, the fucking sound of a steamer heating up in the kitchen like that’s more important than the fact that you haven’t even had a bite of the breakfast you made.
He takes out his phone and calls the only person who knows how to translate the weight he’s carrying.
“Hey,” Steve answers. “You alright?”
“No,” Bucky says.
It’s quiet on the other end for a moment, like Steve’s bracing. “Talk to me Buck.”
Bucky runs a hand down his face, presses his thumb against the corner of his eye like it might keep the ache there from settling in too deep.
“They got him,” he says. “Ellis, caught him last night outside that stuoid event, he had addresses, faked credentials, hotel floor plans. Stuff not even public.”
“Shit,” Steve mutters.
“He’s been watching her. Following her, probably inside her house at some point and no one even noticed. She told me he used to write her letters when she was sixteen. Said he saw her sleep. Said she looked like an angel.”
Bucky’s throat tightens.
“She’s lived her whole life being owned by people. By this industry. By her fear. Every room she walks into, someone’s already decided who she has to be. She’s surrounded by a team who talks over her. Who hands her protein shakes like they’re medicine. Who tells her what to wear and when to smile and what parts of her body she’s allowed to hate.”
He pauses, hand curling around the edge of the porch railing.
“She made me breakfast this morning. Got up before the sun. She sliced strawberries like she thought it would matter.”
Steve doesn’t say anything. He knows better than to interrupt.
“And when they came in, her team, they stormed in, started barking orders before she’d even had a chance to exist in the morning. They told her she didn’t need to eat. That she had press to do. That she had a role to play andI watched her disappear in front of me, Steve. I watched her vanish.”
There was a small moment of silence, Bucky’s voice softer, “She’s not who I thought she was.”
Bucky exhales, long and shaky, then his voice breaks a little when he continues. “She’s… funny. Quiet in the morning. Hums when she makes toast. She’s even more beautiful without the make up, and glamour and when she talks about the kind of life she wanted, just a garden and a messy kitchen and wind chimes, my chest, Steve it aches.”
He swallows hard.
“Because she doesn’t think she deserves it. She thinks the world has already decided what she’s supposed to be. She calls herself a product…a performance. But when she plays the piano, Steve…” he stops, voice catching, “it’s like hearing something alive for the first time.”
Steve’s voice comes, low and gentle. “You care about her.”
“I didn’t want to,” Bucky says. “But yeah, I do and I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do now, because I’m watching her put the mask back on. She went from crying on my shoulder to being someone I can’t reach again.”
“She’s protecting herself,” Steve says. “You gotta see that.”
“I do, that’s what makes it worse.”
Steve speaks again, carefully. “Bucky… if she feels safe with you, really safe, she’ll come back. Let her protect herself for now. But don’t let her forget she has another choice.”
Bucky nods, even though Steve can’t see it.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, okay.”
He ends the call, puts the phone in his pocket, stares out into the quiet for a long time. He’s not sure if he knows how to live with it, if he can’t protect the version of you the world never bothered to notice.
---
Steve lets out a long sigh as he hangs up the phone. He leans back in the chair at the long glass conference table, pinching the bridge of his nose, the way he does when something gets under his skin.
Sam walks in holding two coffees, casual in joggers and a hoodie. “What’s up, Cap?” he asks, handing Steve a cup before dropping into the seat across from him.
Steve’s quiet for a second. Just shaking his head like he’s still trying to wrap his mind around the call. “Bucky called.”
“Oh?” Sam sips. “Everything okay?”
Steve exhales again. “He’s rattled, says they caught the stalker this morning. Ellis.”
Sam’s brows raise. “Damn. That’s good, right?”
“Yeah,” Steve says, slowly. “But… it’s not just that.”
Sam raises an eyebrow.
Steve looks up at him, steady. “He talked about her.”
Sam pauses. “Her her?”
Steve nods. “He said she made him breakfast. Said she plays piano barefoot and hums while she makes toast. That she hasn’t worn makeup around him in days.” He pauses. “Said she looks sad even when she smiles. And that when she talks about what she wants… it hurts.”
Sam grins into his coffee. “He likes her.”
Steve gives him a look.
“No,” Sam says, holding up a hand, “like likes her.”
“He cares about her,” Steve says quietly. “More than I think he expected.”
Sam leans back, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Good. I haven’t seen him care about someone in, well, ever.”
Before Steve can respond, the doors slide open and Tony walks in mid-sentence with himself, fiddling with a StarkPad. “I swear if Rhodey sends me one more email with the subject line ‘just checking in,’ I’m—”
He stops, glancing between them. “Why do you both look like someone died?”
“Bucky called,” Steve says.
Tony raises an eyebrow. “Is he still brooding around the movie stars mansion?”
“He said some things,” Steve answers. “About her.”
Tony’s mouth pulls into a small, knowing smile.
“No,” he says. “Not surprised. They’re the same side of a coin.”
Steve raises an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”
Tony shrugs, but there’s something in the way he does it like he’s downplaying too much. “C’mon,” he says. “Bucky’s all steel and ghosts and guilt. She’s satin and smiles and sadness. But inside?” He taps his temple. “They’re both haunted. Both performing. Just trying to survive in a world that used them up and kept asking for more.”
Steve shifts in his seat. “How would you know that?”
Tony sips his coffee, too casual.
“Do you know her?” Steve asks again, firmer this time.
Tony meets his eyes. “I knew her father. Worked with mine. That’s all.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Tony holds the stare for a beat too long before finally answering.
“I know what it’s like to be a product of something you didn’t ask for. I know what it’s like to lose control of the narrative. So… yeah. Maybe I see it in her. Maybe I’ve seen it before.”
Sam looks between them. “So you’re saying she’s more like Buck than anyone else?”
Tony nods, quiet again. “I’m saying he might be the first person in her life who doesn’t want anything from her.”
Steve furrows his brow. “Her father worked with Howard?”
“Yeah,” Tony says, walking over to pour himself a cup of coffee. “Back in the day, scientist. Biochemical and neural interface research. Smart guy. A little twitchy. Always wore vests.”
“Like lab vests?” Sam asks.
Tony smirks. “Like bulletproof vests.”
That makes Steve straighten. “What kind of work were they doing?”
Tony glances at them both. “Classified.”
Sam sighs. “Come on.”
Tony looks at Steve. “You remember how many times people tried to recreate the serum after you?”
Steve nods, slowly. “You think it was that?”
Tony shrugs, leans against the counter. “I can’t prove it. But that’s the buzz I always heard. Quiet lab work, off the books. Lotta military interest. Howard kept it off the public radar. If it was about the serum, it was buried deep.”
Sam frowns. “What happened to him?”
Tony’s face darkens for a moment. “File says ‘deceased.’ No cause of death. No investigation. Just… gone.”
Steve looks down. “And she was how old?”
“Sixteen, maybe seventeen,” Tony says. “They emancipated her within weeks. Pretty much immediately after the funeral, which—” he glances between them, “there wasn’t one.”
Sam whistles under his breath.
“And then her team took over,” Tony finishes. “Press started building her up. Face of the future, Hollywood’s miracle girl. You know the rest.”
Steve leans back in his chair, jaw set. “No one ever asked questions?”
Tony lifts a brow. “When the world wants to sell a star, it doesn’t care where the kid came from. They just needed her to be pretty, quiet, and compliant and she played the part.”
Sam rubs his jaw. “No wonder Buck’s stuck.”
Steve nods slowly. “Yeah.”
---
You’re halfway through a late-day shoot in your living room. The lighting crew is moving softboxes across the marble floor while a makeup artist powders your cheekbones between takes, and someone’s telling you to “give them glass, not warmth” whatever the hell that means.
You’re tired. Not soul-tired, not yet… just worn. You’ve been in this same room for hours, modeling outfits you didn’t pick, smiling for a lens that doesn’t know the difference between a real expression and a pretty one.
You’ve got one heel kicked off under the coffee table. Your hair is perfect. You haven’t eaten since that stupid green juice and then the door bursts open.
Your assistant stumbles in like she’s running from something, breathless, gripping a heavy ivory envelope with trembling fingers.
“It just came.”
You blink. “What just came?”
She hands you the envelope like it might explode. “They couriered it. No one gets these.”
You take it, slide your thumb under the seal, and open it slowly, half-dreading some new obligation.
You read it once, then again. Your press team all but explodes around you. “They invited her to their tower, do you understand what this does for us?”
“This is next-level exclusive.”
“Q2 branding could double if we leverage this right—”
You tune them out. You’re still staring at the invitation.
Your name, printed in silver ink. A formal invitation from Stark Industries to a private event at Avengers Tower. No cameras, no press, no red carpet. Just the inner circle.
You run your finger along the edge of the paper like it might tell you why this feels different.
Across the room, Bucky is leaning against the wall, arms folded, jaw tight. He’s been watching you all day, the same way he always does now. Not like security, like he’s studying you.
He speaks over the noise, his voice calm, quiet meant just for you. “What’s got them all worked up?”
You walk toward him, still holding the envelope. “They invited me to Avengers tower, you're home."
He raises an eyebrow, taking the envelope when you hold it out. He scans it quickly, his eyes darting across the text like he’s reading a threat or maybe a puzzle.
He lifts his gaze. “Are you gonna go?”
You shrug. “Of course.” A pause. “I want to meet your friends.”
There’s something in the way you say it, not casual, not for show. You mean it. You’ve been building this quiet thing with him all week, and now you want to see the world he comes from, a real one. Not the world with red carpets, his world.
He hesitates, his fingers flex slightly around the envelope.
“Are you coming with me?” you ask, gaze steady.
He doesn’t answer right away. “As your bodyguard?”
You smile, real this time. Soft around the edges. “No, as my date?"
His chest tightens. You don’t see it, but he feels it. A stutter-beat under his ribs.
You turn before he can answer. Just like that, pivoting back toward the set, the lights, the camera waiting to eat you alive again. “Think about it,” you call over your shoulder.
Then you’re gone, humming under your breath again, barefoot now, holding the invitation like it doesn’t weigh anything. Like you didn’t just drop a grenade in the middle of his day.
Bucky stays frozen.
He watches the lighting crew adjust your hair. Watches your team scramble over themselves to draft a statement in case photos leak. Watches your smile flash for the camera, just like always.
But all he can hear is the way you said, I want to meet your friends. All he can feel is the way the word date landed in his chest. Because now he’s not thinking about your stalker or the shoot or holding that stupid envelope in his hand.
He’s thinking about your laugh. Your humming. Your bare feet on cold floors and the way his heart hasn’t beaten steady since Tuesday.
That night, the house is too quiet. Not peaceful quiet. Not the kind that settles you, the kind that presses.
Bucky stands in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, half-finished cup of coffee cooling in his hand. He hasn’t touched it in ten minutes. Doesn’t even remember pouring it.
The only sound is the faint ticking of the old wall clock above the stove. Somewhere in the house, someone from your team is packing up wardrobe racks. Someone else is wheeling out lights. But here, in the kitchen, it’s just him and his spiraling thoughts.
Why would you ask him? Why would you ask him to be your date? Him? You could have anyone, ask anyone.
He’s not the guy who gets invited to towers and black-tie things. He doesn’t wear suits well. He doesn’t schmooze. He barely speaks at all some days. He never even shows up for the galas or parties even though they are held where he lives.
You, on the other hand, you move through the world like you were made for it. A camera clicks and you breathe elegance. You throw your head back when you laugh like it was choreographed and still… you asked him.
No security detail. No “you’ll be close anyway.” You asked him to go as your date and that four letter word, it feels too big, too good.
You’re a star. A world built around flashbulbs and first-name fame and he’s just a soldier trying to forget what it felt like to be a weapon. Still trying to remember how to be human.
He stares down into the dark surface of his coffee and thinks, you shouldn’t want me.
He doesn’t hear you come in. Just senses you, soft footfalls, no heels, tired socks on polished hardwood.
You move past him toward the sink, the hem of your hoodie brushing your thighs. It’s yours this time, not borrowed. Your hair’s pulled up in a loose knot, mascara smudged slightly under one eye. You look worn in the way that means you’ve finally stopped performing for the day.
You fill your water glass without looking at him.
The soft hum of the faucet fills the silence, steady and familiar. Your back is to him, shoulders slouched just enough to say you’ve stopped performing, even if you haven’t fully let go. Not yet.
He watches the way you move, it's quiet and natural. The kind of stillness that doesn’t beg to be noticed but always is. The kind that tells him you’re finally not bracing for something. Your shoulders don’t tense when you hear him step closer. Not like they did the first day.
He hears himself speak before he’s fully ready. “I’ll go… with you.” His voice is quieter than usual. Less sure. Like he’s afraid the words might float back into his throat if you turn around too fast.
You freeze, hand still on the faucet, water still running. The moment hangs there for a breath, then another. You turn— low, deliberate, like you’re giving him time to take it back if he wants to.
But he doesn’t. Your eyes lock onto his, wide and searching.
“You will?” you ask, voice light but careful. Like you don’t want to tip whatever balance has just formed.
He nods once. “Yeah.”
Just one word. But it carries more than most people say in an entire speech. You stare at him for a second.
He watches it happen, your face changes slowly. That kind of expression that can’t be faked, not even if you tried. Your smile breaks through like sunlight, hesitant at first, like it’s checking to see if it’s allowed but then it settles fully, soft and bright and open.
Not for the cameras, not for your team. Just for him. Bucky’s breath catches a little. Because that smile? That one? It reminds him of the stars. The ones he used to stare at on the long walks home after curfew. The ones that stayed bright no matter how dark everything else got.
You laugh, barely a sound, just the smallest exhale with a grin in it. “I wasn’t sure you’d say yes.”
“I didn’t think I’d be someone you’d ever want to ask,” he admits, voice rough around the edges.
Your smile falters for a second not because it’s gone, but because something about that sentence hits. “You’re the only one I would’ve asked.”
It knocks the air right out of his lungs. Neither of you says anything after that.
The water in your glass is full now, long past full, but you don’t notice until it drips over your fingers and hits the floor with a soft tap.
You blink down at it, then smile again, smaller this time, almost shy. You turn the faucet off, shake the water from your hand, and start toward the stairs.
But halfway there, you stop and glance back at him.
“Don’t be late,” you say, voice quiet but warm.
He’s left in the kitchen, heart thudding against his ribs like it doesn’t know how to beat slow anymore.
-----
It’s late when Bucky finally shows up at the compound. The lights are dim in the common area, but Steve and Sam are still up, Steve nursing a cup of tea on the couch, Sam sprawled across a chair with his phone, feet kicked up like he owns the place.
Bucky drops his overnight bag by the wall with a grunt.
Sam barely looks up. “What, you get lost?”
“Traffic,” Bucky mutters.
Steve squints at him. “You’re flushed.”
“I’m not flushed.”
“You’re flushed,” Sam echoes.
Bucky rolls his eyes, crossing to the counter for a bottle of water.
“I thought you were staying at her place till Sunday?” Steve asks.
“Had to come back,” Bucky says casually, twisting the cap. “Tony invited her to that party tomorrow.”
Steve sits up straighter. “He did?”
Bucky nods once, sipping. “Whole team lost their damn minds.”
He hesitates, for a moment. Steve and Sam both notice.
They lock onto him like bloodhounds. Sam leans forward slowly. “And?”
Bucky shrugs, too casual. Way too casual for how it makes him truly feel. “She asked me to go with her.”
Sam bolts upright like he got shocked. “No fucking way.”
He looks like Christmas came early. Actually, like it broke through the window.
Bucky winces as Sam jumps to his feet. “You’re her date? Her date-date?! Like plus-one, wear-a-suit, maybe-dance-if-there’s-music date?”
“Calm down,” Bucky mutters.
“I will not!” Sam’s practically vibrating. “I get to meet her. I get to breathe the same air as her. I’ve seen every movie, even the one with the horse!”
Steve is laughing now, shaking his head.
“She asked you?” he says.
Bucky shrugs again, trying hard not to smile and he fails.
Steve grins wider. “Get up.”
Bucky frowns. “Why?”
“We’re raiding your closet,” Steve says. “Party’s tomorrow. We’re not letting you embarrass her.”
“Embarrass her?” Bucky echoes, affronted.
Sam’s already halfway to the hallway. “Oh, I know you own that funeral jacket you wear every time we go out, don’t even try it.”
Steve claps him on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The floor is littered with jacket options, half-buttoned shirts, and three separate pairs of boots.
Bucky is standing in front of the mirror, arms crossed, wearing his good jacket, the one he doesn’t wear because it makes him feel like he’s trying too hard. His sleeves are rolled just enough. So he doesn’t look like a bodyguard tomorrow night. He looks like a man trying not to hope for too much.
“You’re wearing the good jacket,” Sam says, eyeing him.
“You never wear the good jacket,” Steve adds, leaning against the doorframe.
Bucky shifts uncomfortably. “It’s just a party.”
“A party,” Sam echoes, eyes twinkling, “with her.”
Bucky doesn’t answer, not right away.
He looks at himself in the mirror. At the way his face looks less harsh when he’s not frowning. At the way his shoulders aren’t so tight tonight.
“She’s not what I made her out to be,” he says quietly. “ Just so you both know, It was all a front.”
Steve looks at him, steady. “Yeah, we know.”
Bucky doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.
Because it’s all over his face, Sam just grins and says, “He’s so in trouble.”
-----
Bucky waits in the hall down the stairs from your bedroom, leaned casually against the wall like it’s just another day. He checks his watch once, twice. Runs a hand through his hair. He tries not to think too hard about what you might look like when you step out.
He hears voices downstairs, They’re not loud, not urgent but sharp.
“…she said she’d do that nude scene—”
He frowns, body stilling.
“She agreed to it?”
“Only on the condition that he go with her as her date tonight after we objected.”
His jaw tightens.
“She really played that one well.”
“She always does. That’s why she’s where she is.”
“She really wanted to go with him.”
He doesn’t catch every word, just those.
But it’s enough, enough to make something cold bloom in his chest. He’s not angry. Not exactly. He doesn’t even know what he feels just that it hits harder than he expected. Like someone just knocked the wind out of something he didn’t realize he’d been building.
Then the door at the top of the stairs creaks open and everything else drops, you step out slowly, one hand on the banister.
The overhead light hits the fabric of your dress and it glides across your figure like liquid. Black satin, off-shoulder. Cinched perfectly at the waist. Classic, timeless. Your hair’s swept back into soft waves. Your lips are a perfect, understated red. Diamond studs, no necklace. You don’t need one.
You look like you stepped out of one of Bucky’s memories from a reel that played in sepia tone, the kind he saw on leave, when the war felt far away and beauty felt possible.
He forgets how to breathe, under his breath, meant only for you “You…” You stop on the top step. He meets your eyes. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Your lips part, not in shock, but like you’re about to say something, something real but your team swoops in like a wave, rushing around you.
“Okay, here’s what you’re saying tonight—”
“If anyone asks about the film, keep it vague—”
“No direct quotes unless we wrote them—”
“Give me your phone, you can have it back before the party.”
“You need to take photos for socials.”
You don’t flinch, you hand it over without hesitation, because you’ve done it a hundred times, it’s like a reflex.
That’s what hits Bucky hardest, not the dress, not the cameras, not the reveal. But the way you hand over your freedom like it’s just part of the outfit.
Still, right before you’re ushered out the front door, you glance back at him. Just once before you speak slowly, “You look beautiful too Bucky Barnes.”
The car ride over is quiet. But not the tense kind of quiet. Just a mutual, steady kind.
You scroll through your phone, half-listening to the muffled chaos of your team barking orders in the seats behind you. Your body is still, perfectly poised, but your thumb moves across the screen like you’re somewhere else entirely.
Bucky sits beside you, elbow resting against the door, tie slightly loose. He doesn’t say much but he doesn’t have to.
Halfway to the Tower, he pulls out his phone.
Bucky: Don’t let her team into the party. Names are Brett, Leah, Gina.
A few seconds pass.
Steve: Got it.
You glance over at him once, he pockets the phone without comment.
The car slows as it approaches the private entrance to the Tower. Security lights sweep across the windows before the gate lifts. The building looms above, sleek and cold from the outside, its glass glinting under the night sky.
You’re quietly staring out at the lights, legs crossed, hands resting in your lap. Your dress shifts as the car stops, the fabric pooling slightly at your ankles.
You don’t move right away, you glance toward Bucky. “So this is where you live?” you ask softly.
He nods, looking out the window with you. “This is where I live.”
You tilt your head. “Hmm, only a little bigger than my place.” You joke.
That makes him laugh, it's low and warm in his chest, like you caught him off guard in the best way.
“It’s Stark’s,” he says. “We all just stay here.”
The driver gets out, walking around to open the door, but Bucky beats him to it. He steps out first, straightening his jacket, and then leans down to offer you a hand.
You take it. His metal fingers wrap around yours, cool at first, but steady. He helps you out gently, careful of your dress. You rise with practiced grace, heels clicking softly on the stone.
He goes to let go, like he always does. But you don’t let him. Your fingers tighten around his, just enough to say not yet. He doesn’t pull away.
He looks down at your hand in his, then up at you. You’re watching the entrance, chin high, eyes calm but he sees the faintest tension in your jaw, so he holds on.
You walk together, hand in hand, toward the entrance past the glowing glass, the red velvet ropes, the security guards who already know your names.
You lean in just slightly, voice low. “Don’t let go, okay?”
His grip tightens. “I won’t.”
Inside, the marble foyer glows under warm golden lights. Everything sleek, everything Stark.
You and Bucky walk hand-in-hand toward the elevator, calm, in sync, effortless. People look, of course they do. But no one says anything.
You feel it the way the world shifts when you enter a room with him. Not just because of who you are. But because of who he is to you right now.
Your team isn’t so lucky.
“Y/N!”
Brett’s voice echoes through the glass and stone.
You glance back just in time to see all three of them, Brett, Leah, and Gina stopped firmly at the front door.
“We just need to confirm authorization—” Someone says.
Then the security guard doesn’t flinch. “Sorry. You’re not on the list.”
“What? Are you serious? We’re her team!”
“Exactly,” the guard says. “She’s inside. You’re not.”
You glance up at Bucky. He’s already looking at you, smiling small, smug, and satisfied. You smile back because you’re free even if it's just for a night.
Your fingers tighten around his metal hand. The one that he thought would scare you, that should scare you. But you don’t even think about it.
“Lead the way, Sarge,” you whisper.
The elevator doors opened onto the 33rd floor, and for the first time in weeks, you weren’t met with flashing cameras or screaming fans. No paparazzi pressed behind barricades, no handlers whispering cues in your ear.
Just warmth.
The party was already underway, not loud or flashy, but intimate in the way only real people make a space feel. Low jazz drifted through the air, the soft clink of glasses echoing gently against polished marble floors. Laughter, shoulder squeezes, familiarity.
Bucky walked slightly in front of you, your hand still in his not as security, not as a shield, but as something closer to a tether. You felt it. The way his hand adjusted to yours. Like he didn’t want to let go either.
“Well, well, well.” Tony Stark, of course, found you first. Drink in hand, half-smile already forming.
He stepped forward with that signature Stark ease, the kind that made everyone either lean in or want to slap him.
“Look who it is,” he said. “Good to see you again, Y/N.”
You smiled, not for show.. Small, but present. “You too, Tony.”
Bucky blinked, caught off guard. His brow creased slightly as he looked between the two of you.
“You know him?” he asked.
You nodded, still smiling, joking mostly. “Popular people have to stick together, right?”
Tony barked a laugh. “God, I love her. Go have a drink. Say it’s on me, even though it's an open bar, just sounds more generous that way.”
You chuckled as Tony wandered off into a sea of board members and Avengers alumni.
Bucky’s hand was still in yours as you made your way toward the bar.
He finally asked, quieter now, more curious than anything, “How do you know Stark?”
“My dad worked with Howard,” you said, eyes scanning the room. “I used to run around their estate when I was a kid. Tony was older, not around much.”
Bucky stopped slightly. Stilled, at the name. Howard. The weight of it, the war, the serum and everything that followed. He looked at you carefully now. Like a missing piece just shifted into place.
“What did your dad do?” he asked.
You shrugged, sipping your drink. “Scientist, biochem. I guess kind of a genius. He and Howard were obsessed with whatever they were doing, never saw him much, it was all classified”
He didn’t say anything, but he could feel the tension pulling tight inside his chest.
You glanced at him, catching it.
“He disappeared when I was seventeen,” you said. “One day he just didn’t come home. Papers said it was an accident. There was no body, no funeral.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched.
You continued like you were reading off a grocery list, detached and well-practiced. “My mom… I never met her. Gave birth, didn’t want the job and left.” It wasn’t bitter, it wasn’t broken, it was just empty.
Bucky didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything at all. You took another sip, then looked up at him over the rim of your glass. Your lipstick left the faintest smudge.
“Take me to Steve,” you said softly. “I wanna meet your best friend.”
He nodded, led you into the room. Still holding your hand, still not letting go.
Little Bookworm 18+
Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word Count: 2.3k
Content Warnings: unprotected sex (p-in-v), rough sex, dirty talk, size kink, dubcon kink (as long as Bucky can keep a straight face), tummy bulge, language, a good ole coochie slap (once), cum play, a little fluff, some aftercare
Your boyfriend can’t think of anything more adorable than watching you read. One night while you’re in the shower he picks up the book you left on the nightstand: “Haunting Adeline by H.D. Carlton” and thumbs through it, very quickly realizing just what kind of books his sweet little bookworm is really into.
Inspired by my IRL husband’s reaction to my smutty reads.
Note: I don’t own any characters or works referenced in this oneshot and shout out to H.D. Carlton for creating Zade Meadows and giving us the house of mirrors chapter that’s been living rent free in both me and @lilacka’s head for over a year.
Bucky absolutely loved to watch you read.
The subtle way your expressions changed as your eyes would glide across the pages made his heart swell with admiration.
He found himself entranced with your concentration, your eyebrows knitting together in thought, your lips quirking up into a smile and even the soft laughter that would sometimes escape you as you delved deep into the world you held in your hands.
He was always more than happy to accompany you to the bookstore, leaning against the shelves and observing you as you thumbed through new titles, stacking your choices in his strong arms before darting down the next aisle to browse further.
He looked forward to the evenings where he could lay his head comfortably in your lap, his arm draped across your thighs as you worked your fingers lazily through his hair while you read quietly above him.
Tonight he lay in bed with his hands folded behind his head, listening to the gentle sound of the shower from the bathroom as you bathed when his gaze fell on your most recent read on the nightstand. The cover was dark with a skull and roses, something about a ‘Haunting’ and an absurd amount of sticky notes jutted out from the pages. His curiosity overtook him and he sat up, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. He thumbed through it carefully before letting it fall open to one of the tagged pages, his eyes scanning the text and widening slightly at the content.
He flipped to another tab, quickly reading through the passage, his breath quickening as he took in the words.
“If I catch you, I fuck you.”
Jesus Christ.
The bathroom door creaked open and he slowly lifted his gaze up to you.
Your damp body wrapped in a towel with your wet hair against your neck and shoulders did absolutely nothing to combat the heat that was already rising within him at what he’d just read.
Your eyes connect for a beat before you glance down to notice the book in his hand, opened to one of your tagged pages.
It was hard to discern if the flush across your cheeks was remnant of the heat of the shower or from the slight embarrassment of feeling caught by your boyfriend discovering the absolute filth you’d been reading.
He raises a brow at you, lifting the book and tapping on the open passage.
“If I catch you, I fuck you?” He asks, tilting his head curiously. “Really?”
You huff and roll your eyes, stepping forward and reaching to snatch the book from his hands but he’s quicker, snapping it shut and holding it just out of your reach.
“No, no. We’re gonna talk about this, doll.” He says, his lips curling into a smirk. “This is what you’ve been reading?”
You shift from foot to foot.
“Sometimes.” You reply with a weak shrug.
He turns the book over in his hands again and idly runs his palm back and forth against all the flags poking out from between the pages. “And do you.. like this stuff?” He asks, not looking up. “Does it turn you on?”
You swallow hard and nod despite the fact he’s not looking at you.
“Sometimes.” You repeat quietly.
“Huh.”
He purses his lips and nods thoughtfully, standing up and tossing the book onto the bed. “I guess you oughta run then.”
Your eyebrows shoot up to your hair line.
Did he just?
Is he going to?
“W-what?” You stutter out, taking a small step back as he closes in on you.
He tsks and reaches out, brushing your wet hair back off your shoulder with two fingers. “You heard me, baby.”
You open your mouth to reply but the words are lost the moment he seizes the edge of your towel in his large hand.
Your eyes connect for a brief moment before he yanks the towel free of your body and discards it on the ground, leaving you exposed, confused and incredibly aroused.
His hand settles on your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple and sending a rush of desire straight to your core. He dips his head to nuzzle his forehead against your temple, his tongue flicking against your earlobe.
“You should probably run now.” He warns in a whisper, taking a step back to give you space for a head start.
You stare wide eyed in disbelief, your head barely able to wrap around what was happening.
“Five.” He says in a threatening tone, bringing his hand down to palm his growing erection under his sweatpants.
You’re frozen to the spot.
There’s no fucking way he’s about to do this.
“Four.”
Okay, maybe he is.
You take off at a run, reaching the bedroom door and flinging it open with him hot on your tail.
Your bare feet pound against the hardwood floor and you rush down the hall towards the staircase, making it only two steps down before his strong arm catches you around the waist and picks you up effortlessly.
You wiggle against his hold, kicking your feet and thrashing.
“You’re not very fast, you know.” He teases, tightening his grip on you, his cock straining against his sweatpants and pressing into your backside.
He carries you back into the bedroom, his arm locked around you in a vice grip and tosses you onto the bed as if you were weightless. He tugs his sweatpants down and kicks them off, his cock bobbing with every step as he stalks towards you.
He braces his palms on the bed, preparing to climb up and pin you but you scramble backwards off the bed and take off again. He pauses, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Wait, what-?” he straightens up and turns, watching as you sprint across the room and he frowns, realizing you weren’t going to let him catch you that easily.
“Damnit.” He grumbles, launching himself up over the bed.
He chases you with heavy footsteps towards the bathroom and you rush to shut the door but his hand catches it and forces it open, leaving you completely cornered with nowhere else to turn. “Shit.” You breathe out, looking around for a possible way out. He laughs, a cute and genuine laugh that is just so Bucky, completely betraying the role he was attempting to play.
You cross your arms over your bare breasts and frown. “I’m sorry.” He says, shaking his head. “I- just.. why did you run into the bathroom?” He asks, gesturing around the small room with amusement. “I don’t know!” You huff, your lips pressing into a pout. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“No, you definitely weren’t.” He agrees, swinging his foot back to kick the door shut behind him. “Guess you’re trapped, huh?”
You nod, letting your arms fall away from your breasts. “I guess I am.” You breathe out, your body thrumming with a mix of excitement and desire as your eyes trail down his toned body to land on his fully erect cock. He’s on you in an instant, grabbing your wrist and tossing you to the ground.
You fall hard on your hands and knees onto the plush bath mat, barely able to steady yourself on all fours before he’s on your back, arm hooked around your waist and sinking his cock into your wet, throbbing cunt. You arch back into him, fingers digging into the bath mat and a choked gasp catches in your throat as he pulls you flush to his pelvis, burying himself to the hilt. He snakes his free hand up your abdomen towards your chest, a trail of goosebumps following in his wake, dipping his forehead down to rest against the back of your shoulder. He palms your breast roughly, rolling your peaked nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
“Bucky..” You whisper, your head falling back.
His forearm tightens around your waist and he releases your nipple with a gentle tug, sliding his hand up to curl around your throat. You moan and wiggle your hips, desperate for him to move, but he holds you still, lifting you up with him as he leans back on his heels.
“I’ll never get tired of this.” He whispers, unhooking his arm from your waist and resting his large hand over the slight bulge in your abdomen. “That’s my cock.” He murmurs, squeezing your throat gently before grasping your jaw and tilting your chin down to look at how he’s stretching you. You whimper and he moves your hand to press down on the bulge of his cock in your belly. “And this is my pussy.” He growls, delivering a slap to your aching clit before he draws his hips back and begins to thrust himself up into you at a steady pace.
A string of soft curses falls from your lips and your head drops back against the crook of his neck, your hand leaving your abdomen and reaching backwards to fist in his hair. “I didn’t realize you were such a freak, baby.” He whispers, his hand tightening around your throat. “I shoulda thumbed through one of your little books sooner.”
His free hand kneads at the flesh of your thigh and he groans, his balls slapping against your ass as he fucks up into you. “I- I-“ You stutter, unable to think straight as your head grows dizzy with pleasure. “Oh no, am I fuckin’ my baby stupid?” He asks with a grin, bringing two fingers to tease at your bottom lip. You open on instinct and he slips them into your mouth, letting out a shaky breath as you suck and swirl your tongue around the digits.
“Fuck.” He hisses, pressing his slick fingers to your clit. You gasp, your fingers curling around his wrist as he strokes your sensitive bud, pulling you closer towards your impending orgasm.
“You gonna come, little bird?” He whispers, trying to reference your book and quickening his fingers against your clit. “It’s ‘little mouse’.” You correct, your lips quirking up into a smirk at his admirable attempt. “Whatever.” He hisses, pinching your clit between his fingers and sending a jolt of white-hot pleasure through your body. You choke out a strangled cry as you come, your legs trembling and back arching against him as your cunt clenches around his cock.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He grunts, shoving you forward to the floor and falling to his knees. You scramble forward, his cock slipping from your dripping hole as you try to steady yourself in the dizzying wake of your orgasm.
“Oh no, no you don’t.” He growls, grabbing your ankle and dragging you back towards him. You lose your balance and fall flat, your breasts smashed against the cold tile as he presses his weight down on you, running his cock back and forth along your folds before thrusting back into you. “T-too much!” You whine, squirming underneath him.
“Tell me to stop.” He grunts, knowing damn well you never would. He hooks his forearm under your waist again and angles your hips upward, taking you deeper than you even thought possible.
Choked sobs of euphoria escape your throat as your cheek rests against the floor, dragging back and forth across the tile from the force at which he’s fucking into you. Your limp body shakes uncontrollably as your pussy spasms and waves of ecstacy crash over you faster than you can count them. Your orgasms explode through you like a string of firecrackers as you curse and mumble incoherently.
He pulls out abruptly, grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your back, moving to straddle your chest while he frantically fucks his fist. He comes with a shout, gasping as he paints your face with ropes of hot, sticky cum. “Fuck.” He pants, looking down at you in admiration as he brushes his thumb along your cheek, gathering up his seed.
He pinches your flushed, sticky cheeks together with his free hand. “Open.” He says softly, slipping his thumb into your mouth when you do. You suckle his thumb, greedily cleaning it with a swirl of your tongue, looking up at him through half lidded eyes. He sighs contentedly before moving off you and rising to stand, reaching into the shower to turn on the water.
“And I had just showered.” You mumble as you take the hand he offers you and pull yourself up on wobbly knees. “Don’t you dare bitch about the water bill when it comes.” You tease.
He chuckles softly and pulls you into him, holding you against his chest with one strong arm while the other reaches out to test the temperature of the water. “I won’t.” He says, stepping in first and gently helping you in after him. He wraps his arms lovingly around you and rests his chin atop your head as the warm water cascades over you both.
“Let’s clean you up, doll. It’s late and we have plans in the morning.” He says quietly, his eyes slipping closed as his hand runs idly up and down your back. You lean back and look up at him with your brows furrowed in confusion. “We don’t have plans tomorrow.”
His eyes flutter open and he grins. “The hell we don’t.” He replies, reaching for the shampoo bottle and squeezing the contents into the palm of his hand. You open your mouth to protest when he doesn’t answer your question but he simply twirls a finger, gesturing for you to turn around.
You sigh, turning your back to him and he begins to lather the shampoo in your hair, gently massaging your scalp with his fingers. “So what’re these plans?” You ask quietly after a long moment of silently enjoying his hands tenderly working through your locks. He leans forward, his broad, wet chest pressing against your back and brings his mouth to hover beside your ear.
His breath sends a shiver down your spine as he lets out a low, breathy laugh and whispers, “I’m taking you to buy more books.”
Bucky’s reaction to finding out you’re not wearing underwear? Especially in public?
i got carried away… 18+!!!
he would have you cockwarm him <333 oh god he’d turn feral the second he feels exposed pussy under a skirt you’re wearing
“oh, babydoll..” he purrs softly in your ear from behind, the two of you sitting out on a blanket in the park and you’re in his lap
you have some food spread out, a book or two opened and a laptop to watch something if you two so desired
he desired you
his fingers trail up the sides of your thighs and you’re thanking the lucky stars that your view is of a lake surrounded by trees, mid afternoon and not a person for miles that you knew of
it meant he could take full advantage of you
“what’s a such a pretty little thing doing out here with a man like me, no panties on, hm?” his right hand is trailing soft touches up to your hip, his left metal hair digging into your other and keeping you in place
you bat your eyelashes and feign innocence. you love playing this game with him. “i don’t know sir i, must’ve gotten lost…” you bite your lip as you look at him, his eyes darkening
“well it’s so good that you stumbled upon me, hm? i can keep you safe…” his middle finger trails lighting over your mound before diving a bit deeper in between your thighs. you could feel yourself dripping down on to the blanket and bbucky’s hard cock pressed against you
he chuckles as his middle finger finds your wet hole, flicking the tip of his finger slowly, enough to get you riled up and the sound of your pussy making noises.
“fuck,” he starts, nosing his face into your neck and kissing it gently. he pushes his middle finger into your hole, his thumb pressed firmly against your clit. you let out a gasp, the stretch small bit enough to make your brain fuzzy and want more. “you’re already ready for me, huh?”
you felt embarrassed how wet you had gotten from the time you had gotten ready to leave up until he found out you didn’t have anything on. you were more than ready for his fingers and cock
you let out a small whine with a little nod. his left hand leaves your hip before it finds its home around your neck, pressing firmly. “what was that, baby?” he asks, stern voice making you shiver.
“yes, sir…been ready for you…” you let out a breathy moan as you feel your cunt throb with the added pressure around your neck. you trusted bucky, and he only wanted to make you feel good. and he was doing just that
“good girl.” he praises, and you feel a rush of pride flow through you. you whimper softly as his fingers loosen around your neck, before pushing a second finger into your wet hole. you let out a soft moan, head falling back on his shoulder and he smiles against your neck.
“so warm, so tight…” he mumbles gently, and you feel him starting to rut his hips against your from behind. your brain felt fuzzy, feeling his hard he was up against you made you need him even more
“bucky..” you gasp softly, hands dinging their way to his clothed thighs, almost trying to claw him out of them. he chuckles behind you, knowing exactly what you were trying to so desperately do
“beg for it, baby.” he’s firm with his voice and his thumb against your clit, his fingers curling deep inside you as he pumps them slowly. he scissors them open, making sure to stretch you out for whet you needed most
“please i…” you let out a soft gasp as you feel his teeth nip your neck, biting softly.
“please, what? use your words, come on baby. be a good girl and tell daddy what you need.” he presses a gentle kiss against your neck before biting the sensitive skin again and sucking on the spot gently.
“i…need your cock, please daddy…” he lets out a low groan, grip tightening on you as you moan out his name to the added pressure. he mumbles a soft ‘good girl’ before he rips away from you and pushing you forward gently — just enough to unzip his pants and free his cock
you hear his groan behind you, the sound of his hand fisting his cock and spreading the pre cum. you licked your lips as you felt your hole clenching around nothing, dripping a spot on the blanket
“c’mere babydoll.” he grunts softly as he grips your hips and slides you on his lap. the tip of his cock pushes into your hole before you slowly slick down his shaft
you both let out moans, gripping each other as he fills you, and he can feel how stretched out you’re getting — how much wetter you’re getting just at him being stuffed in you.
you let out another moan as you bottomed out on his cock and he let out a low moan, pulling you closer to him before grabbing a book and handing it to you.
“be a good girl and read to me, hm? make sure to be loud enough that no one can hear how i’m fucking your wet pussy, okay?”
-
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r, 25, a collection of fics I enjoyed - 18+ I follow from @spookysaturn
207 posts