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egoludes · 4 years

Text

heat wave.

summary: as brooklyn’s temperatures rise, so does one woman’s interest in her local mechanic.

note: honestly, this is nothing but gratuitous 1950s!bucky smut inspired by @siennarossi blessing me with picnic content and the image of that seb under a car that’s plagued me ever since. the summer theme came out of nowhere, but i’m sick of snow so it felt right. hope you all enjoy!

wc: 8.8k

warnings: nsfw (18+), oral (female receiving), unprotected sex, cheating, introspection about unhappy relationships / societal expectations for relationships, a bit of angst

july twenty-first — ninety-one degrees.

There's something about summertime in Brooklyn. Days of eighty-eight degrees with humidity to boot, it’s a menace, an absolute force. But for all its faults, nothing can compare to the sunny shores of Coney Island; to the chorus of children’s laughter, untouched by schoolwork; or to late nights in Prospect Park with cicadas overhead. They make the heat tolerable most days, even pleasant others ---- until the twenty-first of July.

It starts at dawn, sun barely risen when the air starts to thicken. And by the time the city comes to, it’s to air too dense to breathe and heat so heavy it’s disarming. Even you, pretty girl from down south, can’t remember a time that you’d experienced ninety-one degrees; but it only takes a brief taste of it (the walk to your mailbox and back) to want to hide away for the rest of the day.

But, that’s just wishful thinking. Even when it’s so muggy, routine is what you have. You’re newly married, after all --- a late June wedding on the back of a six-month workplace courtship — and you want to make the honeymoon last. You want to prove that you’re as suited for this, for him as you’d thought you were when you said ‘yes’ to his proposal. So, there are things to do, errands to run, and there’s no avoiding the outside to get it all done.

That doesn’t mean you won’t do your damndest to delay it, though. Your husband already gone for the day, you start your chores to light jazz, trumpet notes grainy on your centerpiece record player. An air conditioner — the first on the block — sits inviting, but unused on the far windowsill; you don’t want to risk the electricity in heat like this. Instead, you’ve settled for an old fan that drones beneath the music you’re swaying your hips to. In due time, you’ve found a steady rhythm: laundry, cleaning, a dusting here and there — you pause a few times for something cool, but you find it isn’t as unbearable as you’d feared.

Then, comes groceries — the one task that requires you to leave your refuge. Shopping list in one hand and car keys in the other, you eye the front door warily because you know what’s on the other side. At least here, the heat is just that; sticky weight as the temperature rises faster than a fan can handle. Out there, you have heat and sunlight, working together to make ninety-something degrees feel a lot more like a hundred. But, the sad state of your fridge leaves you little choice, and with one big steeling breath, you step out into the summer.

Your car is the only one in the drive - a cream 1950 Buick that your husband had gotten you a month into your relationship. For a long time, seeing it made you uncomfortable - the gift was too grand too soon, stoking a sense of debt that felt odd for a lover. But now, it is just another part of your lavish life with him; a part you appreciate as you think about the cooling unit waiting inside. Waving to your neighbors, you hop in in a hurry, purse finding a haphazard spot on the passenger seat. Eagerly, you brace for a rush of that cold air as you turn your key —- only for that hope to wither when you get a pathetic sputter from the engine instead. You try it once, twice, three more times before you let out a groan and slap your hand to the steering wheel.

Of course this would happen today.

Deflated, you sit back against your seat (ignoring all the places it sticks to you) to weigh your options. At this point, there’s no way to get anything started for dinner before your husband is home — you only have two cars and he’s taken one with him. He’ll need to grab you something on the way back. But the bigger issue is not having a car for the days to come. You don’t work anymore, but groceries are impossible to get without a vehicle, especially when it’s so hot.

You need repairs, and fast.

First, you consider your husband. He’s no genius when it comes to cars, but you wonder if the time he spends poring over catalogues and talking makes with the neighbors have taught him anything useful. Just as soon as the thought comes, though, you recall how stressed he’s been, how the pressure at his firm has had him wound up lately. The thought of his disdain at your request — or worse, rejection — is enough for you to resolve to plan b: brave the few blocks to a garage you’ve seen on the way home.

Altogether, you spend maybe ten minutes weaving between cars and open hydrants to make it to the shop. But the weather makes it feel like hours, sweat beading at your hairline from the first few steps. When you get there, you’re fully winded, fanning at your cheeks, and there’s nothing in sight but a few cars and scattered parts. You’re reassured, though, by the clang of metal tools that lets you know there’s someone that can help.

“Hello?” Your voice feels tiny between the sounds of work and radio. You’re not even sure that whoever’s around heard you until you catch movement behind a truck nearby. Slowly, a man rises into your eye line and your breath thins at the sight of him: six feet something of muscle and sinew, covered in oil from his work and sweat from the heat. Your mind wanders without your permission —- guesses at what he might feel like, taste like if you had the chance. But, as quickly as the thoughts arise, you’re turning your eyes away in shame.

What the hell are you doing, married and thinking like that?

“What can I do for you, miss?”

The question forces a glance at him and you feel energy run through you at the way he watches you back. A few strands of dark hair fall into his eyes, but it doesn’t stop him from drinking you in. Slow, deliberate, his gaze picks you apart as if he can see right through the careful style in your hair; the stain on your lips; the light cotton of your dress. You feel laid bare just standing there, and somehow, it feels good. You shift nervously on your kitten heels.“My, uh, car – it… well, it doesn’t seem to be working. Won’t start, really, so I was hoping someone could take a look?"

He nods in quiet understanding, hands wiping grime on the top of his jeans. “You walked here?” He pauses long enough for you to answer. “Where’s your car? I can give you a tow.”

“Just a few blocks out, I live over on seventh.”

Another nod, this time pensive as his eyes search the shop until they land on a set of keys. He crosses the room for them, giving you a sinful view of his back along the way, before gesturing towards a red truck with the words Barnes and Son printed on either side. You gather he‘s likely the ‘son’ in this equation. “You can go on and wait by the truck then – I’ll just need to grab a few things from the back.“

When he returns, you’ve found a spot beside his truck that’s shielded from the sun and he’s changed into a shirt with a name stitched into the pocket. He gets close enough to help you in, one hand in yours and the other at your hip, which gets you close enough to read it. “Thank you, James.” His name leaves you with a careful lilt, like a delicate lace you’ve slipped on just for size, and he gulps at how good it sounds. Lips curl back in a grin, and he takes a moment to watch you settle before responding —

“Bucky.”

You blink. “Bucky?”

He hums in confirmation, moving to the back of the truck to ready a hook for your bumper. Even then, his voice is clear - steady as he calls back up to you. “Only my ma calls me James these days. Everyone else calls me Bucky.”

“Ah,” a knowing nod, “then, thank you Bucky.”

You catch his gaze in the side mirror and he watches you through his lashes, a look that makes your thighs press together. “You’re very welcome, miss.”

july twenty third, ninety four degrees.

Three days pass at a snail’s pace; seventy-two long hours of grueling heat, sputtering electricity, and rising restlessness. On the twenty-third, the weatherman on morning radio is the first to call it by its name and after that, it’s all you hear: heat wave, heat wave, heat wave.

In that time, you haven’t heard much from one Mr. Barnes. That doesn’t keep him from hijacking your thoughts, though —- edging into your head when you least expect it. The ride to your home had been short, the time to hook your car to his even shorter; but he’d snared you easy with that rumbling voice and careful, but natural humor. He’s unlike most men you’ve met during your time in Brooklyn; the trim, proper types at school and their older counterparts in the office. Pretty boy looks with an air of danger, he’s at the crossroads of rugged and polite. Man raised right with the eyes of a wolf. You want to know more about him, but don’t dare linger more than you need to. A man like him will only bring rumors, and it’s the last thing you need in your fledgling marriage. So, you do your best to forget about him — out of sight, out of mind.

Today, the house is too stuffy to be a haven from the sun and you’ve found yourself a spot on the porch, nursing the tallest glass of water you could find. In front of you, children play beneath their mothers’ watchful eye, as bare as they can be without being indecent. The sight makes you think about your future here — the newest, and youngest, couple on the block, you’re an outlier compared to the rest. Nothing to fill your days but a few chores and idle conversations. And though you’ve only been here a month, you imagine it won’t be many more before children are a consideration, and then, an expectation.

The thought guides hand to tummy and you imagine it all swelled up - full. You’ve always wanted that at some point, yes, but here? With him? You ask yourself the question often and always, the answer is unclear. Never no, but certainly not yes. And when you close your eyes to consider it further, the details are out of reach — more fuzzy than it should be when you’ve promised him forever.

That you hesitate makes you dizzy with guilt; bile in your throat whenever you just consider it. And this time, the heat compounds it, shame rolling off you like the beads of water dripping from your glass. You take a swig to wash it down, but the cool only brings clarity — sharpens your uncertainty into doubt. Suddenly, the trill of children’s laughter becomes more accusation than background noise, and you swear the other wives are watching across their lawns. Knowing, judging eyes that straighten your spine.

It makes the porch chair feel too hot to stay in -- its surface seeming to singe anywhere you aren’t covered -- and you bolt so fast your dress shifts around you. Fingers smooth out the wrinkles as steadily as they can before scooping up everything you’ve brought to carry back inside.

Perhaps a nap might be a better escape.

////

You wake up a few hours later to a setting sun and a much quieter street. A glance at the bedside clock lets you know it’s just past five and your mind turns instinctively to dinnertime. On most days, you’d balk at having only a couple hours to cook, tidy, and shower before your husband got home. But, with your car still in the shop and him back too late for grocery shopping, you know you’ll be working with leftovers. Two hours is all you need.

There’s still sleep in your eyes when you pad to the kitchen; but with time, the room starts to smell rich, the aroma of herbs rising steady, and your tired falters, then retreats altogether. It’s so good, you forget you’re working with an old meal and you almost don’t mind how hot you’re getting so close to the oven. As expected, the food — a simple casserole — doesn’t take long and by the time it’s left to warm, the dining table set, you have the perfect window for a cold rinse in the shower.

Your husband arrives as you step into a fresh house dress, and you know something’s wrong the moment he pulls in. Rubber squeals angrily against the pavement outside and the steps on the porch that follow are heavy, disgruntled. When he opens the front door, it’s with force that makes the frame groan and the sound rises a second time when he slams it closed. It’s been a pattern as of late, the way he moves through your home like a tempest; but you still aren’t quite used to it. How can you be, with your union so new as it is? But even as a different man stands before you, watching you emerge from your bedroom, than the man who’d courted you, you try to give him the benefit of the doubt. Work has been hard for him, and you know it. And it’s all to help you live the life you do — you know that too. So, that ever-present urge to please, to be the good wife stays steady. Even now, it compels you to help him out of his shoes as he tosses aside a blazer that ought to be illegal in this sort of weather. “Is dinner ready?” He grunts without any other greeting, and you nod, taking it in stride. He’s just stressed, you remind yourself, it’s not personal.

“Yes, dear, go and get settled — I’ll get you a beer, hm?” Your mouth meets his cheek in a chaste kiss before you lead him to the dining room by the hand. The table in it is set for two, unassuming but homey, and you maneuver around it with learned ease. Beer to the right of his plate, food dished out neatly, you hum to yourself as you go, hoping the domesticity will be a salve to his long day.

It turns out to be anything but. When you turn back to the table, you can see the displeasure radiating off him, his features turning into a sneer as his eyes assess the meal in front of him. “What is this,” he grunts. “Leftovers?"

You balk immediately, twisting hands in front of your apron until your knuckles feel like they’ll pop. “Well, it’s still all we have — as long as I don’t have the car, I won’t be able to make much...”

He concedes in a huff, the itch to start an row calmed by your sound, albeit nervous, logic. But it doesn’t make him any less prickly, any less distant. He eats dinner like he’s wounded by it, a grimace on every bite. Eventually, it’s unbearable to watch, and you sigh with a pensive glance at the fridge. You have no idea what else you can whip together at this point, but anything would be better than this. “if you want, I can try to make something else—”

“it’s fine,” he sneers, "don’t bother.”

The rest of dinner is choked and tense, the only sounds between you forks against your plates. He finishes first, lingering only long enough to drop his plate into the sink. Then he’s off; more weighted footsteps that you listen to until they disappear behind the door of his study. You are free to take your time then, savoring the rest of the meal as best you can. But, all his harsh judgment makes the casserole taste like mush and tears burn at the back of your eyes, so you give up not long after he’s gone.

You aren’t all that hungry anyway.

A new still settles over the room as you pack the rest of dinner away. You’d hoped this silence would be relief compared to the previous, but somehow it’s worse. Without someone else there to distract you, you spiral — hyperfixate. Before long, the walls seem to bow in, your home buckling with the weight of this disconnect. And soon, nothing can buoy you — your eyes swim, head pounds, and it takes only another minute of it to decide: you can’t stay in this house.

When the front door shuts behind you without a sound, you draw in a deep breath — the first in what feels like years. Out here, the air is syrupy, like you’re sucking it down through a straw; but it’s ten times better than the staleness you’re leaving. It makes your throat dry out just thinking about it, and you push off the porch with a click of your heels.

Head ducked and shoulders bowed, you walk with no real destination, mind wandering as much as you are. It isn’t until you hear the increasingly familiar sound of metal gears whirring that you realize you‘ve walked towards Bucky’s garage. Filmy light spills out of the cracked garage door, leaving shapes on the otherwise dark sidewalk. It beckons you, a different sort of warm, and you duck inside with arms around your middle.

“Excuse me? Bucky?"

The sound of company — a tentative call of his name --- makes Bucky jolt, and he narrowly misses hitting his head as he straightens beneath the hood of a car. The garage isn’t well lit at this time of night, but it isn’t hard to work you out in the doorway: head tipped, arms pressed tight to you. To say he’s confused would be an understatement but, he certainly doesn’t plan to send you away. There’s something rolling off you that he can’t place — exhaustion, maybe? Perhaps even dejection. Whatever it is, it implores him to indulge you. Begs, even. “Miss? You here to check in on the car—“

“Why do you keep callin’ me that,” you spit, anger dissolving timidness into something rough and raw. Bucky quirks an eyebrow in question and you barrel forward to explain. “Miss — there’s no way you haven’t noticed my ring by now, you ought to be calling me Ma’am.” The outburst is misdirected and you know that — but this is a sore spot right now. Feeling so inadequate as a wife, unhappy in your marriage — this man you know you shouldn’t want and his refusal to acknowledge your status only makes it worse.

“I don’t mean any harm by it,” he shrugs, hands raising slightly in surrender, “‘s just odd calling you ma’am, young as you are. You don’t even have one wrinkle.” His tone turns playful there and you feel your whole body warm. There’s no way he can know what’s bothering you, or that’s something bothering you at all. But if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s trying to comfort you, even as your rage targets him. He drives it home with all his focus on you, a concern in those blue eyes that makes you want to weep.“You prefer I call you ma’am? I can, if you do.”

His earnest gives you pause; tempers your upset into a thrumming discomfort. Do you want him to call you ma’am? As visceral as your reaction had been, there’s a part of you that’s aware enough to know that you only care because you’re supposed to. It’s the right thing to call a married woman and you want to be like the best of them. At least, normally — right now, in front of Bucky and his lack of pretense, you find you care a lot less. His offer makes you realize how much of this is reflexive and you shake your head after another beat of silence. “No, I...suppose it’s fine if that’s why.” You still, feeling your face grow hot with shame. ”I’m sorry.”

His shoulders lift in a shrug and just like that, the moment’s forgotten, its tension gone. He turns the conversation elsewhere as graciously as he can. “So, what is it you’re doing here? I usually don’t do calls this late.”

“I just…wandered here to be honest. It’s awful in my house, heat and all. Needed air.”

He watches you the way he had that first day in the shop; unflinchingly. Fear curls up your spine at the thought that he might push you for more. Instead, Bucky nods, accepting the answer with a click of his tongue, and you press out a shaky breath. “Well, it won’t be much better here, but we got a fan you’re welcome to sit by ‘till you cool off.” He nudges a hand in the direction of the fan, but you hardly need it — you’ve eyed it now five times in as many minutes and could feel yourself swooning at the sight. It’s an industrial model, just shy of your height with blades twice as strong as your model at home. A stool sits next to it and you choose to settle there.

Bucky keeps watching until he knows you’re comfortable before returning to his work. On the radio, a singer you’ve never heard before croons about love, slow and sweet. It’s not what you’d expect for a mechanic's working music, but the way Bucky hums along makes it a perfect fit. He sways as he tends to the engine, as if the car dances with him, and you watch him with a smile — small enough that he misses it when he peeks up to check on you.

An hour passes just like that; a comfortable, easy quiet that’s only fractured when one of you hums louder than the fan next to you or laughs at something on the radio. Bucky works steadily, but makes a point of turning your way every so often to make sure you’re alright. Make sure you’re still there. You manage to catch his eye every time, which leads to a smile, a tip of the head, a sharp, careful breath.

You feel right in in that room of sparks and oil, and it overwhelms you.

“I think,” you start, standing to smooth your dress. The night deepens, and you imagine your husband’s noticed your absence by now. “I'll get going now, Bucky. Leave you to your work.” You offer him a smile that he returns easily, watching you as you take steps towards the door. “Have a good night, hm? Don’t work yourself too hard."

A chuckle rises from him in a rumble and you can feel your tummy turn. “Same to you. Sweet dreams, miss.”

The walk home is much lighter than the walk there had been. There’s contentment settling in, even through the heat, and it doesn’t break, not even when you get home to find your husband waiting for you. The door clicking shut behind you is the only greeting you get out before he’s standing, eyes narrowed. “Where did you go?”

You slip out of your heels carefully, as if sudden movement might shake hints of the garage out of your dress. “Just for a walk. I needed some air after I finished cleaning up, I wasn’t feeling very well.”

The answer seems to satisfy him; releases the tension in his back and shoulders until he's unwound enough to move. “Alright, well…are you any feeling better?” You give one quick nod in response, to which he hums, drinks you in for a moment, then offers a hand. You inch closer, each step more careful than the last, until he can press palms over your hips. Once he has you, your husband bares down to find your mouth; one soft kiss in apology. Eventually, though, those kisses deepen —- press you into bed with your clothing stripped in favor of sweat-streaked skin, and he murmurs more sorries into your throat, your thighs, and the sweet heat of your mound until you’re crying out forgiveness.

All the while, you see blue eyes in the ceiling; think of hands calloused from engines and gears; and swallow down guilt as you take your husband into your mouth.

There’s no room for Bucky Barnes when you do that.

july twenty fourth, ninety six degrees.

It’s half noon when the sound of heels echo in Bucky’s garage. They cut through his music well enough that he’s immediately searching out the sound from his spot beneath a cream 1950 Buick. A pair of baby doll pumps appear in his peripheral to answer his curiosity. “Just a minute,” he offers before his guest can speak, smiling so big already his jaw smarts. One last turn of his wrench brings him at a natural stopping point and then, he's rolling out to see you, as he suspected, beaming down at him.

There’s a tumbler of lemonade in your right hand — fresh, by the looks of it — and tupperware in your left. His heart stutters at the sight of it; you, all dolled up, bringing him lunch. He wonders if this is what your husband gets every day — a precursor to what he imagines are just as pretty nights — and can’t help but envy the fucking bastard.

What he’d give to see this every lunchtime till the end of his days.

“Ma’am,” he greets with a smirk, reaching for a rag to wipe his hands.

You huff loudly, lips turning sideways in a grin of your own. “You are never going to let me live that down, huh?”

Laughter shakes his shoulders. “Not any time soon, if you smile like that when I say it.” Your body heats immediately, eyes darting down in a show of shyness, and he almost coos at how easy it is to make you so bashful. “Brought that for me?”

You welcome the distraction, nodding as you hold out both offerings. “They said today’s the worst day yet for the heat and I know you’re here working in it, so…just wanted to make sure you had somethin’ to enjoy during your breaks.”

“Why, thank you,” Bucky pauses then, thoughtfully at first before his features go boyish, playful. “And you’re not just tryin’ to get out of paying me later, right?”

You laugh this time, a hearty sound he hadn’t heard before the previous night, but can’t seem to get enough of now. “Nope — scout’s honor. This is all on the house.”

You’re unlike any client he’s ever known; few wives make it as far as his door, their husbands preferring to come in for them, and the others that have certainly don’t make him feel like this. It would worry him if he dwelled on it, so he makes a point not to. Presses the oddness you cause in him to the back of his thoughts — out of sight, out of mind.

You set both the pitcher and plasticware down on the table closest to you, and quickly, Bucky is upon them. Scooping a clean cup from one of his nooks, he reaches for the lemonade and takes a hearty pour, humming at the sound of ice against glass. “This looks real good — you really didn’t have to.”

“Nonsense,” you wave him off, “it’s the least I could do."

“Well — cheers.” With eyes trained on you, Bucky brings cup to mouth, drinks in long, tapered swallows that work his whole throat. It’s mundane enough in theory; but there’s something in the way he does it. Something that unravels you, keeps you from turning away though you know you should. When he’s done, his mouth is fuller than ever and wet, wet, wet with drops of lemonade at the corners. He reaches a thumb up to wipe them off and in one fluid motion, brings them to his tongue.

Your eyes are pinned to it, darting after the curl of his tongue; and, by the time he finishes, blown wide open. You’re lightheaded, desire and guilt sending your senses into a tailspin, and you have to clear your throat to get words out. “I, uh, — I should be heading home. Couple other errands to do before the day is out — enjoy those, Bucky!"

Before he can get respond, you rush through the garage door, jasmine perfume in your wake, and Bucky stays put until the smell of you wanes.

Maybe you’re not all that out of mind after all.

july twenty sixth.

“ —— the massive heat wave hitting New York City continues today as temperatures reach a record one hundred and five degrees.”

The first thing you feel when you wake up is wet. Seeping into your sheets, your pillow case, your chemise nightgown, it's an uncomfortable feeling, being so sweaty. Feels gummy and unnatural — you make a note to be in the shower as soon as you can manage.

The second is pain, palpable as the fight you’d had with your husband the night before returns to the forefront of your mind. The cause had been insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but heat has a way of undoing sensibilities. You’ve never seen yourself like that, so belligerent, so vicious, and wonder how much of this summer is changing you the way it’s changing him. It feels like coming out of a hangover, and you lift yourself from your bed with a ragged sigh. The house seems still, and after a moment’s listen, it’s clear your husband's already left for the day —— without breakfast and, notably, without goodbye.

As much as it stings, there’s relief knowing you won’t have to face him yet, nerves dulled now that you can move through your routine at your leisure. You’re fresh out the shower, drying with the softest towel you could find, when the shrill ring of the telephone cuts in. In no mood to be personable, you have half a mind to ignore it, but decide against it — you wouldn’t want to miss anything important.

“Hello?"

“Hello — I’m lookin’ to speak to Mrs. Miller?” The voice on the other end is like honey; sweet and sharp as he asks for you. You know it’s Bucky almost immediately and straighten up as though he can see you, a finger tracing over the lapel of your robe.

“This is she…”

“Mornin’, miss,” he offers, voice dropping an octave or two — it’s subtle enough to seem innocent, but suggestive enough, at least to you, to make you gulp. “I’m just phonin’ to let you know that your car is all ready.”

Your heart stutters at the promise of seeing him, your earlier grogginess all gone, and you find yourself biting back a smile as though he might catch it. “Thank you, Bucky — I can be right there.”

////

The walk to Barnes and Son is muggy, even worse than it’d been the day your car shut down. And when you arrive, there’s sweat lining your forehead and under your arms. You take a moment to dab at it before ducking inside, where Bucky is waiting by his work table. Today, there is no radio — the only sound between you is the traffic outside and a buzzing that you only notice when it’s too hot to think.

“Mornin’ again,” he offers as he stands straight, beckoning you to your car with a hand. When you’re close enough, he starts to walk you through his fixes, gesturing here and pointing there to guide your attention. But, despite his best intentions, your head stays fuzzy - you can’t tell how much of it is the heat and how much is the distracting cut of muscles in Bucky’s bare arms. He’s worn that white tank top a few times now, but it’s more soaked than it has been and the sight of it makes you feel rabid.

He notices when you go long without even a word. “You payin’ attention to me?”

Too much, you think to yourself, mustering a sheepish nod and a cough to clear your throat. “So, how much do I owe you?”

He rattles off the price and you try not to grimace — a habit from before you had the means -- as you rifle through your purse to count out the bills. When you hand them over, Bucky’s fingers brush your own in a touch too light to be intentional. But that doesn’t stop it from knocking the wind out of you. You must just be sensitive, you reason, after the fight and, now, this oppressive heat putting your body on edge. But, deep down, you know it’s more than that and Bucky seems to know it too — his fingers linger, keep yours there, before curling around them altogether.

“I ought to go.” The words hang between you, but you make no actual move to step away. Bucky’s touch, as mundane as it is, has you completely rooted.

“I could tell, you know,” he’s speaking soft, one hand scooping the money out of your hand while the other runs a pointer finger along the lines of your palm. He stirs sparks in every spot he touches, electricity that spreads and spreads and spreads until it’s all you can see. He’s all you can see. "— that night you came to the garage. It wasn’t the heat that ran you out, it was your man. It was that godforsaken house that looks like every other one on the street — you hate it there, don’t you?”

For the first time in days, you feel chill sweep over you; shock at being unmasked so bluntly. And it’s enough to wake you up to snatch your hand out of his grasp. “Stop,” you hiss, “you don’t know anything about this, about me.”

If he’s wounded by your retreat, it doesn’t show. All you read in Bucky’s expression is understanding, sympathy, concern. There’s tenderness on every inch of him and it makes your body shake to see it so plainly. “Nah, I don’t think that’s true. Think you know it too.” He steps closer, and closer still, until you can feel the grooves of his workstation against your spine. Large hands come down against the wood on either sides of your hips and you can smell him, musky and sweet, as he leans over you. “Think I know more about you from this week than any of ‘em have cared to learn in months. Even him. Am I wrong?"

“B-Bucky—“ you shake your head as if it’ll stop the inevitable; this breach of your defenses that’s laid your worst bare. Of course he isn’t wrong — your unhappiness swells faster than you can control it, and he’s been the first to notice. You imagine it won’t be long before your husband, your family, your friends are onto you too. Right now, though, your attention stays on the man before you; the way your hands have found his chest without you meaning them to, and the way the muscle flexes to the touch.

His mouth is close, trembling with anticipation. But, you can see where he’s holding back — the tension in his jaw, flexed fingers at your hip. No amount of desperation will make him move before you say. “Tell me if I’m wrong.” Hooded eyes bore down into yours as Bucky waits for an answer — you give it to him in a searing kiss, reservations undone in the face of pure need. He returns it just as desperately, slipping fingers over your throat and shoulders before resettling at your waist.

He uses the grip to hoist you up onto the table behind you, giving you the leverage to pull him in by the legs. He’s already half-hard, cock against your tummy, and the feel of him is enough to make you moan into his mouth. This is wrong — this is so goddamn wrong, but you’re dizzy with how badly you want him, this man who’s seen you, and you dismiss your guilt for a later time. “Off,” you pant, fingers already working at the buttons on your blouse.

To your surprise, Bucky’s hand cages wrists to keep you still. “Not here,” he grunts into the side of your mouth, pulling your arms to wrap around his shoulders instead. You’re about to question it when he lifts you once more, this time into him, and braces your weight with hands under your rear. The shift makes you squeak and his laugh as he carries you shakes your body. In a few short strides, he takes you through the door he’d come into on the day you came to him, and you realize quickly it’s an office - surprisingly tidy for a place so busy. On the far side of the room, a couch waits, a pillow and blanket folded on the arm rest. He must notice the way your eyes linger on them because he squeezes your hips as he purrs: “‘S cooler here now than my house — makes working easy too.” He slots you onto the cushions, and you note how easily they mold to you — how lived in they seem. From where you lay, you glean pictures on the walls and table, Bucky in some of them, smiling faces in most. It’s a window into his life you hadn’t expected at all, much less in the middle of something like this —and it terrifies you how much more you want to know.

How much more you want of him.

As if reading your mind, Bucky climbs in over you and reels your attention in with his mouth back over yours. He kisses you deep, slow, fingers replacing yours on your blouse as he picks the buttons open one by one until you’re left in a plain pointed bra. You shrink a bit, knowing how simple it must look — but the hunger in his eyes seems to ease that concern. He’s had dreams about this, about you, in the damp of this very room, and had just managed to convince himself that that was where you’d stay. At arm’s length, in his fantasies. But now, here you are, propriety set aside as you seek out your gain. Something he fully intends to give to you as he slips you out of your skirt as well.

Your legs slip shut instinctively when the material falls away but Bucky’s hands settle on either thigh to still you. “No, no — let me in, sweetheart." the plea carries like a song, melody and harmony that soaks into your panties as you part your legs at his behest. The sight of you, so open, so soft, makes him dizzy and he steadies himself with nose to your inner thigh, breathing you in slow and deep. “God, you smell good — bet you taste good too, huh?” His thumb comes down over you as if the touch might answer his question. You tremble at it, let out a sound into the room that’s choked and desperate. “Could eat you right up.”

And god, does he. Panties pressed unceremoniously to the side and his tongue to your wet, Bucky Barnes eats you alive in that New York City heat. Somewhere in the madness, his nose finds your clit, nudges it each time he laps, and you arch off the couch keening, hands framing his head. Tugging, pulling, you’re done apart by his touch, jerking hips up needily to find his mouth. “Fuck,” he grunts against you, “keep goin’—”

You don’t need him to spur you on, but it does wonders nonetheless. You can’t remember the last time you’d felt so good. Even your husband the nights before, in all his earnest, hadn’t done you in like this. But, Bucky, with all that hunger and ache, has your body coiled up, eyes squeezed shut as you chase your pleasure. And as if he can sense the way you teeter on the edge, he presses a finger into you, the pad of it searching for the spot that’ll bowl you over.

“B-Bucky—“ you gasp, hips twisting because it’s so much, too much, and instinct makes you want to run. He shakes his head with a hand keeping you still, and a second finger joining the first inside you.

“Make a mess for me, sugar,” he commands in a purr, full lips brushing your clit, “don’t be shy now.” With that, his intent is crystal clear and he can focus on the task at hand; no more sweet nothings or encouragement — just his mouth back over your mound, flicking, sucking, in time with his fingers until you arch up off the couch with a cry of his name.

Your climax is hot-white; tears at the corners of your eyes as they dart, unseeing, to the ceiling. Bucky coos into your cunt in a tone akin to praise, and you shiver at how good it feels. He guides your hips for a moment or two more, just to help you ride it out, before rising from between your legs with a sheen of sweat, satisfaction, and you. His mouth curls up in a wolfish grin, canines sharp against his bottom lip, and you feel your tummy clench at the sight. This man will be the death of me.

The room is boiling, lust and tension at critical mass now that Bucky’s coaxed one mind-blowing orgasm out of you. And as uncomfortable as the sweat pooling in your corners is, you want more; need it, even. Your fingers find purchase at the base of his neck, forcing him up and over you until you can meet his mouth. Your body thrums at the taste of him — you, all over his tongue — and he kisses you deep when he realizes how much you like it too. In your earnest, you reach down to palm him through the jeans hanging low on his waist. You don’t know when his shirt had come off, but you’re appreciative of it. Eyes dancing over the expanse of bare skin, scarred in some places, but no less beautiful. You want to see the rest of him and you tug at his bottoms until he gets the message. While he works on that, you shed your underwear and bra and once you’re both naked, he settles back against you, sighing at the press of your skin. The contact is delicious, and it has you seeking out mouths for a kiss that’s as hungry as it is fond.

“Ready,” he murmurs against your lips, the head of his cock nudging at you as he draws closer. You nod, and he reaches down to guide himself, cock probing a bit until it slips past and slowly finds him settled. The way he sits inside you, stretching you to your limit, makes you gasp. Like you’re breaking water for the first time in a long time to the bite of fresh air. You crane up to kiss him with that newfound clarity, moaning when he twitches inside you.

“You alright?” The question comes out in a pant, Bucky’s mouth starting to trail over your jaw as he flexes to hover over you.

“Yes, Bucky, god yes, please move—“

Your plea’s barely out before he delivers, a slow drag of his hips that finds him out to the tip, then back to the hilt. The way he moves is like poison, like fire, and you wrap all your limbs around him to keep him close. The first thrusts keep you tangled like that, his head against your throat while he moves inside you. But, then you pull fingers through his hair, nail over scalp, and it’s like a switch flips inside him. In a flourish, Bucky sits up, shifting you until your knees nearly meet your chest and his hands hold you open by the underside of your thighs. The new angle guides him deep and makes you cry out, loud and with abandon.

The sound of it eggs him on; draws sharper, deeper thrusts from him as he watches you come apart from what he’s doing to you. “Doesn’t fuck you like this, does he? The way you deserve.” The accusation leaves him in a growl as his teeth close over your collarbone. Your throat is dry, and head too jumbled for you to do anything but shake your head — as if Bucky even needed an answer. “‘Course not — bastard.”

Thinking about your husband while you’re beneath another man shouldn’t feel good — but the possessiveness, the raw claim Bucky lays to you is addicting. It makes you want to be his beyond this, and you grip him close, nails leaving marks in his arms and shoulders, as if to keep him there. His thrusts quicken in response, hips finding yours in a delectably rapid rhythm, and you can feel your climax build for a second time already.

Bucky feels the way you pulse around him, grunting at the heat, and brings a finger down to your clit to keep you rising. The stimulation makes you arch, eyes squeezing shut as your legs tighten at his hip, and he uses his other hand to guide you down to meet him still. “Shit, look at you — gonna cum for me again, huh? Want it — god, I want it.” His body falls forward, keeping you chest to chest while he grinds down into you. “Come on, sweetheart, give it to me.”He reaches between you to bring his thumb down on your clit; flicks it once or twice before your peak barrels over you. It draws a cry that goes hoarse at the end and you fumble to pull him down and silence it in a kiss. He keeps his mouth on yours as his thrusts grow more erratic, his own climax not far off, and when he finally finishes it’s with a low groan of your name — eyes wrenched shut as he melts into you.

It takes a few moments for things to settle; Bucky stays over you, inside and pressed near as you both catch your breath. When he does slip out of you, it’s with a shudder and open-mouthed kisses to your wet skin. The loss of fullness makes you want to whine, but it isn’t until you start to feel his cum drip out of you that the sound actually makes it out. There’s something filthy about it — freeing too. And Bucky shares the sentiment as he presses your thighs up once more to look between your legs. “Push, pretty girl,” he murmurs, entranced by the sight of you. If it were anyone else you’d be embarrassed from the exposure; but his gaze just makes you preen. You do as he asks -- deep breath in, deeper one out — and you both moan at what follows.

Bucky’s eyes go darker somehow and you feel your body tighten as his fingers ghost between your folds. “Think I can get one more out of you?"

////

You end up spending hours lost in that room. Kissing, fucking, laughing — you’re only apart when Bucky rises to check in on the shop or answer the telephone. Then he fits right back between your thighs like it’s the only place he’s ever wanted to be. And sometimes, with the way he looks at you, you could believe it might be. You tell yourself you’re dreaming, though — finding emotion where it isn’t to make sense of this whirlwind of a week with him.

By the time four rolls around, there’s still no explanation for it, but there is an end— your car is working now, which means it’s back to routine. Groceries, cooking, bed with your husband. You dread it already, fingers trembling as you fix your mussed clothes; but seeing Bucky, and the recognition on his face when he comes back to see you dressing, only makes it worse. A silence settles between you while you dress and he watches from the doorway, arms over his chest. It’s not as bad as the silences have been with your husband, but it’s just as potent. Heavy and suffocating. He breaks it first, and you almost wish he hadn’t.

“I know it ain’t this simple,” he starts, quiet as though nervous about disrupting this still, "but I could be good to you.” Your shoulders stiffen with shock and when you look up at him, Bucky’s turned away, watching the cars he has left to fix. “Be better to you.”

You shake your head, swallowing the ache that rises with a sardonic smile. “How can you be,” you sigh, "you hardly know me from a hole in a wall, Bucky, this - this was just…” sex? You want to say so, but the sentence sounds all wrong, even to you.

Bucky, meanwhile, takes no offense to the rebuttal. If anything, it works him up more, a determination setting in that he hadn’t had just moments prior. “Maybe. But that don’t mean I’m wrong. Don’t mean I don’t know what I need to.”

The confession hangs between you for a moment, suspended by his conviction and your brain imagining life as his wife instead without your permission. It’s a split second of it, no more than a flash or two of imagination, but it’s enough to leave you queasy.

Because the fantasy is crystal clear, every scene in high definition. Bucky, his sky blue eyes creased at the corners by a smile; and a babbling baby with ones just like his, reaching for you from his arms. You see yourself in the photos in his office, beaming like the others. The thought is bad enough, but the need you feel just thinking about it makes you step back, hand to your chest as you suck in a breath. “If only it were so easy,” you breathe, dejected as you thumb the keys in your hand. You’re frozen there for another moment before you step forward, slowly, to move around him. When your shoulder touch as you pass, you can feel Bucky stiffen, shift as if he’s about to stop or hold you.

But the moment passes without him doing either, and you dip your head as you walk the rest of the way to your car. One last glance over your shoulder finds him watching you, longing coming off him in waves and you respond in turn, a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Goodbye, Bucky."

july twenty-seventh, eighty-five degrees.

Your drive to the grocery store won’t take long. But, you’ve opted to roll down your windows for it, basking in the breeze over your face. As suddenly as it began, the heat has finally broken, the city’s fever lifted, and for the first time in nearly a week, things feel normal.

On the radio, a woman sings a song about love lost, gained, and everything in between. You’ve only heard it a few times before, so you sing along in spurts. Lyrics here, hums there. It’s a welcome distraction from the emptiness that’s been sitting in your gut since the night before. You can almost ignore how sick you feel when you tap along to the music — almost.

When you turn down the next street, you recognize it quickly as the one of Bucky’s garage and that despair gets a new hold on you. There’s an immediate burn behind your eyes - reminiscent of what you felt, crying the night before — but this time there’s no tears. Just resolve as you force yourself to face front, attention steady, lest you get a glimpse of him.

Through your open windows, you catch the sound of tools from his shop. Just a few nights before, that had been solace; but now, it unsettles you. Sows discomfort so cleanly your entire body goes rigid. You fumble to get the windows back up, cutting off fresh air in favor of the ac you flick on with a finger. It takes a moment to kick in; but when it does, you breath a sigh of relief. Hold a hand over the grate to ground yourself with the cool.

It’s not as refreshing as that summer breeze, but you know it’ll have to do.

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