Work Text:
“I, um, I’d like a month membership.” you try to remind yourself this is for the best , that this is going to be it—the moment you finally get it together. You clear your throat, and the waify girl behind the desk looks up from her phone with a bored expression. You sigh—she hadn’t heard you at all. “I’d like a month long membership,” you repeat, your voice steadier.
“Um, okay. That’ll be forty four, even.” she holds out her hand expectantly, and you dig into your backpack for your wallet, and fish out your card. “Thanks.” she swipes it and hands it back. “There’s free water over by the lockers, and please wipe down the machines after you use them.” she’s already looking down at her phone again by the time she’s done speaking.
“Thank you,” you squint at her name-tag. “Sara.”
You hated gyms. You weren’t averse to exercise, but doing it in front of a host of strangers always gave you nervous tingles. The thought of all of them watching you, mocking you… it was enough to send you running straight back to your car. That’s why it was so hard for you—it was always like this. Gym after gym—you’d go once, maybe twice, before becoming too self conscious to try any more, and then you’d quit.
You tighten your grip on the straps of your backpack as you ascend the stairs. No. It was going to stick this time, damn it! Your weight had ruined your last two relationships, and you would not be entering a third until you were in your prime.
And prime meant dropping a couple pounds.
Alright, maybe more than a couple.
You toss your backpack into the locker of your choosing, and remove the key from the lock when you’re done changing into your workout shoes. You make sure your mane of curly hair is pulled back securely into a knot at the nape of your neck before you take a deep, steadying breath.
It’s okay. You got this. You just need to do this a couple of times a week. Forever. It’s a weeknight, a choice you’d made quite on purpose—the gym is fairly empty of people, and the few that were there are entirely uninterested in you, which suits you perfectly fine. It’s a relatively small gym, just two floors, one for the majority of the machines, and one for the weight room and the small studio where they sometimes held Zumba classes. You grab a bottle of water on your way in, and take a few steps off to the side as you attempt to deduce which machine will yield the results you wan.
You’d seen the cute girl on that workout channel you followed using something that she had to kick up with her leg— which one was that again? As you peer around the room, searching, your gaze lands on a man emerging from the stairwell. The black tee stretched across his glorious pecs was darker still with sweat, and he has a towel slung over his neck. The neatly trimmed beard along his chiseled jawline is well-kept, and his dark hair is tucked into a baseball cap on his head. Dog tags clink against his chest as he walks. Every inch of his exposed skin glistens with sweat and the sight of his muscles bulging underneath that tight shirt make your mouth go a little dry with want and envy.
“Holy shit.” the murmur leaves your lips before you can curb it, and you bite your lip, hoping no one’s heard your exaltation.
As if he’s heard you, black-shirt looks up suddenly, and for an instant your eyes lock, and all you can feel the cold panic spreading down your spine. Oh fuck. He knows I was watching him. God he’s hot… No, bad brain! Stop looking! Okay, we’re gonna look away now. Now. Okay, now. Oh fuck me. You finally manage to tear your eyes away—by turning your entire body to face a machine you have no earthly idea how to use—and your cheeks are so hot you could swear they’re steaming. Great. Now I’m the weird girl at the gym that stares at people.
You focus all of your attention on the machine in front of you—from what you can tell it’s one you sit on and wrap your legs around the back side of a cushioned bar, lifting the weights attached as you curl and uncurl your muscles.To make sure you really sell it though, you touch it, pulling on some of the strings as if to check that everything is in working order. You gulp audibly, not daring to turn around and see if your sad excuse for a lie has gone over. I guess this is as good a place to start as any. You sit awkwardly on the bench, glancing down at the weights.
I can lift forty pounds, right? You hook your legs underneath the padded leg bar, lifting them. You grunt with the effort, your eyes widening as you realize shamefully that no. You can not lift forty pounds.
You glare at yourself in the mirror, pursing your lips. You brave a glance at black-shirt in the mirror—he’s preoccupied, talking to a leggy blonde with a body you doubt you’ll ever have, not even if you came to this gym every day for a million years. Guys like that would never be interested in you, even if you did somehow manage to stuff your ancestor-gifted-ass into a size four pair of jeans.
You lighten the load to twenty pounds and try again, finding that this, at least, is doable. You peek again, and he’s gone—you breathe a sigh of relief. The people around you are certainly more your speed; a couple of middle aged women and an older man. If this is the Thursday night crew, you think you can get used to it—no intimidating jocks waiting impatiently for you to get off of the machines, making snide comments that make you both want to shrivel up and die right there, and also tear them apart with your bare hands.
After a couple of reps, you decide to try a different machine, walking over to one that you had to hold onto a bar and squat, pulling the weights up as you lowered yourself. You adjust the weight on it and grab the bar—
“Do you need some help with anything?” you let out a small eep as you release the bar, and the weights land with a loud clang that has the other gym-goers looking at you with irritation and surprise. It’s black-shirt—only now he was wearing the navy blue employee t-shirt with his name on it. He’s even more attractive up close, those gray-blue eyes crinkling at the corners from his friendly smile. You’re suddenly acutely aware of how tight your sports bra is, and how much skin you’re showing on your arms and midriff where the leggings stop.
“Sorry,” you reply, looking at him apologetically. “I didn’t mean to…” your brain begins barking at you, reminding you that the only reason he’d talk to you is if you’re in trouble. Oh God. He saw me staring, I knew it.
“No, that’s my bad. I um, I guess I snuck up on you. I just noticed you were about to lift kind of… wrong. And I didn’t want you to get hurt.” he rubs the back of his neck as he fixes you with a sympathetic look. Embarrassment floods you. Of course you’re doing it wrong. Christ, even his voice is hot, a deep baritone and the slightest hint of a Brooklyn accent. Your shame must have been clearly written on your face, because he hurries to mollify you, his hands out placatingly. “I mean, it’s not a big deal, it’s just, it’s my job to keep you safe. I mean, to make sure you don’t get hurt here.” he amends, and you let out a small laugh.
“Please.” you gesture at the machine, stepping out of the way. You stand primly in front of him, trying to make yourself as small as you can. “I’ve got a lot of work to do,” you pat your hip self-deprecatingly. “So I should learn how to do it right.” he laughs, before shaking his head as he positions himself where you were standing, and his lips quirk up into a lopsided smile.
“You’re going to want to start with your feet shoulder width apart,” he says gently, reaching up to grip the bar. “And lift from here,” he gestures at his almost disgustingly built thighs. “Not from here.” he motions to his back. You’re only barely able to keep from drooling as you watched the muscles in his arms and back bunch and flex enticingly under his skin as he does a few practice lifts. “See?”
“Mmhmm!” you squeak, casting your eyes down to the floor as soon as he looks at you. “I got it.” your voice is tight with anxiety and embarrassment—simply being in his presence is enough to start your internal catalogue all of the various ways in which your body is wrong, and you can’t help but think he has to be doing the same thing as his eyes travel down your form. “Thanks.”
“No problem! You know if you ever need help using one of the machines, or coming up with a good set of reps or anything, you can always ask.” his smile is friendly, and you return it thinly. It’s almost like he’s searching for something else to say and coming up empty as he watches you, and you toy nervously with a strand of your hair.
“Of course.” yeah right. So that you and legs-Mc-fake-titties can talk about me? I don’t think so. “Thanks…” you glance down at his tag, “James.”
“Friends call me Bucky.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Well…” you gesture at the machine, and his eyebrows shoot up as his cheeks turn just a little pink.
“Oh! Shit, yeah. I’ll get out of your hair.” the bar is still warm from his grip as you wrap your fingers around it, and your cheeks heat at the thought of his eyes sliding down the too-full curves accentuated by your active-wear. You squat, huffing a little as you slowly stand back up, releasing the bar and the weights. His voice from behind you makes you squeak shrilly again, and when you whip your head up to look at him in the mirror, he’s grinning at you.
“Good form.” he licks his lips, nodding at you before heading back to the other side of the gym. Your face burns red hot again as you duck beneath his gaze.
He’s just being nice.
You repeat it to yourself as you complete your workout, still feeling the weight of those ocean and slate eyes on you as you head out to your car.
Just being nice.
🏋🏻
“Good form?” Bucky mutters exasperatedly to himself, shaking his head. “Who the fuck says good form?” he turns to Steve, who was snickering into his beer. He clenches his metal hand into a fist, before knocking back the last dregs of his pint. He sighs, shaking his head again. “Good fucking form.”
“If it’s any consolation, your misery seems to be improving Sam’s mood.” Steve replies, gesturing to their friend who was currently posted on the other side of the bar, chatting up a redhead. “He always does better when you’re in a shit mood.”
“Shut up, punk.” Bucky’s still lamenting his terrible attempts at flirting when Sam returns to their table, phone number in hand. “Didn’t your mother tell you to shut your trap if you didn’t have anything nice to say?” he wishes Sam’s success was his own, wishes he’d been able to actually ask for your number, instead of making shitty jokes that didn’t seem to ease the tension at all.
“No.”
“Well fuckin’ shut it.” he snaps, and Steve’s resounding laughter only sours his mood further. He can’t stop thinking about you—that sweet, shy smile, the hair he longs to loose from the tight bun you’d wrestled it into, and God those fucking curves.
“Come on, dude. You don’t want to be the creepy guy that hits on girls while they’re working out.” Sam supplies, and Bucky cut his eyes at him, scowling.
“Didn’t you just finish working your way through a gaggle of interns?” Bucky asks dryly, only to have Sam shrug in response.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t tell them they had good form.” he can’t even get the words out before he’s laughing, Steve joining in as Bucky glowers at the both of them.
“You didn’t see her,” he replies defensively, his expression softening. “An ass that would make God cry.” Sam’s answering snicker makes him sigh, motioning to the waitress for another round. “And don’t get me started on the lips, ugh.” Bucky rests his forehead heavily against the table with a loud thud .
“Don’t worry, we’re not,” Steve answers, and Bucky glares up at him. By the time he gets home, Bucky’s pleasantly drunk, dropping his keys on the hall table as he kicks off his shoes.
An ass that could make God cry. His own words echo in his head as he shakes it disappointedly. If he was scoring himself on the creativity and staying power of his pick-up lines, this one would sit firmly at a three. He remembers the breathy little noise of surprise you’d made, and groans.
Not fair. He doesn’t usually get tongue tied, but ever since he’d caught you staring, he couldn’t seem to string together a goddamn sentence, let alone a complement. He’s still agonizing over it when he goes in for his shift the next day, clocking in behind the desk. Sara pops her gum disinterestedly as he passes, pinning his name-tag to his shirt as he slides by her. Friday at the gym is routine by now, and Bucky knows it by heart. Walk the floor, help out the clients, offer your services, rinse repeat.
Which is why when his eyes light on you, frustratedly trying to get the elliptical to start, his mouth waters. The aqua blue work-out set you’re wearing leaves little to the imagination, the clingy fabric outlining every sinful dip and curve. The sporty little crop-top above it is doing him no favors either, the soft flesh of your breasts bouncing enticingly at the top.
“Damn it,” you mutter, stepping off of the machine and bending down to make sure it’s plugged in. “Stupid thing.” he can’t help the cheeky grin that spreads across his face as he watches you give the machine a frustrated little kick.
“I know we don’t have the newest stuff, but I think abusing the equipment might be against the rules,” he says, watching as your back stiffens at the sound of his voice. You whirl to face him, embarrassment coloring your features.
“In my defense,” you say in a small voice, “It did piss me off.” Bucky laughs, watching some of the anxiety written on your pretty face disappear. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. A lot worse things have happened to this thing than being kicked by a pretty girl.” he waits for the complement to hit you, for the shy smile to spread across your face—but it doesn’t. You simply stare at him in relief, as though you didn’t even hear it.
“Thanks. I don’t last long at gyms, the last thing I need is to get kicked out,” you reply. The smile you do give him is apologetic, like you feel sorry for even being there. “Can you… can you help me get it to work? Preferably without membership ending violence,” you joke. Bucky’s thrown by your lack of response, and nods.
“Um, sure. Sometimes you’ve got to hit the start button a little extra hard, it’s kinda worn down.” He jabs at it with his metal thumb, and the machine flares to life. You look at him gratefully as you step around him, pulling yourself up onto the foot shaped pads with the handle-bars. He knows it’s shitty, and wouldn’t blame you if you took his picture and posted it in every single social media group for creeps at the gym—but he can’t help but admire the curve of your ass as you set your pace to a slow jog. Your flesh jiggles invitingly, and it’s all he can do to keep his mouth from hanging open. “Let me know if you need anything.” the words sound robotic even to his own ears, and it takes every ounce of Bucky’s self control to not stand there, oogling you.
“Thanks,” you pant over your shoulder, before turning to place your phone in the cup holder. “Will do.” you tap the play button, and a workout video starts. He starts to walk away, but stops himself.
“Um, you know, if you’re interested in doing a more personalized work out, I could help you with that.” you peer at him over your shoulder again, and he watches you glance down at your body and then back up to him. “No pressure. I just… most people follow those youtube workouts, and they’re not tailored to them.” Not that you really need to be working out anyway, he thinks to himself, forcing his eyes to stay resting on yours, instead of trailing over the soft curves he wants so badly to touch.
“Is that better than just coming in and going apeshit on the machines?” you joke after a moment, and he grins.
“Totally.” he watches you take a sip of your water, licking his lips as a droplet escapes down your chin. “And I think a couple of personal training sessions are included with the membership,” he adds, hoping to sweeten the pot. You give him a small, unsure smile.
“I’m not sure I’m really the… type of client you’re looking for,” your voice sounds like you’re admitting something, but Bucky isn’t sure what it is you could be confessing to. Your hand ghosts tellingly over your belly, and he realizes that you’re saying—for some stupid reason—that you’re too fat to work out.
It’s the most ludicrous thing he’s ever heard—not to mention that he’s eager to see you do squats again. Maybe over my face, God willing. He shakes his head, brushing off your misplaced and, in his opinion, quite incorrect concerns. “Not at all. I mean, it is free.” he’s not actually sure if there are freebies included in the membership, but he’s this close to having you alone in the weight room, and he’s not giving that up for fifty measly bucks a session.
“I… I guess we could do a few sessions,” you agree after a moment. “As long as you don’t get me kicked out for assaulting the equipment,” you add, and he grins.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, toots.”
🏋🏻
“Come on, you can give me one more rep, can’t you doll?” Bucky’s voice in your ear makes you shudder, and your knees buckle a little under the weight. He’s too close to you, the heat from his muscular chest beaming enticingly against your back. You wobble, dropping the weights heavily as you huff.
“I can’t.” you fold your arms petulantly, and kick frustratedly at the weights for good measure. It’s going on the second week that you’ve been working with James— Bucky— and you’re still surprised you actually have a personal trainer. Your mother half didn’t believe you when you told her, commenting that maybe this time, it would help you keep the weight off. The thought adds to your sour mood. Bucky’s gentle hand on your shoulder snaps you out of your reverie.
“Hey, don’t worry about it, toots. We’ll do more next time.” he smiles at you, and you feel yourself melt at his condolences. “You’re doing really well.”
“Hah!” you snort, derisive laughter bubbling up from your chest. “We’ve been at this two weeks and I’ve only lost five pounds,” you lament, turning to stare at yourself in the mirror, a frown etched onto your features. You pinch the skin of your arm frustratedly, shaking your head. “I’m just worried I’m… wasting your time.”
He frowns at you, shaking his head as he rests his hands on your shoulders. “Hey. That’s not true. And besides, you’re not here to lose weight, you’re here to get healthy, there’s a difference.” he clucks his tongue at you, before running it across his pillowy soft bottom lip. Logically you know he’s telling the truth, but the ugly scars on your heart say differently. You shake your head, sighing. “Come on. You’ve worked hard enough today, let’s call it.”
You frown. “What? I’ve only been here like an hour and a half, I can handle more,” you reply sharply, putting your hands on your hips when he smirks and shakes his head.
“I pushed you hard today. Just because you don’t feel it now, toots, doesn’t mean you’re not gonna feel it later. I don’t want you gettin’ hurt because I let you talk me into extra reps.” he can see you intend to argue more, and he shuts it down with a look. “Who’s the trainer here, doll? Me or you?”
“You,” you mutter defeatedly, glaring angrily at the weights in the corner, as though they’re to blame. You can’t help it—summer is coming, and you want more than anything to finally be able to feel confident at the beach, to wear the dresses in the back of your closet that you’ve been saving as a reward, to… to finally feel pretty. Desired. Wanted.
“Exactly. And what I say goes,” he winks at you, and you can’t stop the heat that rises to your cheeks. You clear your throat, looking away.
“Well… I’ll see you Friday,” you reply after a moment, and he nods. There’s an emotion in his gaze you can’t really name and you don’t try, deciding instead to focus on wiping everything down, and making sure you’ve got all your stuff before you head out. You can hear him in your head the whole way home, and you rub your thighs together embarrassedly as you sit in traffic.
Just because you don’t feel it now, toots, doesn’t mean you won’t feel it later.
You shudder. I know something I’d like to feel later… You shook your head. Nope. Not going down that road. You knew better than to entertain thoughts of what it would be like were Bucky actually interested in you—it would make it awkward to keep attending your personal training sessions, that was certainly for sure. Even if the hot press of his huge hands against you made your heart do somersaults in your chest, and made your lungs tight.
You’d even begun enjoying going to the gym with him around—so much so that it felt less like a chore you had to put up with, and more like something you could actually work into your schedule without feeling bad about it. By the time you’d fixed yourself dinner and eased into a bubble bath, you could tell that Bucky was right. Your thighs ached—your back too, and you were grudgingly glad he hadn’t let you bully him into doing more.
When Friday rolls around, the aches you’d been feeling had finally minimized themselves enough for you to feel good striding through the doors into the gym. Bucky was usually there to greet you, but today you could see him towering over another man, spotting him as he did his reps.
“You lost?” the gruff voice makes you shrink in on yourself, and you scramble to get out of the way. The man behind you is an employee, you can tell by his shirt and nametag— Rumlow. You swallow nervously.
“N-no. I was just waiting for my trainer.” the way his eyes move over you makes you feel both repulsed and repulsive as he sneers.
“I can see that. That him?” he jerks a thumb over at Bucky, who you can now see is watching the interaction with a frown. You nod. “Okay. Well, no need to have you standing here just taking up space. I can get you started till he’s ready for you.” you’re not sure what to do or how to answer—is this normal? You know you’re Bucky’s client, but he’s busy, and you can’t find it in yourself to go over and interrupt him.
Rumlow’s hand is heavy on your shoulder as he steers you toward the crunch machine—the one Bucky’s specifically told you to avoid. It takes you a few tries to voice your concern.
“I, um, actually, James told me not to use this one.” you say in a small voice, and he snorts at you.
“Why? Afraid he’ll give you a real workout? How long have you been coming in, anyway?” he asks, squatting down to adjust the weights. He sets them at a high fifty—you and Bucky have been working with forty or less, usually thirty five.
“Two weeks.” your answer has him turning to look at you. His eyes move over you again, and you can’t help but feel judged. Rumlow looks at you with a displeased expression, and you know you’ve been found wanting.
“Two weeks? And that’s your progress? Come on, let’s get that blood flowing.” he doesn’t ask if fifty is too heavy, doesn’t check to make sure the equipment is calibrated, he just watches you expectantly. You slide into the seat nervously. It’s fine, right? He works here too, he knows what he’s doing. You slid your legs under the bar, and lowered the second bar, the weighted one you would push against. It’s fine.
You tried once, barely lifting the stack of weights from the floor. “I, I think it’s too heavy,” you say in a small voice, only to have Rumlow snap irritatedly at you.
“Just push harder. You won’t get anywhere with that lazy attitude.” he snaps his fingers. “Again.” the bar is astoundingly heavy, and you throw all of your weight against it, managing one, strenuous curl before releasing, panting. Your back aches already, but you steel yourself. No pain, no gain, right? You push again and again, the tightness building in your muscles— he didn’t even let me stretch— until on your fifth rep, white hot pain shoots up your spine.
You release the bar with a loud clang, doubling over as a sob wrenches its way out of your throat. You don’t know what you’ve done, but it hurts, pain galloping down every nerve ending as you gasp. Your ears are ringing sharply, and when Rumlow speaks to you, it sounds like he’s far away.
“Hey, hey. What happened? Too heavy?” his tone sounds a little mocking, like he doesn’t believe you’re really hurt. You’re about to snap that yes, it was too heavy—only before you can, you see Bucky shove him away. He looks down at you with a worried, furious expression.
“What the—man, fuck, can’t you see I’m working here?” Rumlow growls, gesturing vaguely at you. Bucky shoves him again, and points down at the weights at the side of the machine.
“Fifty fucking pounds? What are you trying to do, kill her?” he snarls. Everyone is looking at you, and if you didn’t feel like your entire lower back was literally on fire , you’d probably be embarrassed. He doesn’t wait for Rumlow to respond, kneeling in front of you as he gingerly uncurls your legs from the bar. “Hey, hey, can you hear me?” you sniffle, nodding. “Hey, toots. I’m gonna lift you, okay?” he says, and you shake your head, sending ripples of pain down your spine that make you whimper.
“N-no,” you protest as he loops your arm around his shoulders. “I’m t-too heavy.” another sob tears itself from you as he lifts you gingerly from the machine, his other arm cradling your thighs. Bucky looks down at you, scoffing.
“Toots?”
“Yeah?” you sniffle, wincing as he begins carrying you down to the parking lot.
“Shut up.”
🏋🏻
Bucky sits with you at the hospital, his knee bouncing nervously as he waits for the doctor to come back with the scans. You’ve tried to dismiss him five times now, but he’s not having it, simply hushing you and asking if you need anything from the snack bar. It’s better that he’s here, anyway—because if he wasn’t, he’d be smearing Brock Rumlow’s face across the fucking pavement.
He didn’t like seeing you work with another trainer, didn’t want to allow it—but you were a grown woman, and you weren’t his— not yet, anyway— so he hadn’t protested when he’d watched Rumlow snipe you from the entryway. He was only going to be a little longer with his current client anyway, and then he’d be over to help you.
He’d watched, irritatedly as his coworker had led you over to the ab-machine, the one Bucky had told you specifically he wouldn’t be training you on. Bucky had tried to hurry Parker through his last set of lifts, but the kid had been chatty. It was only when he heard your cry of pain that he’d raced over to see you sobbing, as Brock berated you.
He can still hear his mocking remark. “Too heavy?” Bucky clenches his fists. If I could break his jaw without getting fired… Bucky growls at the thought. I should have gone over. The regret tastes bitter in his mouth—he should have stopped you, should have made sure you’d wait for him, but instead Rumlow had gotten to you. And by the looks of it, he’d been more than callous with what you needed. Bucky knew your body. Not as well as he’d like, but he knew it. Knew you needed low impact training for your knees, knew you had a weak back. Knew you didn’t need to be lifting fifty fucking pounds worth of weights, goddammit!
He clenches his fists so hard the chair creaks in his grip, and his vibranium fingers press divots into the plastic.The sound of footsteps approaching makes him sit up straighter, and he watches as a nurse wheels you into the waiting room. You wave excitedly at him.
“Hi Bucky!” your words are slurred, and the nurse catches your hand before you accidentally smack her across the face. “I missed you!” you giggle, before looking back up at the nurse. “This is my friend, Gertrude.” you point at the displeased older woman, who is doing her best to wrangle you back into the seat. Bucky crosses over to you in a few strides, catching your hands. She shakes her head.
“My name is Nancy.” she corrects you, and you blow a raspberry, before laughing.
“That’s not how you say Gertrude.”
“Hey, toots,” Bucky cuts in, chuckling. “Looks like someone’s feeling better. They give you something for the pain?” he asks knowingly, looking up at the nurse. He doesn’t need her nod of confirmation to know you’re flying right now.
“She should be fine for tonight, but you’re going to need to give her something tomorrow. She’s pulled a muscle, so tell your girlfriend no more workouts until she’s better.” the nurse addresses him, knowing that you’re too far gone to retain or process the information she’s firing off. And when she drops the “g” word, Bucky tenses.
“Oh, I’m not, I mean… We’re not—” she presses a bottle of pills into his hand, still speaking rapid-fire.
“Her prescription should be at the hospital pharmacy. Two in the morning with breakfast until the bottle’s gone, that should help with the pain. Light stretching should ease up some of the tension she’s sure to be feeling. Any questions?”
“No, but—”
“Perfect.” she spins on her heel and leaves the two of you alone, and Bucky looks down at you. You grin up at him, before offering him a wink and the finger guns, your head lolling back as you giggle.
“It hurt so much before, but I’m okay now,” you insist, trying to get up out of the wheelchair. Bucky plants his hands on your shoulders, shaking his head.
“No way, toots. You’re gonna take it easy, damn it.” he sighs. “Let’s get you out to the car.” you’re giggly and loopy as he wheels you down the ramp to the car, fighting you the whole way. No wonder the nurse had been so eager to get rid of you—you were a handsy little thing. “Hey, quit. Get into the car, sweetheart.” he buckles you in, before cold realization dawns on him—
Bucky has no idea where to take you.
Your car is safe and sound at the gym, but he has no idea where you live. “Hey, toots. Where’m I taking you?” he asks gently, and you sputter out a laugh.
“To the moon, of course!” you giggle. “Silly.” Bucky rakes a hand down his face, before going for your purse in the backseat. If the address on your admittedly old looking license isn’t current, he’ll just take you to his place, he decides, sliding into the driver’s seat. Oh hell. It’s not even in this city.
“My place it is, toots.” he replies, sighing. “Just hope you’re not too mad when you come to.” you cock your head at him, your pretty full lips turning down in your confusion.
“Why would I be mad, silly? We’re going to the moon!” you say, clapping your hands excitedly. Bucky can’t stop his laughter.
“To the moon it is.”
You’re a little less rowdy when he gets you up the stairs, staying put obediently on the couch when he tells you to. It’s late, almost ten, and he reasons that it makes more sense for you to sleep here than at the hospital, right? He didn’t exactly tell them you were his girlfriend, but he hadn’t corrected the assumption either.
Hopefully you wouldn’t be too upset with him when you could remember your own name. He peeks out into the living room from his bedroom, making sure you’re where he put you. You’re laying down on your side, and from what he can tell, you’re pretending your hand is a rocket-ship, and making whoosh noises as you pilot it. He covers his mouth to keep from laughing—it’s not your fault, he knows you’re drugged out of your mind— but it’s still fucking hilarious.
He puts fresh sheets on the bed, his cock stirring in his workout pants as he recalls why they need to be changed in the first place. It’s all he can do not to jump you in the weight room, but at home, he’s allowed himself certain… indulgences. Specifically the kind where he imagines splitting the crotch of those goddamn leggings with his bare hands and forcing his aching cock deep into you.
And you never seem to notice the way his hands stray just a little; because he can’t deny the urge to skip his fingers over the curve of your hip as he corrects your posture. He shoves the dirty sheets into the hamper before he returns to you.
“You sleepy, toots?” he asks, and you nod, frowning.
“And my back hurts.” you say childishly, pointing behind you.
“You wanna shower or something? I bet that would help.” he knows it will—hot water will loosen up the muscles he knows are locking up as the drugs wear off. “I can get the water hot for you.” you look thoughtful for a moment, and then nod.
“Okay.”
He heads for the bathroom, and begins filling up the tub. He fishes the epsom salt out from underneath the sink, pouring it liberally into the water as it rises. This isn’t how he imagined his first time spending time with you outside of the gym would go—in fact it’s the complete opposite—but… he doesn’t really mind. It’s kind of… nice that you need him.
Plus your rocket noises are adorable.
“Toots? Water’s ready.” he returns to the living room, wiping his hands on his pants, only—Bucky stops short, his mouth going completely dry. He can’t hear anything right now, aside from the ringing in his own ears.
You’re naked.
He watches you shake your hair out of it’s ponytail, running clumsy fingers through your curls. The bright orange tank top you’d been wearing was now discarded on his couch, the leggings along with it. You’re in the process of inching the black thong down your shapely thighs as he walks in. You step out of them, before replying—
“You said the water was ready.”
Blood is rushing straight to his cock, and he can’t tear his eyes away from the dark circles of your nipples. He’s rooted to the spot, unable to breathe, to move, to blink, because he knows the moment he does, he’s going to touch you—and maybe not be able to stop. His fists clench and unclench slowly as you stare at him, somehow unaware of the tension building between the two of you. You can’t, Buck. He knows he can’t.
He just wants to.
So fucking bad.
“Go get in the tub.” he says tightly, forcing his eyes shut as he turns away. He doesn’t wait for you to go, and begins moving toward his bedroom, not stopping until the door is closed between you, his bulk resting against it as he scrubs a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.” he’s so hard it hurts, his cock straining against the fabric of his sweats. It took everything he had to walk away, and he waits at the door, listening intently to the sound of your slowly retreating footsteps. He releases a heavy breath. He’ll check on you in a moment, but now… he looks down at the prominent tenting in his pants.
He has to deal with this.
Bucky tugs the waistbands of his sweats and briefs down and his cock springs free, bouncing against his belly. “Gonna be the fuckin’ death’a me, toots.” he mutters to himself as he spits into his hand and reaches down to palm his length. He wishes he could bring another woman to mind, but every image his brain reaches for turns into you. He tries to imagine his ex on her knees sucking his cock— Jeannie always was good at that— but instead all he can think of is you there instead. Your soft mouth— and he knows it’s fucking soft— wrapped around it instead.
Imagines your pretty eyes looking up at him through your lashes. “Fuck,” he groans, swiping his thumb over the head of his cock to spread the precum gathered there. He pulls the foreskin back with a firm hand, groaning. Your soft little hands are going to be heaven, he just knows it. He tries to think about something else, anything else; that blonde from work the other day, the fling he had last summer with that trainer from Cali—but none of it works.
They turn into you every time. He imagines you every possible way; on your hands and knees, that perfect fucking ass presented just for him, on your back with your soft thighs spread wide. Bucky fucks into the tight ring of his fist, wondering how you’ll taste when he finally slides his tongue through your slick—and he’s going to. He can’t not follow through now, not after having fucking seen you.
He cums with a loud groan, spilling onto the hardwood floor at his feet. There’s so much, dripping through his fingers as he pants. His vision goes white as he mumbles your name over and over, his hips bucking as he comes back down. He hasn’t moved from his spot against the door, and he hopes you haven’t been right there, listening to him beat off like a teenager at the sight of you.
He cleans himself up as best he can once he can fucking see again, before depositing his—now soiled—pants into the hamper. Figuring that you won’t want to wear the clothes you’d been sweating for hours in, he grabs an old sweatshirt from his dresser, and heads to check on you in the bathroom. After a deep breath, Bucky chances a look in on you, you’re in the tub, dozing lightly. When he calls your name, you look up at him with lidded eyes.
“Hi, Bucky.” the water sloshes over the sides as you shift. “I had a dream about you.” you say it innocently, and even though he’s just cum, Bucky feels himself throb. He licks his lips, unable to keep from asking.
“Oh yeah, toots? What kinda dream?” he sets the sweater on the bathroom counter. You giggle, and shake your head.
“It’s a secret.” you reply winking cartoonishly at him. “Can’t tell yous.” you start to rise out of the water, and Bucky turns around quickly, protecting your modesty, and his own brain from short-circuiting again. He wants to look again, see you in all of your wet, naked glory, but he blindly tosses a towel in your direction instead.
“Christ, toots! You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me if you keep this shit up,” he moans. “I’m a good man, but even I have my limits.” Bucky hears the rustle of cloth, and waits a few seconds for the sound of your wet feet slapping against the floor as you exit the bathtub.
“I’m sorry,” you apologize, sniffling. “I know no one wants to see all this.” he peeks over his shoulder to see you gesturing at your body. Bucky whirls on you, shaking his head.
“No. That’s not true, and I don’t wanna hear that shit from you anymore,” he growls, cupping your chin gently. “It’s not true.” he repeats, and your lip wobbles. He resists the urge to run his thumb across the trembling flesh.
“That’s not what Jim said.” your tone is stubborn. “Or Kyle.”
“Fuck Jim. And Kyle.” Bucky shakes his head. “Put some clothes on, toots. Let’s get you to bed.” he watches you gingerly pick up his sweater.
“ S’not gonna fit, Bucky,” you reply stubbornly, refusing to even unfold it. “And I didn’t fuck Jim. Or Kyle. That’s the problem!” your bubbly mood evaporates as the insecurities you keep to yourself come bubbling to the surface, and Bucky’s powerless to stop them. “They didn’t want to fuck me anymore, because I’m so—”
Bucky grabs your chin. “Jesus fuck, toots, can’t you see how fuckin’ gorgeous you are?” he shakes his head. “I don’t wanna hear you talk bad about this beautiful body, not anymore, you hear me? Not when it takes all I fuckin’ got not to tear those goddamn yoga pants off when you’re on the elliptical!” he releases your face and turns around while you clumsily tug the sweater over your head.
“You think I’m beautiful?” your voice sounds small and amazed. Shit. He hadn’t meant for all of that to come pouring out, not like this. He doesn’t know what to say or how to respond without destroying the fragile relationship he’s worked so hard to build with you.
“Lets get you to bed, toots.”
As he’s tucking you in and making sure you’ve got water in case you wake up, you grab his hand sleepily.
“Bucky?”
“What, doll?”
“I was dreaming about you.”
🏋🏻
It’s still dark out when you wake groggily in a bed that is distinctly not your own, and your back twinges painfully when you try to sit up. The sheets smell… masculine and familiar , and it’s only when you’re in the middle of burying your face into the pillow that the threads connect in your brain—
These sheets smell like Bucky.
Abject horror dawns on you as ghostly snippets from the night before float back into your conscious mind—Bucky taking you to the hospital, Bucky bringing you home, taking a bath, tucking you in. You swallow thickly.
Was I…naked?
The embarrassed whimper makes it’s way out of your throat as you collapse back onto the pillows, your hands covering your face. “What did I do?” you moan, pressing the heels of your palms into your closed eyelids. Well, at least this time you wouldn’t be switching gyms because you never showed up. No, this time, it would be because the doctor gave you one too many happy pills, and you stripped in the middle of your personal trainer’s apartment.
There were two pills and a glass of water on the nightstand, and you assumed they were for you, gulping them down dry, and chasing it with cool water. You waited in the dark for the muscles in your back to loosen a little, and slid out of bed, limping over to the door. Bucky’s sweater fit you, but only barely covered your ass, leaving you tugging it down self consciously with every step. He wasn’t in the living room, though the makeshift bed on the couch indicated that he had been, at least recently. Seeing the light on in the kitchen, you shuffled slowly over.
“Bucky?” he’s seated at the kitchen table, nursing a glass of brown liquid you’re assuming is whiskey. Maybe bourbon. He looks up at you, and you think you see a flash of concern cross his features.
“Hey, toots. You still, uh…” he wiggles his fingers next to his head and then makes a whoosh noise, and you let out a dry laugh.
“No, I don’t think so. What was that?” you ask as you seat yourself at the kitchen table, making sure you tug the sweater down as you do.
“Rocket-ship.” he answers matter-of-factly. “You said we were going to the moon.” you groan, holding your head in embarrassment.
“I’m so, so sorry. What a shitty way to spend your Friday night.” he waves your apology off as he takes another sip of his drink. “Seriously, it looks like I drove you, literally, to drink.” you gesture at the glass.
“It was cute.” he says, and you feel your cheeks heat. Cute? “How many of those have you had?” you joke, shaking your head.
“Just the one. Couldn’t sleep.” he drums his metal fingers against the table. “So…what do you remember?” he asks, and you swallow, looking down at your lap.
“I remember thoroughly embarrassing myself.” he fixes you with a stern look, and says your name in an equally steely tone.
“Toots. Come on.”
“I was super high,” you reply defensively. “I didn’t, I… I’m so sorry I flashed you.” His eyebrow climbs up his forehead before he shakes his head.
“Don’t apologize for that. I thoroughly enjoyed that, even if I wasn’t allowed to act on it.” he sighs, and your whole body goes hot and cold all at once. What the fuck did he just say? “What else, doll?”
“I’m sorry, did you just say—”
“Yes. What else do you remember?” he’s pressing you, and all you want to do is go back to the bedroom and pretend you never woke up in the first place. “I came into the bathroom.”
Your face goes even hotter as the hazy memory replays itself, and you shake your head. That was a dream. It had to be. I was high and it was a dream. “You said I was beautiful but that was a dream, ” you insisted frantically, shaking your head. “Because I’m not.” he sighs irritatedly.
“I don’t know who Kyle and Jim are, but I’d like to kick the shit out of them.” he drains the rest of his glass. “Right after Rumlow.” he growls, eyes darkening. He looks up at you. “What’d he say to you?”
“He…” your stomach tenses as you recall his careless treatment. “He called me lazy. Well, he said I had lazy behaviors. ” you quoted him. “And that you took it easy on me, and that’s why I haven’t been… making any progress.” Bucky slams his glass back down onto the table, scowling.
“You’re not lazy. And progress is progress, he’s just an asshole who cuts corners for quick results.” he spits. “I’m going to kick his ass. Again.” he mutters darkly.
“Bucky, it’s fine. I just… I guess he just thought he was helping.” he scoffs, rolling his eyes as he crosses his arms.
“Help how? I’m the one that actually cares about you—” he stops himself short and takes a deep breath as your fingers clench even tighter around the hem of your borrowed sweatshirt.
“You care about me.” you said slowly, your eyebrows knitting in confusion. He couldn’t be saying what you thought he was saying—you weren’t his type. You couldn’t be hearing that, and if you were, you had to be asleep still. “As a…friend, right?” you clarified, nodding as you spoke, as though encouraging him to agree.
“Toots, when I saw you standing in the living room earlier, I was feelin’ a lot of things. Friendly wasn’t one of ‘em.” your heart feels like it’s about to pound out of your chest. You’ve entertained ideas of what it might be like to be with Bucky, but never in a million— billion —years did you think you’d actually get the chance. He watches you pinch the skin of your arm lightly, chuckling.
“I…” you pause as suddenly it all clicks into place. The subtle touches. The persistence. Working with you alone in the weight room upstairs. Getting coffee with you after workouts. Asking if you were free outside of the gym.
Holy shit.
“I can see you overthinking.” he replies, getting up from his seat. You stand too, reflexively, facing him awkwardly with the chair between you. He pushes it carelessly out of the way, wrapping his arms around you. “Stop it.”
And then he kisses you.
I knew his mouth was soft.
The scrape of his beard against your chin is delicious as he devours your mouth. It’s hungry, like he’s been waiting to do this for a long time, and you suppose he has. His tongue slides along the seam of your lips, and you moan against him. He tastes like whiskey, his lips and tongue cold from the ice, and it makes you shiver. You’re dizzy like you’re the one who’s been drinking, and your fingers tangle in his t-shirt.
He smells like the bed but better because you’re getting it straight from the source, burying your head against his throat as he breaks the kiss. “God , you’re fuckin’ sweet.” he groans. Your cunt clenches, and you feel yourself tense as his large hands splay across your thighs—
And your back seizes up.
You gasp in pain, and he catches you, his expression going from lustful to worried in an instant. “Your back?” he asks, and you nod. “Let’s get you to bed.” you scowl, and he chuckles. “I promise we’ll continue that later, but I don’t want you getting hurt worse.” you want to stomp your feet petulantly, but you resist the impulse, knowing he’s right.
“Fine. But we’re having an annoying conversation about this tomorrow,” you warn, and he laughs again, his hand ghosting over the swell of your ass. You cut your eyes up at him, and Bucky shrugs.
“What?”
He helps you back into bed, and heads for the door. “W-wait.” you call out instinctively, suddenly aching for the closeness you’d had for just an instant in the kitchen. You feel foolish as he turns to face you, and you bite your lip. “You don’t… have to sleep on the couch, at least.” you say in a small voice. “I won’t take up too much of the bed, I promise.”
“I can’t sleep in here, toots.” his eyes are intense as he meets yours. “I don’t think I can… not touch you.”
Maybe you’re still a little high or drowsy, or just… needy. “I want you to touch me.” he groans.
“Toots you’re killin’ me tonight.” he says hotly, and you swallow.
“You can be gentle, right?” and then he’s on you, his hands sliding up underneath the sweater to cup the weight of your breasts in his hands, thumbs ghosting across your nipples. He’s half straddling you, and you can feel the semi-hard length of his cock pressing into your belly as he pants against your throat.
“Lay back.” you do, settling back against the pillows as he yanks the hem of the sweater up, groaning. He strips off his shirt and trails his fingers lovingly across your fleshy thighs as he settles between them. You’re nervous, you can’t remember the last time anyone’s done this for you, but Bucky looks up at you almost reverently as he slides your thighs apart. “So pretty, baby.”
He slides the fingers of his metal hand down your already damp slit, and you mewl at the feel of them. He grins. “You like this hand, sweetheart?” he asks, flicking a cool thumb against your clit. You can barely manage a nod.
“Uh! Yes,” you whimper and he chuckles, dropping a kiss to your inner thigh. He traces circles around your clit, and just as your hips begin to buck against his hand, he presses his tongue against it and you keen. “Fuck!”
“I know, toots. So fuckin’ sweet.” he seals his mouth to your cunt, removing his fingers entirely and you yelp as he thrusts his tongue into your tight hole. his arms go around your thighs, anchoring you to the bed and to him as he works you over with his mouth. Long, slow licks that leave you gushing, whining his name as you writhe.
“Oh God, fuck, Bucky—”
And then you’re cumming, pleasure making you go rigid and then boneless, your toes curling as you grind shamelessly against his face. He’s lapping it up, mumbling how good you taste, how sweet you are as he sits up, wiping his chin. He caresses your hips with his hands, before reaching back to tug down the waistband of his briefs.
He’s huge.
Thick and leaking, the fat head half hidden by foreskin. He pulls it taut, groaning as he strokes himself. “You can take it, can’t ya, toots?” he asks hoarsely, sliding the head of his cock through your folds. “You want me to stretch that tight pussy open?” you’re nodding, licking your lips as you stare down at him as he slides slickly against you.
“God yes.”
He pushes against the tightness of your entrance before the head of his cock pops wetly inside, and he hisses, his fingers digging tightly into your hip as his other hand goes to the headboard to steady himself. “Fuck, toots. S-so f-fuckin’ soft inside—” he chokes the words out as he pushes another thick inch into you. The feeling of being stretched open around him makes a gurgling moan escape your throat.
You can feel his hips trembling against you with the effort of going slow, can see his muscles bulging as he tenses, holding himself back from sinking carelessly into you. Slowly, you roll your hips into his, forcing him deeper and he groans.”Please, Bucky,” you whine, and you watch his head loll back as he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. You’re about to beg again when he sheathes himself fully inside you, crushing the wind from your lungs.
“God, fuck,” he groans, sliding out only to push back in, torturously slowly. He spreads your thighs wide, wrapping them around his waist as he ruts against you, the head of his cock pushing deliciously against your cervix. You’re seeing stars, murmuring gibberish as he fucks you slow and deep. Every thrust wrings more pleasure from your strung out nervous system, and you feel tears begin to leak from the corners of your eyes.
“That good, toots?” he taunts breathlessly as his cock continues spearing into you. “So good you gonna cry for it?” you’re babbling and he brings his left hand up to caress your face, his metal thumb running over your bottom lip. “You gonna be my crybaby, sweetheart? And let me give you this dick as often as you need it?” your brain is short circuiting. His cock pistons in and out of you steadily, and your thighs tremble as he edges you closer and closer—
“Yes!” you sob, your nails raking down his arms to tangle in the sheets. “Yes, God, Bucky, please, please—” you clamp down around his cock as your blood roars in your ears. Stuttering cries pour from you as your release washes over you. Pleasure roars through your consciousness, shutting down every part of you that isn’t focused on the feel of his cock jerking and spasming inside of you as your end triggers his own.
You can feel the slick, wet warmth of his spend coating your walls, and you know you’ll lament the lack of a condom in the morning, but now you relish it. His arms tremble as he holds himself up, resting his sweaty forehead against your own. Slowly, carefully, he lowers your legs, unwinding them from about his hips. You let out a sleepy, disappointed moan as his cock slides out of you, your cunt sucking at him as he departs.
“God damn,” he mutters as he throws himself onto the pillows next to you, his chest heaving. You try to scoot away, and he chuckles. “Not so fast, you. C’mere.” he tugs you against his side, and you stiffen briefly before relaxing, your head resting against his chest.
“I hope this isn’t how you treat all your clients,” you say softly after a moment, and Bucky’s chest shakes with laughter. You’re sore and achy, but in the best ways.
“Just you.” he presses a kiss to your forehead, pushing aside your sweaty, messy curls. “Don’t worry, a few more reps and you’ll be used to the workout,” he says cheekily and you sputter.
“I’m not supposed to be working out,” you remind him, and he grins lopsidedly down at you.
“Don’t worry, toots. I got a couple easy positions we can try.”
the end.
for now.