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cassiopeiassky · 4 years

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Black Velvet

Alright everyone, it’s finally here. I’ve been sort of salty about the lack of tall!reader fics for awhile now or maybe it’s just the ubiquitous short, petite, drowning in his sweatshirt descriptions that get under my skin but just couldn’t get a decent amount of inspiration to write one. I have been known to throw in a mention of height randomly in my fics, but my usual workaround to avoid physical descriptions of the reader is to just write Bucky as like six and a half feet tall. Hes a damn super soldier, he should be taller anyway he did not start out as short as Steve. So one day I stumbled across this post by @invisibleanonymousmonsters and for some reason I can’t explain, an idea was finally unlocked in my brain later that same day. (Inspired by a song? Me? No. Never.)

It’s kind of all over the place, so buckle in. It does take a sharp right into smutsville but also ends up flipping a u and landing in flufftown. I don’t know. I just write what the muse tells me to write.

I would like to thank the incomparable @scottish-pepper for her amazing help and support while I wrote the thing - I couldn’t have done it without you, darlin.

Bucky x Tall!Reader

Modern day AU - think of a 40s prewar Bucky if he got a chance to grow up and lived in a small town

Plot: You have a terrible day of epic proportions but a beautiful stranger in a small town helps to make it better.

Warnings: Swearing (as per usual), smut, mentions of alcohol/drinking/bars, a brief mention of potentially disordered eating, mentions of a thunderstorm, and a very specific shitty family member.

Word count: 12K Yep. Knda got away from me

One last author’s note: This fic includes some ASL dialogue; it is expressed in italics without quotation marks. ASL is an incredibly beautiful and expressive language, and it’s in 3D!! It also has its own grammar structure, rules, nuances, and regional differences, just like any other language, and it can be a challenge to fit it into a two-dimensional space. Taking this into consideration, I’ve decided to write the dialogue with spoken English grammar because my ASL is really rusty and I don’t want to mess it up.

It’s hot. Like 100 degrees in the shade with 95% humidity hot. The trees are wilted, flowers are drooping, and there isn’t so much as a glimmer of hope for a cloud in the sky to interrupt the sun’s torture of earth’s inhabitants. The air is thick and still – there’s no movement at all – yet dangerously unsettled. It’s the kind of weather that if you sneeze, you might cause a tornado in the next county over. Of course your cousin would choose today of all days to get married. And of course her mom pressured her into going black tie, increasing everyone’s suffering tenfold.

“I can’t believe I rented a room for this. I can’t believe I spent $200 on a dress. Why am I even here? What did I expect?” There’s no answer, but of course there wouldn’t be. You’re alone in your car, driving back to a motel that you might not even stay the night in. You’d rented a room because you figured you’d have a few drinks at the reception – you wanted to celebrate the bride, she’s one of your best friends – but at this point you might as well just make the hour drive back home.

About a block from the motel you notice a bar tucked behind a gas station. According to the clock on the dash, it’s only 5:25.

Fuck it. You deserve a goddamn drink after today.

You pull into the parking lot and are surprised by the number of cars, farm trucks, and motorcycles already parked. There’s only one redneck limo, thank God – a pickup truck with a 10 inch lift kit and truck nuts hanging off the hitch, and in your experience driven only by incredibly insecure men – so that’s a good sign, right? It must be a decent place with decent drinks if it’s this busy so early in the evening. Maybe some of your day can be salvaged after all.

The hot, sticky air rushes in as soon as the car door is opened. “Gross,” you mutter; the heat hits even harder after the air conditioning in your car. Glancing over to the passenger seat, you see the hideous shoes your aunt Lydia pressed into your hands upon arriving at the wedding. “You know what, Lydia? Fuck you and fuck your ugly shoes.” You put your heels back on just to spite her.

It’s a small-town watering hole, so of course all eyes are drawn to you when you enter. And they stay on you as you find a seat at the bar – perhaps it’s because you’re a stranger, perhaps it’s because you’re overdressed.

But probably not.

The bartender approaches while drying his hands. He’s got dirty blonde hair in a sloppy undercut, a wide, flat nose, and is wearing a concert tee shirt with the arms cut off to show off his full sleeve of tattoos.

“Do you have blended drinks?” He nods. “Strawberry daiquiri, please.”

“Sure thing.”

You pull out some cash, tipping generously because your drink is a pain in the ass to make, then look around while you wait.

The bar is cool but not cold, not brightly lit but also not uncomfortably dim, is bigger than it looks, and is even busier than the amount of vehicles in the parking lot would lead you to believe. On one side there’s a jukebox next to a small stage with an empty but decently sized dance floor. There are a few high tops, then a gaming area featuring pool tables, dart boards, and a few pinball machines. On the other side of the bar you see a window with someone selling pull tabs, a station set up for calling bingo, a door to what’s probably the kitchen, and a popcorn machine filled with freshly popped popcorn. Behind you and scattered generously throughout the building are tables, some with 4 seats and some with 6, and over half of them are occupied.

“Here you go, miss.” The bartender places your drink in front of you with a polite smile. “Would you like a menu? The full kitchen is open tonight.”

The thought is nauseating. “Mmmm…maybe later.”

“Too hot to eat?” At your despondent nod, he grimaces and places a tall glass of ice water next to the daiquiri. “Thought as much. I’ll check back in a bit.” You didn’t notice his name tag until now – his name is Clint, and according to the hand illustrations under his name, he’s fluent in ASL.

Unsure if he’s Deaf and fluent in lipreading or if he’s hearing, you both sign and murmur, “Thank you,” before bringing the drink to your lips. It’s on the edge of being burned – just the way you like it. Sipping on the sweet slush is pure bliss, cooling you down from the inside out as it tempers the heat of the rum.

You sign? He doesn’t speak this time. It’s not an uncommon reaction.

Yes. I’m an interpreter.

His eyebrows rise in interest. What made you go into that?

My high school offered it, and I ended up becoming really good friends with the teacher’s daughter, who is Deaf. I made a lot of friends, got involved with the community and immersed in the culture, and I just loved it, so I figured, why not do this for a living? My dreams of being a Triple Crown winning jockey went out the window by the end of 5th grade so…

He laughs, but not unkindly. Yeah, I suppose you are a bit too tall for that. But 5th grade? Damn. His face lights up, Hey, have you heard of PATH, International? They’ve got a campus about half hour north of here. If you like horses, it might be right up your alley.

PATH International, or Professional Association of Therapeutic Horsemanship, is an organization very close to your heart. Yes! I volunteer there every Tuesday night.

The look of surprise on Clint’s face is priceless. No shit? I’m there on Thursday nights! You must be the other interpreter the kids are always talking about - they LOVE you! And so do the horses. You know, I was Ace’s favorite till you came along. Now he won’t even look at me unless I bribe him with a treat.

You look again at his name tag, and the name clicks. Wait, you’re Hawkeye! The one that does the archery demos on horseback for the kids’ birthday parties.

He takes a theatrical bow. The one and only.

Clint “Hawkeye” Barton is nothing short of a legend at PATH. Profoundly Deaf yet impossibly accurate with speechreading, he manages to blend both worlds perfectly. He’s also a master archer both off and on horseback, which basically makes him a superhero in the kids’ eyes. There are whispers that he travelled with a circus as a teenager, that he raises horses, and that he moonlights as a vigilante, but nothing has been verified and from what you’ve been told, he will neither confirm nor deny. It’s very likely that there’s at least some truth to the horse raising rumor – Ace is technically his horse, he just loans the chestnut gelding to the program. You’d been dying to meet Clint for a few years now but hadn’t been able to make it work.

It’s so good to finally meet you!

Likewise! I’ve been meaning to swing by on a Tuesday to see who it is that stole my favorite horse’s heart, but I’m usually here. His face lights up, Hey, I’ve got some ideas for a field trip for the older kids and adults but I need to team up with an ASL interpreter since I can’t technically work as a Deaf interpreter on my own off PATH’s campus. You know, rules and shit. You interested?

Absolutely! Just let me know. You dig a pen out of your purse and write your number and email address on a napkin. You know, I’m sorry, but I’m really not sorry about Ace. He stole my heart, what can I say.

He’s a shameless flirt, but I never thought he’d actually prefer someone else over me. But now that I’ve met you, I guess I can’t be too sore about it. He seems to have good taste. He takes the napkin with a grin and folds it up before putting it in his pocket, then looks to his left when a waitress waves for his attention and nods. Duty calls. Let me know if you need anything.

Well, that improved your day considerably.

For a few minutes, anyway.

“That’s an awfully girly drink for a woman like you.” A cloud of stale cigarette smoke with an obnoxious sounding man in the middle of it takes the seat next to yours.

You don’t turn to face him; you don’t even acknowledge him. If that’s his opening line, then you really, really don’t have the patience to interact with him today. This is the guy that owns the jacked-up truck. You can feel it in your bones.

Clint makes a face from behind the drink he’s making, notices your annoyance, and shakes his head. “Dude, she’s got more alcohol in her glass than you and your four buddies combined, so don’t knock her drink of choice. She’s also clearly not interested, and way, way out of your league. Go back to your pull tabs and leave the lady alone.”

You can feel the guy’s eyes on you, but Clint keeps glaring daggers at him and he eventually leaves. You can overhear him tell his buddies, “Thought she’d be an easy lay, but you know what? Even I have standards. How do you fuck someone that tall anyway? I’d need scaffolding!” They laugh, but you continue to hold your head up high. It’s nothing you haven’t heard some version of before. He’s not clever.

Ignore them. They’re lonely, small little men.

I know. Thank you. His protective gesture is touching and completely unexpected. This kind of thing doesn’t happen very often because most people assume you can handle yourself. You can – but it’s nice to not always have to be on the defensive, and today you’re at your limit.

No worries. You look like you had a rough day, I figured you didn’t need Chad making it worse. Clint winks and turns back to his drinks.

Well, he’s not wrong, but the day can only get better from here, right? Right. You nod to yourself then sit back and enjoy your drink. Clint stops by periodically to chat, but otherwise you’re left alone.

Eventually it’s time for a trip to the ladies’ room, and you do your best to ignore the stares and chuckles that inevitably follow you. In your semi-formal black dress you certainly stand out in a bar filled with cut off shorts and tee shirts, but that’s not why they’re staring.

In your black satin and lace, modestly platformed stiletto heels – affectionately known as your ‘fuck me shoes’ – you’re well over six feet tall. Are they uncomfortable? God yes, but they’re also beautiful and totally worth it.

The bathrooms are at the back of the bar, past the dart boards and pool tables. You’re almost there when you hear something ping off one of the pool table lamps and see it ricochet across the aisle and onto the top of the glass and wood cabinets housing the pool cues.

“How – how the hell did you manage that, Rogers?” A man with dark hair and a jawline that could cut glass heads in your direction. “You were supposed to throw the chalk to me, not your imaginary friend standing thirteen feet behind me.”

“Sorry, Buck,” a blonde joins him, looking appropriately apologetic. “My aim was a little off.”

“Ya think?”

You slow your pace to watch them. The guy with the dark hair is gorgeous – well, they both are, to be fair – but the one…damn. His maroon tee shirt is fitted enough to show off his beefy physique, and his jeans hug his thighs and ass like they were made for him. He throws off an air of cocky confidence with just a hint of danger, lending a genuine feel to his bad boy image. Should you…maybe? No. No, you absolutely should not. You’re not in the right mindset to try to soothe a man’s threatened masculinity just for a bit of company.

He and the blonde reach for the wayward chalk, but it’s just out of their reach. It’s amusing to watch them try to grab for it, but you take pity on them eventually.

Time for your good deed of the week.

“Excuse me, gentlemen.” Stepping between the two, you reach up and effortlessly pluck the blue cube from its spot before dropping it into the dark-haired man’s hand with a smile. “Here you go.”

Wide blue eyes look up into yours, but he doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t even smile. He just stares. Figures.

The blonde looks between you and his companion before clearing his throat. “Thank you, ma’am.”

The unspoken rejection from the brunette stings. Normally it wouldn’t get to you, but after today? It does. It really does. So you swallow against the burning thickness in your throat and force back the tears with a fake smile. “You’re welcome.” A few more steps and you’re in the ladies’ room, which only serves to make matters worse when you step into an open stall. As you turn around to lock the door, you can see your entire head in the mirror, poking out above the top. A pair of women walk in and they giggle, so you quickly sit down. There’s no point in taking it personally – it actually happens quite a bit in older buildings and you can fully admit that the sight is pretty funny – so you compose yourself and do what you came in to do. You slouch when you stand in order to avoid accidentally looking into one of the neighboring stalls and go to the vanity to wash up.

Even the sink mocks you by making you bend almost in half to reach the water.

A woman with dark hair and bright red lips exits the far-right stall and joins you at the mirror. “Oh wow, your shoes and dress are so pretty!”

“Thank you.”

“Did you come from the wedding at the ballroom?”

“Mmm hmm.” You glance at her shorts and flowery sleeveless top and swallow your sigh – you feel like a fucking behemoth next to her. “I think maybe I should have stopped by my motel room to change.”

“No, you look really nice!” She smiles up at you, “It’s really not unusual to have people dressed up in here on the weekends, you’re just earlier than we usually see it. I’ll give you a tip, though, in case your feet start to hurt. I know the place looks kinda crusty, but the owners take a lot of pride in it. The floors are clean if you choose to go barefoot.”

Her unexpected kindness surprises you; you’re usually shunned by other women when you’re at a bar because all they see is your height, which they erroneously perceive to be an advantage in attracting men. “Thank you. That’s really good to know.” She turns to leave but you stop her when you notice something wrong with her shirt. “Hey, hon, you’re missing a button.” The poor girl is busty, and she’s likely been flashing an unintentionally generous amount of cleavage for who knows how long.

She looks down and immediately sees the gap in her shirt. “Well, shit. I just bought this shirt. No wonder some of the guys couldn’t look me in the eye. Stupid boobs, always trying to pop out. Why can’t they just make clothes that fit real people?”

“I feel ya,” you mutter as you start digging through your purse. “Hold on, I’ve got something…here, try some of this.”

“Scotch tape?” She looks confused as she takes it.

“Double sided tape.”

Her eyes get wide as she gazes up at you. “You’re a genius. And an angel. An angelic genius!” She takes some and fixes her shirt, smiling brightly. Thank you so much!!”

Despite your incredibly shittastic day, you find yourself warming to her. She’s nice. “You’re welcome! I didn’t want a bunch of creeps leering at you. In a world of Chads, we women really need to stick together.”

“Oh, God, you met Chad?” She grimaces and shakes her head, “I’d like to apologize on behalf of the entire town. He and his friends are not a good representation of the rest of us, I promise. They don’t even live here, they were just permanently banned from the bar in the next town over and now they’re our problem, apparently. But I promise, the rest of the people here are alright.” She sticks out her hand, “I’m Peggy, by the way.”

You shake her calloused hand and give her your name. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too. If you feel like some company, just come find me. My friends and I will probably be here for a while, and you’re more than welcome to join us.”

“Thank you, I might just do that.” You flash a smile, genuine this time, and go back to your seat at the bar. What the hell, maybe you’ll take her up on her offer after you finish your drink.

A minute passes, maybe two, before someone takes the barstool next to you.

It’s him. The gorgeous brunette.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” You want to roll your eyes at your reply. Smooth. Real smooth.

“My uh, my friends pointed out that I was rude earlier, so I wanted to apologize.”

You turn to him quizzically, giving him your full attention. Is this really the same guy that was playing pool? The sexy one that projected ‘bad ass’? “For what?”

His cheeks grow pink and it throws you off guard. “It’s not nice to stare. My ma taught me better than that – she’d slap me into next week if she saw how I acted. I ain’t usually like that, I’ve just never seen, uh…”

Here it comes. The ‘I’ve never seen such a tall woman’ comment that leaves you feeling like a roadside circus freak show.

“Well, you just got an amazing smile.”

Wait, what? “Huh?”

“I’ve never seen such a pretty smile.” He shrugs and studies the bar top. “Your eyes looked sad, though. I dunno. I guess I was tryin’ to figure you out.” He turns back to you with an almost obnoxiously handsome grin, “My name’s Bucky Barnes. Can I make it up to you? Buy you a drink?”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to gauge his intent. He seems genuine enough – he’s either a brilliant actor or you seriously misjudged him, which, in your current cynical mindset, is entirely possible.

You look up to see Clint watching as he dries some glasses. Maybe he has some insight. Is this guy decent? He’s gorgeous but does he have a personality?

Clint snorts, glancing at Bucky then back to you. Yeah. He’s a pretty good guy. He’ll treat you right.

Bucky looks like he’s swallowing a smile when you turn back to him. “Yeah, I guess you can make it up to me.”

“Really?” He seems genuinely happy at the prospect.

“Sure.”

“Great!” Apparently that’s all the invitation he needs to turn on the charm. “So what’s a gorgeous girl like you doin’ in a dump like this?

“It’s not that bad,” you laugh.

“No,” he shakes his head sheepishly, “It’s not. Guess I’m really off my game today. I can usually flirt, I promise.”

A beer and another daiquiri appear on the counter. “Thanks, man,” Bucky nods to Clint. “Hey, you wanna grab a table?” He nods his head to the side of the bar by the jukebox. “It’s quieter there. We can chat and I can show you that I ain’t, in fact, the dumbass I’ve made myself out to be.”

“Yeah, okay.” Why not? Even if you don’t know Clint enough to trust him, the kids that you work with do, and you trust their judgement. So if Clint says that Bucky is decent, you’ll believe him.

***

It ends up being a good choice. Bucky turns out to be more than decent – he’s really nice, funny, respectful, keeps his eyes where they belong, and doesn’t ask if you play basketball.

He asks the basic questions and learns that you live about an hour north of here, that you’re an interpreter, you love to read, write, and draw, and yes, you were at a wedding. Tired of talking about yourself, you take advantage of him pausing to drink his beer and flip the topic.

“So what do you do?”

Bucky takes a deep breath and sighs. “I’m a mission systems engineer with NASA.”

You blink at him. “I’m sorry, you’re what?”

“A mission systems engineer with NASA. I know, I –“

“Do you have top secret clearance?”

He looks thoroughly confused. “That’s your first question?”

“Do you? Or would you have to kill me if you told me? Have you been to space? Does the government have a plan for if an asteroid comes our way, or would we have to do like the movie Armageddon and wing it with a bunch of oil rig operators?”

Bucky appears to be absolutely delighted at your string of questions. “Well, yes, no, unfortunately no, and I can’t tell you that because has to do with national security.”

“Fascinating.” You sit back, thoroughly intrigued by the man sitting across from you. “What the hell are you doing in a podunk town like this? Shouldn’t you be in Houston? Or D.C.?”

“I live here.” He chuckles at your unimpressed stare. “Yeah, I know it’s a small town – we got a bar, three churches, a motel, a gas station, and a diner that closes by 7 pm every day. Our biggest draw is the ballroom on the lake shore and the hunting grounds in the fall. It ain’t exactly the heart of modern technology. But I grew up here, my family and friends are here, and I stick around to help out on their farm. I fly into Headquarters a few times a year, but otherwise I work remotely.”

“So what do you do?”

“The general gist of it is that I lead a team that designs, develops, and deploys missions.”

“To space?”

“Well, I mean, I work for NASA…”

“What are you working on now?” You can’t help peppering him with questions – this is so fucking cool.

His eyes sparkle. “You got top secret clearance?”

“No.”

“Sorry. Can’t tell you anything,” he shrugs with a smirk.

“I…yeah, I guess I kind of walked right into that. Wow. So you’re really freaking smart.”

“I hope so!”

“Do you like it?”

“Being smart?”

“Your job, dipshit.”

He laughs, freely and openly, and it’s an amazing sound. “I love it.”

You can’t help but stare at him. “Wow. That’s…that’s just really, really fucking incredible.”

Bucky gets quiet. “It is really incredible. Thank you for thinking so.” He looks up, then back down as he starts peeling the label off his empty bottle of beer. “You know, you’re the first person I’ve told about my job that didn’t either tell me I don’t look smart enough to be a mission systems engineer or ask me how much money I make.” He meets your eyes again. “Or both. I get that a lot, too.”

You certainly know how shitty it feels to get those kinds of unsolicited comments based solely on appearance. It’s one thing to have an impression, but to just say those things out loud? “Well, they suck. And they’re truly shallow if they think intelligence has anything to do with how you look. But hey, at least they show their true colors right away so you can save yourself some time.” You lean forward, chin in hand, “Okay, so I know you can’t tell me about your actual projects, but can you tell me about your job? What are your responsibilities? What does a mission systems engineer do?”

Bucky lights up like New York City and spends the next 40 minutes going into detail about what he does, and you hang on every word; it’s impossible not to, really. His enthusiasm for what he does is so evident that even if the topic weren’t interesting, you’d still be entranced. And you thought he was gorgeous before? His animated passion makes him absolutely breathtaking.

You’ve both finished your drinks and, perhaps not so surprisingly, he switches to soda when you do. When unordered appetizers arrive with your new drinks, you both look over to Clint, who just winks and shrugs.

“Well I ain’t gonna complain. Didn’t realize how hungry I was.” Bucky shoves an entire ham and cheese ball into his mouth, but then has to hasashafahasa because it must have just come out of the fryer. “Ish hot! Rearry hot!”

Bursting into laugher, you slide your ice water to him before cautiously taking a bite of your buffalo wing. Considering how much fun you’ve had in the last hour, it isn’t all that surprising that your appetite has returned. “Me neither.”

The hours fly by as the conversation eventually turns to other topics, and you find yourself talking about things you wouldn’t expect considering you’ve just met. Bucky seems so open and honest that it’s difficult not to reciprocate, and if one doesn’t go into detail about what the other asks, it’s only because there’s so much to cover.

Bucky dips the last bit of pretzel into the beer cheese sauce and pops it into his mouth. “So if you don’t mind me asking, what made those pretty eyes of yours so sad?”

You take a long sip of your Coke Zero as you debate your next move. Deflect or come clean? You surprise yourself when you blurt out, “My aunt, Lydia.”

“Your aunt?”

You squirm a bit at the uncomfortable feeling of vulnerability, but you keep going. “Yeah. It was her daughter that got married today. Marie and I grew up together – Lydia is my mom’s only sister, so she was the one that took care of me when my mom had to work double shifts, which was a lot. She did the best she could, and she means well, she really does, but she’s just so caught up with appearances. My height is a, uh, a definite sore spot with her.”

“Really? Why? What does it matter?”

“I think it comes down to the appearance thing. Tall women are generally seen as less feminine, even straight up masculine. Lydia is tall, too – not quite as tall as me, but close. She claims that she got her husband through making herself appear daintier. She only wears flats and follows all the newest fad diets to make herself as small as she can because she feels that being a tall woman puts her at a distinct disadvantage.” You shrug, “She was one of the primary examples I grew up with. And to be fair, it’s not like she’s completely wrong. In my experience, guys tend to feel emasculated by me. And it’s not just men that seem to see me through a distorted lens. Even from a young age – I’m talking 4th grade – I’d hear teachers tell my mom that I seemed so much more mature than my peers, that I didn’t need as much support, emotional or academic, as everyone else. I got additional responsibilities and higher expectations. The thing is, I wasn’t more mature. I was just tall, so I looked more mature. Eventually it kind of came true, though. Other than my mom, who was single and working 2 jobs to keep me housed and fed, I didn’t really have anyone that would protect me or support me. I guess no one thought I needed it, so I just got used to doing it myself.”

Bucky shakes his head, and you can’t tell if his expression is one of pity, sadness, anger, or something else.

“But Lydia made everything a hundred times worse than it needed to be. I already knew I was outside the norm, I didn’t need the reminders. But every time I’d hit a growth spurt she would share some nasty comment on it, as if telling me that boys didn’t like tall girls would somehow stop my bones from stretching.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Mmm hmm. Despite my mom’s efforts – and the fact that being tall is actually pretty awesome – Lydia’s words really got under my skin, and even now they undermine my confidence sometimes.” You gesture to yourself and the bar, “Obviously. I should be at my cousin’s wedding right now. I don’t go to many family functions anymore, because of her. It just…it puts my head in a bad place. You know, they say it takes five to seven positive comments to balance out one negative comment? The negative is in everything she says. Everything. I love my family to pieces, but I just can’t handle her.”

“What did she say to you today?” If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that Bucky is getting pissed.

“She met me at the door of the chapel with a pair of her ugly black penny loafers. Said that she told the photographer that I wasn’t allowed in any family pictures unless I was wearing them, because she didn’t want my Amazonian ass towering over everyone else and ruining the aesthetic.”

“Your…your ‘Amazonian ass’?”

“Eh,” you shrug and wave your hand dismissively. “It’s not the first time I’ve been called an Amazon and far from the worst thing people have said. I mean, people say it to be cruel, but Amazons were fearless warriors. I just think of it as being put in the same class as Wonder Woman. The part that hurt was that she was prepared to make sure I wasn’t in the pictures, that she thought she could just erase my existence, simply because I’m too tall for her liking.”

Bucky’s mouth drops open. “I might be overstepping here, but what a heartless bitch. No one should ever try to erase you, what a fucking idiot.”

“She browbeat Marie into dyeing her hair blonde for the wedding. Marie hates it, but did it for her mom’s approval.” You release a deep sigh, “But that’s Lydia, and that’s why I took my Amazonian ass out of there the second the ceremony was over.”

“Hmmmm.” He gazes at you. “You know she’s a princess, right?

“Huh?”

“Wonder Woman. She’s a princess. You know…Amazon Princess…it actually kinda suits you.”

“Seriously?”

“Damn right I’m serious. You’re tall? So what. You’re fuckin’ royalty. Own it, Princess. Correct ‘em. Make ‘em say it. Amazon Princess.”

“What?”

“Yep. Say it with me. Amazon Princess.”

You can’t help rolling your eyes, but there’s something undeniably sweet about the way he’s pressing the issue. It’s not good enough for him that it doesn’t bother you – he wants it to be seen as a term of empowerment and to let people know that’s how you see it.

The moment is interrupted when a booming voice comes through the sound system. “Alright everybody, it’s ten o’clock!” Someone stands on the stage, holding a mike and looking more than a little tipsy. “You know what that means!”

The bar cheers, “Free jukebox!”

A line forms immediately, and the music starts.

“Wanna dance, Princess?”

“Really? You’re going to call me ‘Princess’ now?”

He shrugs with darkening eyes and a suggestive smirk. “If it’s okay with you.”

If he keeps looking at you the way he’s looking at you right now, he can call you whatever he damn well pleases. But he doesn’t need to know that. “Yeah,” you murmur. His gaze is so intense that you have to look around the bar to break it and gather your thoughts. You happen to see Peggy; she’s standing next to the blonde that had been playing pool with Bucky, so she must know him. She catches your eye, sees who you’re with, and gives a thumbs up with a huge grin. Well, alright then. You grin back and remember what she said. “Let’s dance.”

Bucky stands, stopping when he sees you toeing off your heels. “Woah, what’re you doing?”

“Taking off my shoes?”

He shakes his head, “Princess, you don’t need to do that. I ain’t too fragile to dance with a woman taller than me.”

“I know,” and you do, “But I can’t dance in these. And my feet hurt.”

When you stand, you’re almost eye to eye with Bucky; if he were barefoot as well, you would be.

People are still lined up at the jukebox, selecting their favorites. It’s exactly the mix you would expect from a place like this – classic songs like Brown Eyed Girl, Summer of ’69, and Footloose with more modern tunes sprinkled in – the kind of music that gets everyone up and dancing.

Bucky is a great dance partner, and you’re having an absolute blast. You don’t think about your aunt, the wedding that you’re supposed to be at, or how you are, without a doubt, the tallest woman in the bar. He laughs, showing off the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, obviously enjoying himself, too.

The jukebox switches songs again, and on comes the relentless, even rhythm of Black Velvet. For the first few measures, you just stare at each other. It’s the first song to play that isn’t upbeat, and you don’t know what to do until he makes the first move and pulls you close – close enough to breathe each other in. He stares as Alannah Myles’ smokey voice drifts over the steady bass, then spins you so your back is to him.

If Bucky’s a good dance partner for upbeat music, he’s even better when it’s slow like this, when every move counts. He’s enough to handle you, and more than confident enough to do so.

Bucky stays behind you, mirroring you with his hands resting gently at your waist. Your back is against his chest, but his hips keep their distance. Just to experiment, you press yours back and hear a guttural “fuck” before he intentionally shifts.

Bucky is absolutely nothing that you expected. “You’re a gentleman.”

You can feel the dark chuckle rumbles through him. “I wouldn’t say that, Princess.” He spins you around, pulling you close but not too close, and runs his thumb along your neck. “I just ain’t in the habit of taking what ain’t mine.”

His voice sends a shiver down your spine. Fuck. You like him. One night stands aren’t usually your thing…but that’s not what this feels like. He feels familiar. Safe. You like him, and he sure seems to like you. Your mind is already made up – you’ll take the chance and see what happens. You hardly recognize your own voice when you ask, “Do you want me to be?”

“Thought I was makin’ it obvious. Yes.” He doesn’t hesitate and his eyes don’t leave yours. “Are you offering?”

You move your hand to the back of his neck and lightly scratch, watching with satisfaction as his pupils dilate even more than they were. His lips part when you pull him closer, but he waits for you to close the kiss.

The second you do, his hands slide down to your lower hips before he tightens his grip. He’s not timid; he kisses you as though you’re a well-known lover, deeply and intensely, without bothering with introductions.

Bucky suddenly breaks the kiss, spinning you around again to pull your back against his chest. This time, though, he allows his hips to rock into yours with the rhythm of the music, slow and steady and insatiable. The way he moves makes it impossible not to think about fucking him; hell, you’re practically halfway there already. His hands alternate holding you tightly to his body, maximizing contact, and running up and down your sides. Your head falls back when his mouth finds your neck, and your legs go weak when his teeth nibble that spot beneath your ear.

You’ve never been so turned on in your life.

His voice is thick when his lips find your ear, “Wanna get out of here?”

You nod, taking his hand to lead him back to the table to collect your things. “I’ve got a room at the motel a block away.”

“Good.”

When you take one last look around, you see Clint, still behind the bar, grinning at you like an absolute idiot. Have fun!

“Oh my God,” you mutter under your breath, but you can’t completely hide the smile.

You step outside to find that the unbearable heat of the day has eased somewhat now that the sun has set. It’s still warm as the humid air kisses your skin, but with the breeze it’s sultry rather than oppressive.

You and Bucky look up at the same time – the stars are barely visible through the haze of clouds. There’s a thunderstorm rolling in on the western horizon.

Bucky walks you to your car, making sure you’re in safely before getting in his own truck and following you to the motel. He jumps out of his vehicle and pushes you against the car the second you’re out of it, kissing you like it’s been days and not 2 minutes since his lips were last on yours.

He doesn’t stop until the first few raindrops hit your skin. Bucky looks up while you grab your purse and your aunt’s shoes out of the car, gathering them clumsily before locking the door. It takes a minute for you to get your room key out of your purse, but you finally manage.

“Looks like the storm is already here. Gonna be a good one if it got here that fast.” He takes your hand, “Which room are you in?”

“Up the steps, furthest door on the left.”

Bucky leads you to the stairs as you both laugh while trying unsuccessfully to dodge the increasingly fat drops of rain. He doesn’t let go of your hand until you need to unlock the door, and the second you hear the click of the lock, his lips are on yours again. He pushes the door open and guides you through, closing the door behind him with a well-placed kick. You drop your purse and the loafers, then step out of your heels as he toes his shoes off. Still connected at the lips, he doesn’t see the things on the floor and trips over one of your stilettos.

“Oh shit!” His eyes are huge, staring up into yours when he realizes he isn’t going to hit the floor because you’ve caught him by the arm. “Good catch, Princess.” Both of you start laughing as he stands up straight, but the laughter dies out when his mouth find yours again. Hungry hands roam your body while you reach beneath his shirt so your fingers can explore the taut muscles you just know are hiding beneath it. Bucky grabs the collar behind his neck and pulls the shirt off altogether, and you are not disappointed. “You like what you see, huh?”

“Damn right I do.” You’re breathless, pressing your lips against the salty skin of his collarbone.

“You sure know how to use that mouth of yours, don’t ya?” He groans, then reaches down to grab the hem of your dress to lift it over your head before tossing it to the side. “Goddamn, darlin.” Bucky eyeballs you like a starving man at a feast before his mouth is back on yours, then moves his lips to the top of your breasts while he reaches around to unclasp your bra. It joins your discarded dress as he pulls you close, groaning at the feel of your naked breasts pressed against his chest. “I don’t know what the fuck I did to deserve you walkin’ into that bar tonight,” he bites your neck and you can’t stop the light whimper, “but I ain’t gonna complain. I’m gonna make you feel so good, Princess, I promise.”

You believe him. And you cannot wait.

The two of you somehow manage to take a couple of steps toward the bed. “I’ve wanted to do this since you smiled at me after givin’ me that chalk. Those eyes, that smile, that dress, those fuckin’ sexy shoes.” His hands find your hips, hooking your panties with his thumbs to push them down so you can step out of them. “When we started dancin’ all I could think about was what it would feel like havin’ your legs wrapped around me, I want you so damn bad.”

You unbutton his jeans and fumble with the zipper, then pull his jeans and boxer briefs down at the same time, freeing a fully hard cock that is nothing short of glorious. “Then either figure out how to multitask or stop talking and fuck me already.”

Bucky Barnes does not need to be told twice.

He kicks off his remaining garments before pushing you against the nearest vertical surface – which happens to be the middle of the window, where there’s a strip of metal supporting the two panes of glass. You aren’t sitting on the ledge, just leaning against it to keep your balance. It occurs to you that maybe you should close the curtains, but you’re too far gone to care enough to do anything about it.

“Don’t you worry, Princess. I can do both.” His arm is looped around your waist to hold you steady while your upper back presses against the cold strip of metal. You’ve got one arm hooked around his neck and the other steadying yourself on the edge of the windowsill. Bucky reaches down, takes hold of your thigh and lifts it to his hip. He lets go of your waist just long enough to guide his cock to your entrance – and he can slide right in because you’re so damn wet – and fuck, the way he stretches you is delicious.

“Christ, you’re so damn fuckable,” he moans in your ear, sending shivers throughout your entire body. “So fucking perfect…don’t need a bed or a chair, I can fuck you anywhere I want. I could just bend you over, wouldn’t even need a wall.” Between his thrusts, which are as maddeningly steady and slow as his dancing, the cool metal of the windowpane at your upper back, the flickers of lightening, and the crashes of thunder, it’s almost sensory overload. He’s holding you so tightly that you can’t move your hips much, so you’re completely at his mercy. And he knows it.

Each move he makes is a sin; the angle you’re at all but guarantees he’s stroking your clit with every move. Delirious with the sensations flooding your brain, you can only babble nonsense.

“What’s that, Princess? Use your words, darlin,” Bucky

“So…so good…I, huh…”

He chuckles darkly, “What was that?”

He’s not playing fair but you really don’t mind – his confidence with you is a rarity and is such a fucking turn on. “More.”

“More? You want me to fuck you harder? Is that right?” He waits for your nod before flashing a wicked grin lit by lightning, then adjusts his grip on your thigh. “Anything you want, Princess, you get.”

His thrusts come harder and faster, multiplying your pleasure tenfold. Then he shifts his hand on your thigh, changing the support from holding it up to pushing it back, opening you further and allowing him to go even deeper.

Oh, oh fuck…

Your entire body clenches with your orgasm, so tightly you can’t even breathe, and your mouth opens in a silent scream.

Bucky follows you just seconds later with a growl of your name against your neck and a few last ragged movements.

He releases your thigh as he gently pulls out, but he doesn’t take his arm from around your waist. You lift yourself onto the windowsill, pulling him between your legs as you hold each other close and catch your breath while the storm rages outside. He keeps his face buried in your neck as you run your fingers up and down his back, calming you both. The thunder rumbles violently while lightning dances in the sky, but it doesn’t worry you. You’ve always found comfort in the chaos of a storm.

Eventually your legs start to fall asleep, so you begin to move. Bucky notices and hikes both of your thighs up to his hips before guiding your arms up around his neck. “Hold on, Princess.” He reaches down and lifts you, carrying you the 5 feet to the bed. After laying you down, he begins kissing you again, then starts exploring your body. “I love being cradled in your thighs like this, but there’s something else I wanna try,” he whispers as he starts crawling down. “Now I can take my time with you.”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out where he’s going. “Really? Um, maybe I should shower first?” You’re sweaty from the heat of the day and just had some really incredible sex, so there’s no doubt in your mind that things are less than fresh down there.

“If you want to.” He keeps on his slow descent, kissing everything in his path, “But I’m happy with you just like this. I want you, right now, as you are.”

“But don’t you –“

“No. I don’t.” There’s a challenge in his eyes when he looks up from his destination. “I don’t care.” And then Bucky dives in, devouring your pussy like he’d devoured your mouth. He’s got you writhing in moments, all worries gone. But he’s a goddamn tease now that the initial urgency has been satisfied, bringing you to the edge and then backing off again and again in a beautiful torture.

You can’t do dirty talk to save your life, but you’re about to start begging when he finally looks up, chin glistening before he wipes it away with the back of his hand. “Fucking delicious.” Between the sight of him, his voice, and the sensations you’re feeling, your brain just about short circuits. Then his fingers start to circle your entrance, teasing you, making you want more before he slowly pushes two in and curls them to press against that spot, and fuck it can’t feel any better, but then somehow it does. You pull a pillow over your face but he shifts, reaching up to yank it back off and throw it across the room. “No way, Princess, I wanna hear what I do to you,” he rasps, watching you with hungry eyes and a feral grin. You’re almost there…almost…and then he puts his mouth back on your clit and your universe implodes.

One orgasm blends into another and you allow him to push your limits until you can’t handle it anymore. “Stop,” you gasp, and he does immediately. “I’m – it’s too much. I…wow.” You’re so oversensitive at this point that if he breathes too hard, you might jump out of your skin.

Bucky crawls his way back up to you, dropping kisses on your hot skin as he goes. “You’re incredible, you know that? I love how your body responds to me, I fucking love it.”

He kisses you again, and despite your sensitivity, your hunger for him grows. Sitting up, you pull him with you then push him down to the mattress. “Fuck yes,” he whispers hoarsely when you straddle him and slide down, pausing to glide your pussy along his hardened cock, but then you slide down a little farther before spreading his legs so you can kneel between them.

It’s impossible not to groan aloud when your hands find his thighs; thick, tight, and incredibly well formed, they look like they were sculpted by a generous god. “I might have to ride one of these later.”

“Please –“ Bucky swallows hard and licks his lips as he watches you in the dim, sporadically flickering light, “Please do.”

One hand moves to palm his balls while you part your lips to take him in as far as you can, reveling in his heaviness on your tongue while using your hand to stroke the base of his cock. You give it a bit, waiting until he’s writhing beneath you before you pull off and redirect your attention. His eyes grow wide when your fingers start moving down beneath his balls to his taint, pressing gently to find the very root of his cock which will then lead you to the spot you’re looking for. Pressing firmly when you find it, you begin rubbing tight circles.

“What are you – oh. Oh. Oh, fuck, Princess, oh fuck!”

It’s ridiculously satisfying to see him reduced to the same whimpering, quivering puddle you were not so long ago. You make him come once, twice, three times without ejaculating, just because you can.

Bucky’s got his forearm resting over his eyes as he shakes his head, and you take advantage of his distraction to shift your body into position. “Holy shit.” He’s breathless, shaking, “I did not know I had a spot that could do that. Fuck. I – oh Christ…“

You slide onto his cock, smiling when his hands automatically reach to grip your hips – the biology and technique can be explained later. Leaning over, you kiss him deeply then stretch your arms above him to grip the headboard. Rocking your hips slowly, so slowly, you watch him watch you.

Bucky’s lips form words but nothing comes out except for sighs and soft moans as you become more and more intoxicated by his need for you. His hands wander up and down, touching your breasts, hips, ass, and everything in between until he pulls you down for another kiss. “Do you have any idea how fucking perfect you are? You feel so good. So fucking good. Wanna make you feel good. As good as you make me feel.” Bucky kisses you again, sloppily, then wraps an arm tightly around you before flipping you both.

Now that you’re on the bottom and he’s back in control, he picks up the pace considerably.

You certainly aren’t about to complain.

His hands are grasping yours, holding them over your head, and your legs are locked around his hips as his thrusts eventually begin to lose their impeccable rhythm.

Now neither of you are in control.

The pleasure has been steadily building, an inevitable tidal wave on the horizon. Maybe it’s his confidence, maybe he’s naturally gifted, maybe it’s that his body seems to fit with yours just right. Whatever it is, this is by far the best sex you’ve ever had, and despite already having multiple orgasms, your appetite for him seems to be insatiable because you’re greedy for the next one.

“Fuck, Princess, it feels so good having those legs wrapped around me,” he pants, “Goddamn, I can – I can feel you’re right there. I ain’t gonna last much longer, come for me, darlin, give it to me now. Oh Christ yes, that’s right, just – just like that.”

Your body obeys, giving him exactly what he wants. The velvet sound of his voice, his incessant dirty talk, the way he smells and tastes – everything about him adds to your pleasure induced stupor. The orgasm is so powerful that everything but Bucky goes black, and the only thing keeping you tethered to this world is the way he chants your name as he comes.

His body continues to cover yours as you wait for your racing pulse to slow. He presses kisses to your neck, cheeks, lips, and eyelids, and finally your forehead before he gently lifts himself off to lay next to you. “C’mere,” he pulls you to him, and when you rest your head on his chest you can hear how fast his heart is still beating.

Thoroughly sated and soothed by the feel of his fingertips on your skin, it’s tempting to give in and fall asleep. But not yet. Not if you want to sleep through the night.

Reluctantly, you rise. Maybe, if you’re really fast, maybe he’ll still be here when you get back. It’s probably not the sane thing to do, but you really, really want him to stay the night.

“Where you going?” Is that trepidation you hear in his voice?

You smile as you take in the sight of him lying in the bed, disheveled and clearly satisfied. “I need to shower. And wash my face – I need to get my makeup off. My eyes are getting itchy.”

“Can I join you?” He laughs at your raised eyebrow, “No, Princess, not like that. I’m gonna need some time to recover.”

“That’s good to know,” you smirk, “I was starting to wonder if you were a god wearing a mortal’s skin.”

Bucky blushes. It’s adorable. “Nah, no god here. Just a man that’s never wanted a woman so bad before. Still do,” he shrugs, “Just too worn out at the moment to do anything about it. You’re somethin’ special, I hope you know that.”

It’s your turn to feel the heat rise in your cheeks, but you hold out your hand to help him up.

The shower is tender and sweet, full of soft kisses and softer touches. This man just keeps surprising you.

He’s toweling off his hair when his eyes meet yours in the vanity mirror. “Is it okay if I stay?”

A slow smile spreads across your face – you couldn’t stop it if you tried. “I’d like that.” You slip into fresh panties and a tank top, turning to face him fully to admit, “I’d like that a lot.” Bucky beams at you before pressing a soft kiss to your lips and heads to the bed. You finish up a few minutes later and crawl in, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. There’s nothing to hide behind – no makeup, no cocktail dress, no drink. It’s just you, and this is a state that very few people see you in; no one you’ve ever dated has seen you this vulnerable until months have gone by. Some didn’t see you this way at all. “Don’t look too close. I’m very unglamorous and monochrome without makeup.”

Bucky’s blue eyes stare in yours. “We’ll have to agree to disagree.” His fingers trace your freshly moisturized skin. “I think you’re beautiful.”

Outside, the thunderstorm has exhausted itself. He pulls you close and breathes you in, and you both fall asleep to the sound of gentle rain.

***

When the sun peeks through the gap in the curtains at 6 am, you’re not even mad that you’re awake. The sight of Bucky lying peacefully next to you is something you’re thoroughly enjoying.

“You’re staring.” His voice, deep and gravelly, rumbles lightly into the silence as he opens his eyes. “It’s because I’m decent and gorgeous with a personality, right?”

“What?”

Bucky smirks as he stretches and sits up. “I should probably come clean. The bartender from last night? My parents took him and his sister in after their parents were killed in an accident. Clint and Carrie were lucky to survive – he lost his hearing and six months of memories and she was in the ICU for 3 weeks. He and I have practically been brothers since grade school.”

It takes a minute, but you finally put the pieces together. Oh. Well, shit.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop; I was just really surprised to see you sign so I didn’t look away fast enough. I’m sorry.”

You sit up and slap him lightly on the shoulder. “So, you knew what I asked him?

His smile broadens as he gives you puppy dog eyes. Yes. Please don’t be mad.

You try not to smile back as you think about it but lose the battle and shrug. “I’m not mad. Maybe a little embarrassed, but we’ve known each other for what, 12 hours? It’s not like you can tell me everything about you in that short amount of time.” You give him some serious side eye, “Although you could have mentioned that when I told you what I do for a living.”

He studies your eyes like he’s trying to see into your soul. “I told you a lot, though.”

“You did. We both did.” It surprises you, more than a little, that you aren’t horrified at how open and honest you’ve been with him.

Bucky reaches his hand up to cup your cheek and he pulls you in for a kiss. “Good morning, beautiful.” It seems like he doesn’t want to part, because he rests his forehead against yours.

Somehow your hand finds his neck, and you gently rub your thumb along his jawline. “Good morning, Bucky.”

His stomach grumbles. Loudly. “Wanna grab some breakfast, Princess?”

It makes you a stupid amount of happy that he’s not ready to leave you just yet. “Yeah. I just need a little bit to get ready.”

A half hour later, Bucky opens the passenger side door of his pickup. “Your chariot, Princess.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, taking his offered hand and climbing in. It’s an older truck, one with a bench seat, and it smells of hay, Bucky’s cologne, and sweat. It’s not what you’d expected, but it suits him.

In this tiny little town nothing is open at this hour on a Sunday morning, so Bucky pulls his pickup onto the interstate to head to a fast food restaurant a few miles away. You take the time to look around – the area is really pretty and reminds you of the drive to your grandparents’ house, all farmland and pastures. Of course, you can’t help but stare at the horses whenever you pass them. “Whoa. They must breed Appaloosas.”

Bucky takes a quick glance out your window. “Yeah, that’s the Carter farm. They raise Appaloosas and alpacas.” He’s quiet for a moment. “You like horses? Not everyone can randomly pick out that breed.”

“I love horses,” you murmur, smiling broadly when you spot a few foals among the herd. You’re too busy looking at them to notice how he looks at you.

***

Breakfast is simple, just something picked up at a drive thru window, but that’s perfectly fine with you. Bucky doesn’t pull back onto the interstate though, he instead starts driving the winding country roads. You don’t mind in the least; you simply sip your coffee, content to be exactly where you are. Considering the hour, you aren’t even grumpy. Stealing glance at the reason why, you hide your smile and take another sip.

Bucky’s fingers drum almost nervously against the wheel, then he seems to make a decision as he brakes sharply. “Sorry, Princess,” he smiles sheepishly, “You up for a picnic? I know a spot.”

His smile is infectious. “Yeah.”

He takes the left he stopped so quickly for, and then another left onto a dirt road, and a mile later he turns onto what looks like a seldom used service trail leading up to a fenced in pasture. “Just a sec,” he pulls the truck to a stop, then gets out to open a gate. Bucky quickly climbs back in, drives the truck through about 20 feet before turning in a tight circle to face the road, and closes the gate behind him before stepping up to your door. “I got some blankets, do you want to sit in the truck bed with me?”

“Of course.”

He gets the blankets and spreads them out while you grab the food and coffees, handing them to him before you climb in after him.

“I would’ve helped you in, Princess.”

“Bucky. I’m not five feet tall. I can get into the back of a truck.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m fully aware of that. But unlike the other shmucks you seem to have come across in your life, I ain’t gonna make you do something by yourself just because you can. You deserve consideration and chivalry, too.”

What do you even say to that? He’s the exact opposite of pretty much everything you’ve ever known. It’s nice.

He sits down against a box that is attached to the back of the cab. “C’mere. You look cold.”

It was hot when you’d packed your overnight bag so you’ve only got a tee shirt and shorts on, and luckily a hoodie that just happened to be in the backseat of your car. “I am, a little,” you admit as you curl into his side, allowing him to cover your legs with another blanket that he’s pulled out.

He eats one handed, keeping an arm around you to keep you close and warm.

Everything smells clean and fresh now that the storm went through, and the morning air is chilly but fresh with the light breeze. The radio plays softly, drifting through the open windows as you and Bucky eat and watch the fluffy white clouds drift by. It’s the best picnic you’ve ever had, hands down.

“So where are we? It’s beautiful here.”

“My parents’ farm.”

You turn to stare at him. “This is where you grew up?”

“Yep.”

“Lucky.”

“I am. Hey, I wanna introduce you to someone.” He stands suddenly, not waiting for a reply. You’re in the middle of a pasture, who the hell is there for you to meet? Bucky brings his fingers to his lips and lets out the sort of piercing whistle that you’ve never managed to master.

And then…and then…

“Are you fucking serious.” Eyes wide, you bring yourself to a kneeling position as a steel grey Percheron comes galloping full speed towards the truck. “Bucky!”

He turns toward you, face almost split in two by his grin. The horse slows down, circling the truck and whickering before coming to a full stop right at the tailgate.

“I’d like you to meet Sergeant.”

“Oh my God, Bucky, he’s stunning,” you breathe, unable to help yourself as you slowly move forward to sit at the edge of the open tailgate. Intelligent eyes take you in before a velvet muzzle finds your hand. “Sorry buddy, I don’t have any treats for you. But I do have ear scratches,” you murmur, firmly stroking the planes of his face before scratching behind his ears. You giggle when he sighs, and again when he mouths gently at your hair.

Bucky beams with pride as he pulls an apple out of the box you’d been leaning against, feeding it to Sergeant before sitting on the tailgate next to you. “I’ve had him for 20 years. I got him when he was just a colt. Trained him myself. He’s one of the reasons why I choose to work remotely – I just can’t imagine not getting to see him.”

“I don’t blame you at all, I don’t think I could’ve left this sweetheart either.” Sergeant blows gently in your face, then nuzzles you hard enough to push you backwards. “Oh my goodness, you are just a big baby, aren’t you, Sarge? Oh, you like that? That spot right there?” You laugh lightly as the giant horse stretches his neck toward you, seeming to thoroughly enjoy how you scratch just beneath where his mane grows.

“He likes you.” Sergeant looks over when Bucky speaks, but then turns back to you.

“Well, I like him.” Feeling eyes on you, you turn to Bucky. “What, are you jealous?” you tease.

“Yes.” Bucky cradles your face in both his hands and begins kissing you. Before you know it, you’re lying in the truck bed with him, making out like a couple of teenagers out past curfew. Time slows even as it moves, and you’d swear the minutes stretched into a blissful forever as you lay in his embrace. But the real world likes to force its way in, and the distant sound of a car’s horn brings you both back to your senses.

Sergeant is about 50 feet away, grazing peacefully as Bucky pulls out his phone to check the time. “We, uh, we should get going. I don’t know how much longer I can keep my hands to myself, and my folks will be drivin’ by on their way to church in about 15 minutes.”

“Don’t feel like scarring them forever with the view of your naked ass?” You sit up and start pulling up the blankets to fold them.

“Honestly?” He shakes his head, “They’d probably cheer and then invite you over for dinner.”

Pausing your movements, you let that one sink in. “…Oh. Well that would be just as awkward as the alternative.”

He shrugs. “They’ve been dropping some not so subtle hints that they think I should settle down. They’d be thrilled just to know I spent the night with you.”

You tilt your head a bit as you watch him. “Don’t you date?”

“Nah, not really.”

“Really? Why not?”

He shrugs again as you hand him the blankets, then he turns his back to you as he puts them in the box. “I dunno. I guess I just hadn’t found anyone I wanted to actually spend time with.”

“Huh.”

“What?” There’s a challenge in his eyes when he turns back around. “That so weird?”

“No, I get it. You definitely shouldn’t settle. I guess…” he’s staring at you now, waiting for you to finish, “I guess I’m just a little surprised that someone hasn’t snatched you up yet. Where I come from, you’re quite a catch.”

“You think so? How’s that?”

Is he baiting you? Teasing you? Genuinely curious? It’s impossible to tell. “I know so. You’re smart, kind, funny, and a stupid amount of gorgeous,” you pause to level a look at him, “but I suppose you already knew I thought the last part.”

Bucky barks out a laugh but at least has the good grace to look sheepish.

“You have an absolutely beautiful horse, which wins points with pretty much every person I know. Your parents took in a couple of kids when they needed a family, and you learned a new language so you could keep communicating with your friend. You have every opportunity to move to another city, but you stay here to be close to those you care about. And,” it’s dumb, really, how you’re suddenly too shy to meet his eyes, “You’re really good in bed. Like, really really good. You’re the whole damn package.” When you finally look up, he’s staring at you again. “There’s a perfectly real possibility that you’re a total asshole and that you’ve been acting this whole time – I’ve only known you for a day – but I haven’t seen any cracks. I get the definite impression that I met the real Bucky, and he is one hell of a catch.”

“Huh.” He hops down and turns, holding out his hand to help you down. Do you need to take it? No, but you love that he offers anyway. He doesn’t let go after he helps you out, instead choosing to hold your hand as he walks you to the passenger side. Bucky only lets go because he has to, and once the gate is secured behind the truck, he takes your hand and holds it for the entire drive back to the motel.

***

Ever the gentleman, Bucky walks you back to your motel door.

“Do you have to go?” The words are out before you can think too long on them.

He’s shaking his head before your entire sentence is out, “No. Not if you don’t want me to.”

You don’t even care if you sound needy or clingy. “Please stay.”

Just like you learned last night, Bucky Barnes does not need to be told twice.

At least the drapes are closed this time.

***

A sharp rap at the door and an equally sharp call of your name interrupts your post-lovemaking bliss. It’s your aunt.

“I don’t wanna,” you whine.

Bucky bristles, sensing your distress. “That her?”

You nod before pulling a pillow over your head. “I’m just going to pretend I’m still asleep. Maybe she’ll go away.”

“Don’t worry Princess, I got you.”

You feel the bed shift and move the pillow. “Bucky!”

He turns back to you, eyebrows raised, as another insistent knock echoes through the room.

“You’re naked!” It comes out as a stage whisper, making you both snicker.

He flashes a shit eating grin. “So?”

Is he really gonna…

With a dramatic huff, he stops to find his boxer briefs and quickly tugs them on. Kind of. They’re sitting awfully low.

First there’s the sound of the door swinging open, then Bucky’s voice, bored and borderline intimidating. “Yeah?”

The following silence is deafening and you almost wish the room was set up so you could see your aunt’s face, but all you can see is the back half of Bucky’s sensational body leaning in the doorframe.

“Uh, hi? I’m looking for my niece? I thought this was her room?”

“You mean the tall, gorgeous drink of water? About my height? Killer smile? Was wearing, uh, let’s see, what was she wearing? It’s been awhile and she ain’t wearin’ much of anything now.”

The blood rushes to your face, but you can’t even imagine how embarrassed Lydia is right now. The thought is nothing short of glorious.

“Uh,” he snaps his fingers a few times, feigning concentration, “Oh! A black dress with the sexiest heels imaginable? Sound about right?”

“Well, yes, but –“

“Yeah, she’s here.” His tone is still bored, but you think you can pick up on an edge of amusement. Your aunt must be squirming by now, and it’s all you can do to not start cackling.

“I thought…well…the gift opening is in an hour. I thought she was going to meet us for breakfast before –“

“She won’t be goin’ to the gift opening. Or breakfast, but don’t you worry, ma’am. I made sure she ate something.”

The not so subtle innuendo almost makes you choke on your own spit.

“You can’t – are you holding my niece hostage or something?”

He laughs darkly but yells out, “Princess, am I holding you hostage?”

Your own laugher, unable to be contained any longer, bursts out. “Nope!” you call out, absolutely feeling as gleeful as you sound.

Lydia is practically apoplectic by now. “But what about the gift opening?”

“She doesn’t. Want. To go,” he growls, stooping down. “And here, she doesn’t want your fucking ugly shoes, either. Stop projecting your insecurities onto her – she’s perfect the way she is.” Bucky closes the door – perhaps a little harder than strictly necessary – and you hear the sound of the lock sliding into place before he saunters back to the bed.

“Thank you for doing that, Buck. I – holy shit, I cannot believe you answered the door like that.” Your eyes are glued to how low his boxers are sitting – he’s showing more than just his happy trail.

“What? Everything’s technically covered.”

“Bucky.”

“Yes, Princess?”

“I – I’m not even sure how you managed it, but you basically turned your boxers into the dick version of a pasty.”

He grins, “Like I said. Everything’s technically covered.” Bucky moves closer, crawling into the bed until he hovers above you. “But not for long,” he murmurs, pressing kisses to your neck. “Now, the way I figure it, we got another two hours till checkout.”

“Mmmmm…” you’d rather not think of the time. It’s necessary if you don’t want someone from housekeeping to accidentally walk in, but you don’t want this to end.

He kisses you deeply before pulling back, looking just a little hesitant. “And then, if you want, we could continue this back at my place? If you’re not in a hurry to get home?”

He’s kept his lips to himself for a few seconds, so your head manages to clear enough to process what he just said. “What? Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, I get it if you have to get back. But,” he shrugs awkwardly, his current vulnerability at stark odds with his usual confidence, “I like you. I’d like to spend the day with you if you’re free.” He kisses your neck again and nibbles your ear. “We can do more of this. I like this, too. A lot.” He pulls back to look you in the eye. “But we could also do some talkin’. Maybe you’d let me take you out to a nice dinner before you head home?”

A smile, broad and genuine, stretches across your face. “I’d like that. I’d really like that.” Even if you never see Bucky again after today, you’re hungry for whatever time you can get with him. He’s addictive and you’ve never in your life felt more satisfied and safe than you do right now.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His borderline cocky confidence returns as his hands resume roaming the landscape of your body. “Good,” he mouths against your throat, and resumes his worship of you. “It’s gonna be a good day, Princess. A good fuckin’ day.”

Tags: @hellomissmabel @howdoesoneadult @nykitass @danimuhle @iwillbeinmynest @shifutheshihtzu @passiononfire @learisa @widowvinter @kaaatniss @ladylizzieofdarbyshire @denialanderror @k-nighttt @givemethatgold @manders2487 @afangirlrambles @polkadottedpillowcase @bluebrrn @saysay125 @aikibriarrose @saharzek @mmauricee @imhereforbvcky @whenallsaidanddone @supernatural508 @scarlettsoldier @natalie-nightcourt @im-beautifully-sewn @lovemarvelousfics @feistytravel @tbetz0341 @nearly-whitches @jamie-leah @shliic @dessinemoiunehistoire @lucywinchester2000 @solarbarnes @a-proper-chicken @movingonto-betterthings @seekingkairos @jamesbarnesappreciationclub @part-time-patronus @natashasnight @fairislesheets @new-romanticz1989

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x tall!reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #my work #black velvet #5.6.20

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ohmytheon · 6 years

Text

Karma in Retrograde (10)

title: Karma in Retrograde

summary: When Dabi is hit by a de-aging quirk, he’s turned back to a 16 year-old U.A. Gen Studies student with self-esteem and parent issues, a destructive quirk, and no memory of the last five years. To help the Dabi of the past, present, and future, he is placed with Class 1-A. There, they must all face the question of whether he can change or if his destiny is already set in stone.

– Chapter 10: Aizawa observes his students and deals with the repercussions of the Bakugou vs. Ryouta fight.

Lanni notes: Okay, so the first half of this chapter is kind of a recap of the last chapter, but from a different POV. Most people know by now how much I love Aizawa. A big part of this fic is that Ryouta isn't always the most reliable of narrators, which is why it is important that we (the readers) are able to view him from someone else's perspective. Someone like Aizawa is able to pick up on things that Ryouta keeps from others and himself, both intentionally and unintentionally. Ryouta's used to playing close to the vest. He's opening up slowly to the other students and U.A. staff, along with us. Also, I just really love writing Ryouta from other people's POVs. It's interesting compared to how he views himself. The song for this chapter is "Savages" by Marina and the Diamonds. Here’s the link to our Discord again, which is also for heroes in the dark.

Humans aren't gonna behave As we think we always should Yeah, we can be bad as we can be good

It was Toshinori’s class, but Aizawa had decided to watch over it today. They had talked about it earlier when Nezu and Aizawa had explained the situation and both of them had agreed that it would be for the best. This would be the first time that Ryouta used his quirk -- the first time he was allowed to use it -- and they had no idea how it would turn out. If something went south, Aizawa knew that he would be able to put an end to things quickly with his quirk. Toshinori had never seen Dabi in action before and would be at a disadvantage. However, the goal was to avoid needing to get involved.

Considering Ryouta’s quirk, Aizawa was...intrigued. Many of the kids at U.A. casually used their quirks even outside of class, but he had noticed that Ryouta hadn’t so far. Maybe it had to do with coming off as less threatening. His blue flames were a signature of Dabi for these kids and he was trying to distance himself from his future self as much as possible. In class, he was mild and quiet. He let the others talk over and guide him, although wariness never left his eyes. It was like he was soaking everything in while staying under the radar to avoid attention. If this was how he’d been before, it was no wonder that they’d missed him. He was good at not standing out.

As long as he didn’t use his quirk.

Something else was bothering Aizawa though. The first time he had talked with Ryouta, confronting him about who he was and what he knew, he had been wearing quirk inhibitor braces that let off a warning sound if the wearer tried to use their quirk. They’d gone off, but it was clear to Aizawa that he hadn’t wanted to attack him. It was almost like he hadn’t been aware of his quirk at all. Then there had been the confrontation with Endeavor. Aizawa had readied himself to erase any attempted use of quirks, even Endeavor’s, but then Ryouta didn’t even try to defend himself. He’d even flinched away from his father’s flames.

What was it that Ryouta had said during that interview? “There’s a flaw in my design.”

Had he meant with his quirk? With him? He’d called himself a mistake. This was before he’d turned into a villain. What exactly had he meant?

To be honest, Aizawa hadn’t expected Ryouta to open up completely right away even though U.A. was going out on a huge limb for him. If there was one thing clear about him, it was that he trusted no one. Shouto’s memories of him were good but contradicted a lot of what they could glean from Ryouta’s school records and what they knew about Dabi. It sounded a lot like a big brother doing what he could to shield his little brother from the truth and there was a shame set in Ryouta’s shoulders that didn’t entirely come from finding out he’d become a villain.

There was a disconnect between the Ryouta’s behavior and the truth and Aizawa had a feeling that it had something to do with his quirk. Between the records of his quirk injuries, his hiding his lineage to attend U.A. as a General Studies student, and the power that Aizawa had experienced firsthand at the U.A. Training Camp, something was wrong. This hero class would be the first step to figuring that out.

That was if the entire building wasn’t blown to bits.

Aizawa stayed in the background by himself to watch as the teams and fights were randomly chosen. The dismay had been obvious on Toshinori’s face when he realized that Ryouta’s team had been picked to fight Bakugou’s. It was only because he was hidden in the dark that Aizawa put a hand on his face and inwardly groaned. Now they knew how this was going to end: not well.

A nasty grin had cut itself across Bakugou’s face and he’d tightened his hands into fists. This was what he’d been waiting for. His partner, Sato, sighed in acceptance. Kaminari, who had been paired with Ryouta, cringed and then muttered something under his breath that had Sero patting him on the back. All Ryouta did was roll his eyes up to the ceiling and shake his head, as if questioning the choices of a higher power. Todoroki glanced at his brother questioningly, but said nothing when Ryouta walked by and pat him on the shoulder.

Now the two teams were in position and there was nowhere else to run. Toshinori had an earpiece that linked him with the other students while everyone was left to only watch, which seemed to frustrate Todoroki, who stood off to the side with his arms crossed. Aizawa had gotten fairly skilled at lipreading during his time as an underground pro hero and watched the screens carefully in order to figure out their plans. He had to be one step ahead of him if them was going to keep Bakugou or Ryouta from doing any serious damage. Hopefully, they would stick to the lesson, but there was always the chance of error when combining such powerful quirks.

Without even being able to hear, it was obvious that Bakugou’s plan was to attack first and hard. He didn’t want to give Ryouta a chance to fight back. In the beginning, this would’ve been a lot more difficult for him. It still was since his emotions were running high. He had a habit of overdoing his quirk when he was like this, which would work against him in this lesson where restraint was key. Aizawa saw the exact moment when Sato pointed that out and Bakugou snapped at him.

It was different on the screen that showed Ryouta and Kaminari. The former was crouched down, examining the area with a sharp gaze. While his face remained as indifferent as usual, there was something brighter about his eyes now, how they moved from building to building, like he was making a mental map. The moment he started talking and turned to face Kaminari, his eyes dimmed, turning him back into the teenager who didn’t care about what was going on. It was a subtle but remarkable change. Kaminari immediately relaxed once he came to the conclusion that Ryouta wasn’t a threat, at least not right now.

Without hearing them, it was harder to tell what their strategy was. Aizawa could remember how powerful and hot Dabi’s flames had been when he’d unleashed his quirk as clear as day. It had nearly taken him out. Ryouta would not be able to go to such lengths in order to defeat Bakugou. If he wanted to win, he would have to be clever. He might’ve had some training with Endeavor, but it might not stack up compared to the training that Bakugou had been put through so far.

Had Aizawa been in Ryouta’s shoes, he would do what he could to force Bakugou into a corner. It would infuriate him and likely cause him to lash out. Fire was a good quirk to do that with. Ryouta could use his flames to keep Bakugou at bay, seeing as how Bakugou needed to be close in order to maximize personal damage without causing a lot of collateral damage. Force him to explode and he would take himself down.

That was, of course, as long as Ryouta had control over his quirk. The injuries in his school records and Recovery Girl’s memories suggested otherwise. He was sixteen though and, with a father like Endeavor, he should’ve been able to control it just as well as these kids. So why did Kaminari look so confused on the screen whereas Ryouta was intense and anxious?

As soon as the buzzer sounded, both teams started to move. All the students in the class pressed closer to the screens as if they’d be able to see better. Standing in front of them, Toshinori watched attentively, like any good teacher, but there was concern in the way he held his shoulders. Aizawa had half a mind to go down there, but he wouldn’t be able to see exactly what was going on without them seeing him. He stood next to the door, ready to run in at the first sign of serious trouble, but for now, all he could do was...have a little faith.

He had to trust that Bakugou wouldn’t go too far over the line. Over the past year, he’d learned that there were certain things that heroes didn’t do and had been forced to edit himself. This was an unprecedented situation, of course, but he could tell the difference between right and wrong. Aizawa also had to trust Ryouta on some level, which was admittedly more difficult. So far, he seemed intent on staying out of trouble, no matter how many times it found him, but there was always a chance that he was hiding more than Aizawa knew.

Ryouta came off as a good kid, but this had been the start of him becoming a villain. There was darkness planted in him that he either wasn’t fully aware of or was keeping a secret.

“Are they just gonna hide the whole time?” Kirishima asked.

Indeed, it did look as if that was Ryouta and Kaminari’s plan. They’d picked out a building and then went their separate ways, the former racing up the stairs to the second floor while the latter stayed on the first level. Once they found positions that allowed them a good view of what was around them, they readied themselves and waited. Had they gone with a plan to run out the clock? They couldn’t hope to entirely avoid a confrontation. That wasn’t the point of the lesson. Kaminari would know that and Bakugou wouldn’t let them. Besides, as much as Ryouta hid in class, Aizawa had a feeling that he was more clever than that.

“Bakugou is not going to be happy if they do that,” Ashido said. “I hope he doesn’t get mad at Kaminari.”

“Nah,” Sero replied, “he knows that it’s not Kaminari’s fault that he was paired with...Ryouta.”

Todoroki eyed the pair briefly before returning his gaze to the screens. It was only the second full day. The U.A. staff had known that it would take time for even the friendliest students to get used to this. It would’ve been better if they had been able to hold off on doing a lesson like this until later, but they couldn’t afford to hold the class back so close to the end of the year. It wouldn’t be fair to them. They were also making it a point to not treat Ryouta any differently from the others and changing the lesson to tailor him would no doubt irritate and humiliate him.

Kirishima pressed his hands together. “Uh oh.”

They had seen it before Ryouta did. He’d turned his back to look out the window, putting himself in a vulnerable position. Bakugou wasn’t known for being quiet, but he could do sneak attacks just as well as anyone. Ryouta must have heard the explosion because he dodged at the last second, quicker than Midoriya had the first time that Bakugou had used this strategy. When he rolled onto his feet again, he looked ready to attack. Aizawa straightened up. Toshinori clenched the mic tighter. Everyone else leaned forward, excited and nervous to see what would happen next, ready to see a massive amount of fireworks.

Except there weren’t any. Bakugou was relentless in his attacks whereas Ryouta did just enough to block them. He caught a leg in the middle that clearly knocked the air out of him, but instead of lashing out, he said something that infuriated Bakugou and made him lash out. He used his explosions to power his punches, but Ryouta still didn’t use his quirk to defend himself. Using his forearms and palms must’ve hurt. He didn’t flinch though. Sweat dripped down his face, more than Aizawa thought typical. It was like he was restraining Bakugou and himself.

Todoroki grit his teeth. “Why isn’t he using his quirk to defend himself?”

“It...looks like he’s doing it on purpose,” Midoriya pointed out thoughtfully, as if to himself.

“That’s crazy!” Uraraka exclaimed. “There’s no way he can win against Bakugou without it.”

Midoriya held his chin in one hand while he pressed the other down on the control panel and leaned even closer to the screen focused on Ryouta. He’d just taken a direct hit from Bakugou with his palm that had left his arm shaking and shoved him backwards. Of course this would pique Midoriya’s interest. He’d tried to fight Bakugou without using his quirk too and that had been almost a year ago. Bakugou had gotten much stronger since then. His reason had been that he couldn’t control his quirk and could only use it at a hundred percent, to the point where it hurt himself and destroyed everything around him.

“No one’s even paying attention to Kaminari and Sato,” Yaoyorozu said, pointing at the screen depicting their fight. The more sweets that Sato consumed to make himself stronger in order to attack Kaminari, the more damage he caused. Meanwhile, it was more difficult for Kaminari to control the direction of his electric shocks, but one that he was able to pass harmlessly through the ground struck Sato.

Yaoyorozu had a point. Ryouta was drawing Bakugou’s attention, causing him to act out and forget everything else. The more frustrated he became over not getting what he wanted, the more damage he created on accident. It was the best possible outcome for Ryouta’s team, even if it meant Ryouta taking the brunt of Bakugou’s wrath, which had been unavoidable anyways.

“Oh wow, he’s running away!” Sero yelled excitedly.

Everyone jumped when Bakugou launched himself forward and crashed into Ryouta. A few of the students cringed when Ryouta’s foot caught on the ground and the two of them were sent spiralling out of control. He crashed on the ground hard and rolled around while Bakugou managed to steady himself with his quirk. The painful landing didn’t allow Ryouta any time to dodge another attack. Bakugou was on him with an explosion that would singe his eyebrows off.

The burst of blue fire that Ryouta shoved from his palm made nearly everyone gasp and some of them jump back. Even Aizawa tensed. The flames had taken up the entire screen, blocking everything from sight, but when they receded, they saw that Bakugou had managed to avoid getting hit too much by jumping back. A handful of students, notably the ones closer to Bakugou, relaxed, but Todoroki didn’t and neither did Toshinori.

The fight wasn’t over yet. In fact, the true one had just begun.

This time, when Bakugou attacked him, Ryouta countered with his flames. It forced Bakugou to keep a distance or fight through the fire. The blue flames were able to cut through the explosions. Instead of looking stronger for defending himself with his quirk though, he looked worse, his face pale except for his red cheeks as even more sweat covered his face. He looked feverish.

A wince went through the class when Bakugou managed a direct hit. Most would have screamed in pain after getting hit like that, but Ryouta bit his tongue. He’d probably experienced much worse while training with Endeavor. In fact, this was probably similar to what he’d gone through before coming to U.A., considering how strong and knowledgeable Todoroki had been upon being accepted. It had been obvious that Todoroki had had quirk training before coming here. Ryouta clearly had some, but not nearly as much.

What the hell did you do to these kids, Endeavor? Aizawa wondered. He was incredibly hard on his students to the point where it shocked some people, but this didn’t feel right.

He glanced at the clock, noting that time was almost up, and turned back to the screen right when Ryouta was hit by an explosion and fell back while countering with his own fire. It was too much though, far too much, a huge escalation from what he’d been throwing out earlier.

Uraraka gasped, bringing her hands to her mouth. “He’s really hurt!”

Ryouta did look like he was in bad shape now, but strangely, it wasn’t where Bakugou’s explosions had hit him. He was holding onto his right arm, the one that he had been mostly using his quirk with. On the screen below them, Kaminari dodged a hit from Sato, who hit a pillar instead, which caused the building to rumble. Sato landed a left hook, but was shocked by Kaminari the second he made contact. It was large enough to distract both Bakugou and Ryouta above them, a look of realization crossing the former’s face.

They had not only known that Bakugou would go after Ryouta no matter what; they’d counted on it and planned on running the clock down as much as possible.

Midoriya slammed his other hand down on the control panel. “Kacchan’s going for an AP Shot!”

At the same time, Ryouta reared his left arm back and wild blue flames covered it, like he was building up power before shooting it off.

Aizawa heard Toshinori saying his name, but he was already halfway down the stairs. He burst through the door to the outside and was running across the street when a large explosion rattled the ground and blue and orange fire exploded out of building in front of him, causing half the windows on the second floor to shatter. As a body was thrown out the window next to the alley, Aizawa jumped and used one half of his scarves to pull himself onto a fire escape while the other half wrapped around the body. He tugged hard and was nearly jerked off the fire escape, holding on with only one hand, but he managed to keep them from hitting the ground.

Only then did Aizawa stop to see who had been thrown out the window. It was Ryouta. He hung limply in the scarves, his head hanging back so that his hair was just barely grazing the ground and his arms pressed to his sides. With his eyes closed and his lips parted, it was clear that he was unconscious. He must have blacked out when his and Bakugou’s quirks had crashed together or when he’d been knocked out the window. His face was relatively unmarked, all things considered. He must’ve been able to shield his face with his right arm.

Coughing from inside the building brought Aizawa’s eyes upward. Bakugou staggered into view through the broken window, coughing into one hand and waving away smoke with the other. “Is he alive? Is that asshole alive?” He coughed again and then leaned over to look down. When he saw Ryouta, wrapped in Aizawa’s scarves inches from the ground and out of it but breathing, he stared down for a moment with a strange look on his face before he seemed to realize what he was doing and scowled viciously. “That idiot. With a burst of fire like that against my AP Shot, he could’ve gotten himself killed.”

Aizawa let Ryouta’s body gently rest on the ground and then dropped down into the alley. Kaminari and Sato came running out just in time to watch as his scarves returned to him. When he’d pictured getting involved in this fight, it had been with his quirk, but there hadn’t been any time.

Kaminari skidded to a halt and hissed through his teeth as he ran his fingers through his hair. “Oh, man, oh man, I knew shit had gone south when I heard that explosion.” He took a step towards Ryouta and then halted, either of his own accord or because Bakugou had stepped outside with them. “Is he okay?”

“Yes, just unconscious,” Aizawa confirmed. It was nothing Recovery Girl couldn’t fix. That wasn’t going to be fun for anyone involved. She would be furious with them for landing Ryouta back in her care, especially considering the nature of his file.

Satisfied with the answer, Kaminari turned to Bakugou. “Are you okay?”

“Of course I am,” Bakugou snapped. “Why the hell wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because that was a massive as hell explosion and it looks like you’re wearing a sleeveless athletic uniform with burn holes in it?” Kaminari retorted. As Bakugou gave himself a lookover and grumbled under his breath in irritation, Aizawa looked him over. It looked exactly like that. He’d used his arms to shield himself as well; the sleeves were mostly gone and his arms were red and there were black patches where fire had briefly caught and he’d patted it down. He’d have to go to Recovery Girl as well. It wouldn’t be pretty.

“Aizawa!” Turning around, he saw Toshinori heading towards them, faster than normal. Skeletal and weak as he may look, he was stronger and capable of more than he appeared. Maybe he couldn’t run for as long, but that wouldn’t stop him from rushing out to check on one of his students. Behind him were the bots with the stretcher that would take Ryouta to Recovery Girl. “How is it?”

“Worse than it looks,” Aizawa said.

Toshinori nodded his head. “You three, back to the control room.”

Sato and Kaminari nodded their heads and left with the latter glancing back at Ryouta and then Bakugou before vanishing through the door. It was hard to tell what he was thinking. On one hand, Bakugou was one of his closest friends and he’d been in the remedial classroom at the U.A. Training Camp when Dabi’s second clone had attacked them. On the other hand, he had been Ryouta’s partner today and, depending on what their conversation had been about, probably knew a little more about him than some of the others. Only Toshinori knew. They would have to speak about it later.

Bakugou was a little more stubborn. He watched as the bots carefully loaded Ryouta on the stretcher. It was even more difficult to figure out what he was thinking. He still looked mad as all get out, but Aizawa kept thinking about the look on his face when he’d first seen Ryouta’s unconscious body. It had looked an awful lot like...fear. As if he’d been afraid he really had killed Ryouta or severely wounded him. Bakugou was a lot of things, but cold-hearted was not one of them, even if he did try to come off like nothing affected him.

“You’ll need to see Recovery Girl once she’s finished taking care of him,” Toshinori told him.

“Whatever,” Bakugou mumbled before he stomped away, leaving Toshinori and Aizawa alone with Ryouta.

Once he was through the door, Toshinori sighed and slumped his shoulders. “This is bad.”

“It could have been much worse,” Aizawa said mildly.

“His first real hero class and he’s been blown up and thrown out a window,” Toshinori pointed out with much more emphasis. “We put our students through this intense and dangerous training because their jobs as pro heroes will be even more so, but when I see them like this…”

Aizawa had a feeling that Ryouta wouldn’t consider this moment to be as bad as others that he’d lived through, but he didn’t want to bring that up with Toshinori at the moment.

Walking over to Ryouta, Aizawa bent down to get a closer look at him before the bots took him away. His uniform didn’t suffer was many burns on the chest or legs, but his left sleeve was gone. It wasn’t tattered and scorched like Bakugou’s had been; it was like it been completely incinerated like Todoroki’s had when he had first used his flames during the Sports Festival. It must have been from when he’d allowed the fire to crawl all the way up his arm before throwing it away from him at Bakugou. He’d only used his hand to create flames on his right.

What really caught Aizawa’s attention and made him narrow his eyes were the burns on Ryouta’s arm. Now that he was closer, he could see them much more clearly. They were much uglier than the ones on Bakugou’s arms, as if he’d been holding his arm over a fire for a while. He had been in a way; his whole arm had been on fire. On his right, his skin was red, the burn continuing underneath his intact sleeve, but it wasn’t as bad. His flames hadn’t covered it completely.

Still, it was unusual. When Endeavor and Todoroki used their flames, they didn’t suffer consequences like this. Was it a side effect of making his flames too hot? Of pushing himself too hard? Would they have to teach him to cool them down?

Even worse, these burns reminded him painfully of the even uglier ones on Dabi, which led the way to some nasty and unfortunate implications.

“He’ll be okay,” Aizawa said as he stood up and the bots took Ryouta away.

“This is the second time in three days that he’s been knocked unconscious.” Toshinori groaned, the sound of a tired teacher with a long day ahead of him still. “Maybe bringing him into this so quickly was a bad idea.”

Aizawa slipped his hands into his pockets. “Getting into the hero course was his dream. I thought I was the one that cut those short, not you.” It was still easy to rile the former number one hero up. He was so emotional. They had known this would be hard on Ryouta and the students, but it was proving to be difficult for the teachers as well. Yamada had admitted to struggling with knowing how to treat Ryouta, seeing as how he’d been against this whole thing in the beginning, and Kayama had felt guilty when she’d realized that he remembered her but she could barely recall him. “I’ll speak with him when he wakes up. If he feels like this is too much, we’ll figure something out.”

“You don’t think he will though,” Toshinori said.

“Something happened to him to drive him from dreaming of becoming a hero to becoming a villain,” Aizawa replied. “Maybe a lot of somethings. I think he’s more determined to prove his future self wrong and somehow change it than we are.” He looked up to the second floor of the building, his eyes roving over the shattered windows. “Did you see someone that was willing to give up on the screens?”

Toshinori didn’t need to respond for Aizawa to know the answer. It was a resounding no . Despite his either avoidance and hesitancy to use his quirk, Ryouta had not been giving up. Even when he ran away, it had been a part of his strategy to win. That was what Aizawa had seen: that Ryouta was someone was willing to go the distance and throw everything he had into coming out on top.

So what had happened?

Or had he simply decided to carve another path there?

For some people, the idea of becoming a villain was rock bottom. Judging from the way Ryouta spoke of them, he certainly considered that to be the truth now. However, when Aizawa had seen him as Dabi, he’d been one of the most powerful and feared members of the League of Villains. He’d become every bit as notorious as he could have as a hero, just in a different way. It was unsettling how parallel those two paths could be at times and, in a way, Ryouta was on both of them.

It had been three days since he’d given Dabi the go-ahead to destroy the support equipment warehouse and they hadn’t heard a word from him since.

Shigaraki was more than irritated. Dabi had proven himself to be a reliable member of the League of Villains, but he had a mind of his own as well and went off the rail at times. He’d gotten better at working on a team (something that all villains could stand to work on), but he still had that loner mentality too. Powerful as he was, he could be as unpredictable as his quirk and had been from the start.

It was times like these when he cursed the fact that Dabi was so damn hard-headed. Shigaraki knew that he should’ve sent someone else with him, but Dabi had been adamant that he could do it on his own. “Why send two people to do a one-man job?” he’d pointed out in that bored drawl of his. It was like he only had two modes: zero or one-hundred. They’d met each other at the latter and hadn’t killed each other yet. Back then, Kurogiri had considered that enough of a success to vouch for him.

Originally, the plan had been to send Twice and Spinner to take care of the warehouse, but Dabi had been the one to come up with the idea to strike the heroes in the support department and had wanted to be the one to go. Considering the nature of his quirk, he had a more personal stake in it. He knew what it was like to need the technology that helped a hero.

Getting that bit of information out of Dabi had been almost as painful as getting shot at the USJ and Shigaraki didn’t believe that he had been fully honest. Only Giran, who had come up with the Vanguard’s villain costumes and equipment, knew the truth, but Shigaraki hadn’t attempted to pry it out of him. Dabi hiding things from them was nothing new, seeing as how that wasn’t even his real name. He’d tell them when he was ready.

In the end, Shigaraki had agreed and sent Dabi to destroy the warehouse. He’d left with an almost gleeful grin on his face, waving and telling them to keep a close eye on the news. It would be flashy; that was for sure. With those blue flames, he had begun to leave his mark everywhere. It was good for the League. His quirk was much more destructive than most people’s and he could get the job done faster.

So where the hell was that asshole?

“Has anyone heard from Dabi recently?” Shigaraki demanded as he walked into the room.

Toga was sitting upside down on the couch, her knees hooked over the back while her head dangled where her feet should’ve been. “I sent him a bunch of messages and he never responded.” She casually twirled a knife in her fingers and began to straighten out her nails with it. “That’s not like him! He usually at least tells me to shut up.”

“Actually, I checked yesterday and he left his phone in his room,” Mr. Compress pointed out from his seat. “You know we’re not to take them on missions.”

Huffing to herself, Toga lifted her legs and slid them to the side, rotating herself back upright. “What if I want to get someone’s number?” she mumbled to herself, as if the fact that she would most likely be trying to attack or kill whoever she came across during a mission didn’t put a damper on her getting a person’s number.

“So he hasn’t been back since he attacked the warehouse,” Shigaraki said.

“Which we know he did,” Spinner added. “We saw it on the news. Man, those flames were massive!”

“There was no mention of his capture,” Mr. Compress supplied, thoughtfully stroking his chin. His favored mask was resting next to him at the moment. He’d gotten more comfortable not wearing them all the time. “They would have said something if he had been. Dabi is of some notoriety.”

And heroes couldn’t help but brag about their accomplishments. If Dabi had been captured, they would’ve blasted it all over the news in an attempt to shake up the League.

“Should we look for him?” Twice asked emphatically. “What if he abandoned us?”

Shigaraki shook his head. “He wouldn’t just leave.”

That was one thing that he was certain about. As much as they sometimes got close to coming to blows with each other and despite how aloof he came off, Shigaraki trusted Dabi. He was committed to their cause. He had his own reasons, of course, not that he would tell them beyond wanting to continue Stain’s legacy. He’d grown into his position in the League though. Made it his own. He wouldn’t fulfill his mission, one that he had come up with and volunteered for, and then just vanish off the face of the earth. There were things that he still had to do -- things he wanted to accomplish and destroy.

Dabi wouldn’t just leave them.

But his disappearance brought up a lot of questions and none of them were good. They needed to get to the bottom of this. Dabi was an important member of the League. He had to be found.

@mistystarshine notes: So we went with the option that went best with the narrative flow, but I will admit, there was serious discussion of putting the end scene at the top just so it would come off as: “Where the hell is Dabi?” *Gilligan cut to Ryouta being blasted out of a window*

I loved working on this chapter, but don’t have much to say about it because all of my good insightful stuff is spoiler-ridden or might make things too obvious. I’ll get wordy later on though! Promise! To make it up to you, here are some of my highlight comments from when we were editing the chapter:

- "tfw shigaraki fucking tomura shows more genuine care for his people than endeavor does for his children" - When All Might groans about Ryouta getting knocked unconscious twice in less than a week: *insert izuku flashback montage*

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