summary: College student, Daniela Bianchi, has a soul destroying, life-ruining crush on Steve Rodgers. Knowing that he might never feel the same way, she in-lists the help of his best friend to make him jealous.
series warning: fratboy!bucky x f!college!oc, mature themes, fake dating, enemies to lovers, he fell first and harder, grumpy x sunshine vibes, playboy x lover girl, love triangle kinda, “i hate him” “no you don’t” “i know”, angst, smut, slow burn.
just saw the new Superman and yknow what I keep thinking about?.. when he’s fighting Luthor’s diversion in Metropolis, Clark is making every effort to isolate it to a relatively open space (the park). damages are at a minimum. but that takes time, it’s not efficient enough, so then the corporate-funded Justice Gang shows up - and oops, suddenly buildings are being swept off their foundations, civilians in direct line of fire, the city core is getting ripped apart. he’s scrambling to save children, squirrels, people caught in the red zone while the others are more interested in punching the big monster. the story makes it absolutely clear that corporations don’t care about life or harm reduction, and in a world in which superheroes are already normalized, this kindness is what sets Superman apart
series summary: 1940s Brooklyn. You owe the Barnes crime family money you don’t have. When their enforcer comes to collect, he offers an alternative form of payment that has nothing to do with cash.
pairing: mob!bucky barnes x reader
word count: 5.4k
warnings: mob/mafia AU, 1940s setting, power imbalance, debt collection, coercion, dubious consent (kissing), threats of violence, period-typical misogyny, crude language, parental death (mentioned), grief, financial hardship, (it's all in good fun i swear), (like he's just an asshole because he's horny and thinks you're pretty)
a/n: just a heads up that bucky kind of starts out as a coercive dick in this story (hence all those pesky dubcon warnings) but i promise he'll mellow out as the fic progress (in a sexy 'i'll kill anyone who looks at you wrong' kind of way) and he'll prob get worse before he gets better so uhhhhh trust the process? if i missed any warnings, pls lmk !! 🤍
series masterlist
The knock came at quarter past eight, three measured raps that made your spine lock tight as a closing fist.
You'd been expecting it for days now—watching the calendar bleed red X's toward this moment, each sunset another coin dropped into death's collection plate. Your father's debts didn't die with him. The Barnes family made sure everyone in Brooklyn understood that much.
Your fingers stilled on the dishrag, soap bubbles trembling against your wrists. Through the kitchen window, October rain slicked the fire escapes black, turning the whole neighborhood into something out of a fever dream. You could run. The thought flickered and died before it could catch flame. Where would you go? Who in this city would shelter someone marked by the Barnes name?
Three more knocks. Harder this time.
Your pulse kicked against your throat as you dried your hands, each movement deliberate, buying seconds you couldn't afford. The condolence cards still littered the kitchen table—With deepest sympathy and May he rest in peace—their pastel flowers mocking in the lamplight. Two weeks since they'd lowered him into Greenwood soil. Two weeks of waiting for this exact sound.
You smoothed your housedress with trembling hands, caught sight of yourself in the dark window—pale face, shadows under your eyes, hair escaping from pins that never quite held. You looked exactly like what you were: a girl in over her head, drowning in grief and debt.
The lock turned like a death rattle under your palm.
James Barnes filled your doorway like smoke fills a room—inevitable, suffocating, impossible to contain. You'd heard about him, of course. Everyone had. The Barnes family's primary enforcer was the kind of man mothers warned their daughters about in whispers, though those same mothers probably dreamed about him when the lights went out.
He was... not what you'd expected.
Tall and broad-shouldered in a charcoal suit that cost more than your father owed, rain darkening the fabric across his shoulders. His hair was slicked back from a face that belonged in those moving pictures your friends giggled over—sharp jaw, full mouth, eyes the color of a winter sky before snow. The kind of face that made smart girls stupid.
And God help you, you could feel your intelligence draining away as he stood there, studying you like a cat with a cornered mouse.
"Well, well." His voice rolled out like expensive bourbon, Brooklyn accent thick enough to cut. A smile played at the corner of his mouth, dangerous and knowing. "Ain't you just the sweetest little thing I've seen all week."
The words hit like a slap disguised as a caress. Heat crawled up your neck, part embarrassment, part something else entirely. Your hand tightened on the doorknob until your knuckles went white. "Mr. Barnes—"
"Bucky." He corrected, already pushing past you into the apartment like he had every right. The smell of him—rain and expensive tobacco, something darker underneath—invaded your lungs. "My father’s Mr. Barnes. I'm just Bucky, dollface."
He turned in your small foyer, giving you his back as he surveyed your apartment. The broad lines of his shoulders, the confident set of his stance—everything about him screamed danger. When he faced you again, his smile had sharpened into something predatory.
"You gonna close that door, sweetheart? Or you hoping the neighbors get a show?"
You pushed the door shut, the click of the lock loud as a gunshot in the tense silence. When you turned back, he'd moved closer—close enough that you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.
"I don't have it." The words tumbled out too fast, fear making you graceless. "The money. I don't have it yet, but I'm working on—"
"Sure you are." He reached out, fingers catching your chin. The touch was light but inescapable, forcing you to hold his gaze. "Working real hard in that factory, bringing home, what? Twelve dollars a week? Fifteen if you pull doubles?" His thumb brushed across your bottom lip, and your breath caught. "At that rate, you'll have me paid off in... let's see... about five years. Not counting interest."
Your stomach dropped through the floor. "I can—there must be some arrangement—"
"Oh, there's gonna be an arrangement, sweetheart." His hand slid from your chin to your throat, palm resting against your racing pulse. "Just maybe not the kind you're thinking. See, I got a look at you through that window while I was waiting. Watched you doing dishes like a good little housewife. And I got to thinking—waste of a perfectly good dame, letting you work your fingers to the bone in some factory."
"Please." The word came out breathless, his proximity affecting you in ways that made shame curl hot in your belly. "I'll do anything—"
"Anything?" His eyes flashed with interest, and you realized your mistake immediately. "Now that's dangerous talk, baby. Girl like you shouldn't make promises she ain't prepared to keep."
You tried to step back, but he followed, crowding you against the wall. This close, you could see the rain droplets still clinging to his eyelashes, could count the faint freckles across his nose. Could feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace.
"You're shaking," he observed, voice dropping to a rumble. "Do I scare you, pretty girl?"
"Yes." The honesty escaped before you could stop it.
"Good." His free hand came up to brace against the wall beside your head, caging you in. "You should be scared. But see, I'm looking at you, and I'm not seeing scared. I'm seeing something else." His thumb stroked along your throat, feeling your pulse jump. "I'm seeing curious. Interested. Like maybe part of you wonders what it would be like to stop being such a good girl all the time."
The heat in your face could have lit the whole building. "That's not—I'm not—"
"You know what I think?" He leaned closer, until his breath fanned across your cheek. "I think you've been cooped up in this apartment, playing nurse to your old man, working yourself to death, never having any fun. When's the last time a fella took you dancing? Bought you a nice dinner? Made you feel like a woman instead of a workhorse?"
"That's none of your business—"
"Everything about you is my business now." The words came out flat, matter-of-fact. "Your daddy made sure of that when he put his name on my books. But I'm willing to be... flexible about collection methods."
"What do you mean?"
He pulled back enough to study your face, and his expression shifted to something calculating. "How about we discuss this civilized-like? You got coffee in this joint?"
The whiplash of his mood change left you dizzy. "I—yes?"
"Good." He stepped back, giving you room to breathe at last. "Make us some coffee, and we'll hash this out like adults. Unless you'd rather I just take what I can carry and call it square? Though looking around..." He glanced at your shabby furniture, the worn rug, the water stain on the ceiling. "Doesn't look like that'd cover even the interest."
You pushed off from the wall on unsteady legs, grateful for the excuse to put distance between you. "Coffee. Right. I can—yes."
He followed you into the kitchen, and somehow the small space shrank even further with him in it. You were hyper aware of him as you moved—the weight of his gaze, the sound of his breathing, the way he dominated the room without even trying.
"Sit," you managed, gesturing at the kitchen table. Annoyed at your own automatic hospitality. "Please."
"Such nice manners." But he sat, pulling out a chair and settling into it like a king on a throne. His eyes tracked your movements as you lit the stove. "Your mother teach you those?"
"Yes." The word came out clipped as you measured coffee grounds with shaking hands.
"She teach you anything else?" The question was loaded with suggestion. "How to take care of a man? Make him comfortable? Keep him happy?"
You fumbled the coffee pot, nearly dropping it. "She taught me to be respectable."
"Respectable." He drew the word out like it tasted funny. "That's real nice, dollface. Real nice and real boring."
The chair creaked as he shifted, and when you glanced over your shoulder, he was lighting a cigarette with practiced ease. He caught you looking and winked, the gesture somehow more threatening than flirtatious.
"See something you like?"
You turned back to the stove quickly, face burning. "The coffee will be ready in a minute."
"Take your time. I'm enjoying the view."
You could feel his eyes on you as you worked, cataloging every movement. It made you self-conscious in a way that was entirely new—aware of how your dress pulled across your hips when you reached for cups, how the kitchen light probably showed the outline of your slip through the thin fabric.
"You know," he said conversationally, "most people in your position would be trying to butter me up right about now. Batting their lashes, showing a little leg, trying to work an angle. But not you."
"Would it help?" The question slipped out before you could stop it, curious and appalled.
His laugh was dark, appreciative. "Might. Depends on how good you are at it. You even know how to flirt, baby? Or did your respectable mama skip that lesson?"
"I know how to be honest."
"Honest." He sounded amused now. "All right, let's have some honesty then. Turn around. Let me get a good look at what we're working with."
Your hands stilled on the percolator. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Turn around. Slow-like."
"I'm not a piece of meat at the butcher's—"
"No, you're collateral on a debt." All humor fled his voice. "And I'm trying to figure out what that collateral's worth. So be a good girl and turn around before I lose my patience."
The threat in his tone was unmistakable. You set the percolator on the stove with careful movements, then slowly turned to face him.
He'd stubbed out his cigarette and was leaning back in the chair, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes moved over you with clinical precision, taking in everything from your scuffed shoes to your mended collar.
"Come here."
Your feet felt like lead. "The coffee—"
"Will keep." He crooked a finger at you. "I said come here."
You moved forward on unsteady legs until you stood before him. This close, you had to look down to meet his eyes, and the position made you feel strangely powerful for a moment. Until he spoke again.
"Turn." He made a spinning motion with his finger. "Let's see the whole package."
Humiliation burned through you, but what choice did you have? You turned in a slow circle, arms wrapped around yourself, feeling his gaze like hands on your body.
"Stop."
You froze, back to him now.
"You got a nice figure under all that fabric." His voice had roughened. "Real nice. Too bad you hide it under these nun clothes."
"They're work clothes—"
"They're a crime, is what they are." You heard the chair scrape and then he was behind you, not touching but close enough that you could feel his warmth. "A body like yours should be draped in silk. Shown off in pretty dresses that hug these curves."
His hands hovered near your waist, not quite making contact. "Yeah, I could work with this. Put you in something nice, teach you how to walk in heels, how to smile pretty for the right people..."
"I don't understand." Your voice came out embarrassingly breathy.
"Sure you do." His breath stirred the hair at your nape. "Your daddy owes me a grand. You got maybe fifty bucks worth of stuff in this whole joint. That leaves us with a sizeable gap. But you?" His hands finally settled on your waist, light but possessive. "You could be worth something. If you're smart about it."
You jerked away from his touch, spinning to face him. "I'm not—I won't—"
"Won't what?" He moved back to lean against the counter, casual as could be. "Won't let me help you? Won't take the deal that keeps you out of the gutter? What exactly won't you do, princess?"
"I won't be your whore." The word tasted bitter on your tongue.
"Who said anything about whoring?" He looked genuinely amused. "If I wanted a whore, I know where to find them. Hell, for a grand I could have a whole stable. What I need is something different."
The percolator started to bubble. You turned to tend to it, needing the familiar action to steady yourself. "Then what do you need?"
"A girl on my arm. Someone respectable. Clean. The kind of dame you bring home to meet the family, not the kind you bang in the back of a Studebaker."
Your hands shook as you poured coffee. "I don't—why would you need that?"
"Because even bad men got mothers." He accepted the cup you offered, fingers brushing yours in the exchange. "And mine's been breaking my balls about settling down. Finding a nice girl, giving her grandkids, the whole nine yards."
"So find one."
"I did." His eyes locked on yours over the rim of his cup. "She's standing right in front of me, looking like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth."
"I'm not nice." The protest sounded weak even to your ears. "And I'm certainly not your girl."
"Not yet." He set down the coffee, leaning forward. "But you could be. For a price."
You sank into the chair across from him, suddenly exhausted. "What exactly are you proposing?"
"Simple. You be my steady girl. Come to family dinners, work events, anywhere I need a pretty face and good manners. In exchange, I knock a hundred bucks off your debt for every major shindig. Fifty for smaller stuff."
Your mind raced, doing the math. "That would take—"
"Few months, tops. I got a busy social calendar." He pulled out another cigarette but didn't light it, just rolled it between his fingers. "Unless you'd prefer to pay it off the traditional way? Though at twelve bucks a week..."
"Why me?" The question burst out before you could stop it. "You could have any girl in Brooklyn. Pretty ones. Experienced ones. Ones who actually know how to—to be what you need."
"Those girls got histories. Reputations. They know the score and they want things—marriage, money, status." He finally lit the cigarette, exhaling smoke through his nose. "You? You're clean. Untouched. Got that wide-eyed innocent thing that'll make my mother cream her panties."
The crude comparison made you flinch. "Do you have to be so vulgar?"
"Does it bother you?" He leaned forward, predatory interest sparking in his eyes. "Good girls like you probably never heard a man talk about real things. About what we want. What we think about when we see a dame like you all buttoned up and proper."
"Stop."
"You know what I thought when I saw you through that window?" He continued as if you hadn't spoken. "Thought about how easy it'd be to mess you up. Wrinkle that pressed dress. Pull those pins from your hair. Make you look like you'd been properly fucked instead of washing dishes like somebody's spinster aunt."
Heat flooded your face and pooled low in your belly. "You're disgusting."
"I'm honest." He flicked ash into one of the sympathy cards, watching your face as he defiled it. "And if you're honest with yourself, you'd admit you've wondered. What it would be like. What I could teach you."
"I haven't—"
"Liar." The word was soft, almost affectionate. "Bet you've been locked up in this apartment so long you're climbing the walls. Bet you lie in that narrow bed at night, touching yourself, wondering when you're gonna get to live a little."
Blood roared in your ears. "How dare you—"
"Tell you what." He stood abruptly, and you shrank back in your chair. "I'm gonna make this real simple. You got three choices. One: you find a way to pay me cash. Full amount, by end of the week."
"You know I can't—"
"Two: I take what I can get and put the word out that you're in the market for alternative employment. Plenty of houses downtown need fresh faces. Young, pretty, desperate—you'd do real well."
Nausea rolled through your stomach. "Please—"
"Or three." He moved around the table toward you. "You take my deal. Be my girl when I need you. Play the part, look pretty, keep your mouth shut when it matters and open when I tell you to."
You stood on shaking legs, backing away. "I need time to think—"
"No." He caught your wrist, not hard but firm. "You need to decide. Right now. Because I got other stops to make tonight, and I ain't coming back here without an answer."
"You can't just—"
"I can. I am." He pulled you closer, until barely a breath separated you. "But here's something to sweeten the pot. You say yes, and I'll throw in a kiss. Just one. So you know what you're signing up for."
Your heart hammered against your ribs. "That's supposed to convince me?"
"Yeah." His free hand came up to cup your jaw. "Because you've been wondering since I walked in what it would be like. And baby?" His thumb stroked across your cheekbone. "I'm really fucking good at it."
Something unfamiliar and ugly stirred in your stomach. "You're unbelievably arrogant."
"I'm right." He tilted your face up. "So what's it gonna be? You gonna be smart? Or you gonna let pride cost you everything?"
You stared up at him, this beautiful, terrible man who held your future in his callused hands. Thought of your father's debts, of rent coming due, of the factory girls with their hollow eyes and rattling coughs. Thought of your empty bed and empty future and empty stomach when the money ran out.
"Sundays," you heard yourself say, voice wavering. "I get Sundays. To visit my parents' graves."
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or respect. "Done."
"And I want... boundaries. You can't just—just take whatever you want."
"Be specific."
Your face burned, heat flooding your cheeks. Your tongue felt thick in your mouth. "No... expectations. Beyond what we agree to. I won't share your bed. Won't be your—your kept woman."
"Kept woman." He seemed to taste the words. "That's real delicate, dollface. But let's be clear about something." His grip on your wrist tightened slightly. "You'll be living in my house. Wearing clothes I buy. Eating food I provide. If that ain't kept, I don't know what is."
"That's different—"
"Is it?" He released your wrist only to settle both hands on your waist, holding you in place. "But fine. I won't drag you to my bed. Won't force nothing you don't want. But baby?" His voice dropped to a growl. "You're gonna want it. Gonna beg for it before this is over."
"Never."
"We'll see." His hands flexed on your waist, thumbs brushing the underside of your ribs through the fabric. "So is that a yes? You'll be my girl?"
The word stuck in your throat. Girl. Such a simple word for such a complex trap. But what choice did you have?
"Yes."
Triumph flashed across his face, sharp and predatory. "Good choice, honey. Now come here and seal the deal."
"You said a kiss. Just one."
"That's right." He backed you against the kitchen counter, caging you in with his body. "Just one. Better make it count."
Your hands came up to his chest automatically, whether to push him away or pull him closer, you couldn't tell. The expensive fabric of his suit was soft under your palms, the body beneath it hard as granite.
"I haven't—" The admission stumbled out. "I don't know how—"
"I know." His hand slid into your hair, pins scattering to the floor with tiny metallic sounds. "That's what makes this so fucking sweet. Now shut up and let me teach you something."
You had just enough time to suck in a breath before his mouth covered yours.
The first contact sent lightning racing down your spine. His lips were softer than they had any right to be, warm and sure as they pressed against yours. You made a sound—a squeak of pure shock that would have mortified you if you could think—and your entire body went rigid.
He pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips. "Relax, baby. I ain't gonna bite. Not this time."
Then he was kissing you again, slow and patient, like he had all night to take you apart. His hand in your hair tilted your head for a better angle while the other splayed across your lower back, holding you steady. The counter edge dug into your spine but you barely noticed, too overwhelmed by the sensation of his mouth moving against yours.
You'd been kissed before—brief, dry pecks that left no impression. This was something else entirely. This was... consumption. He kissed like he was trying to brand himself onto your soul, like he wanted to ruin you for anyone else who might try.
Your hands fisted in his shirt as the shock began to wear off, replaced by something hotter, hungrier. Your body softened against his without your permission, melting into his heat like wax near a flame. He made a sound of approval that rumbled through his chest and into yours.
"That's it," he murmured, breaking away to trail his lips along your jaw. "Good girl. Such a good girl, opening up for me."
"I'm not—" But your protest died as he found a spot just below your ear that made your knees buckle.
"Yeah, you are." His teeth scraped against your pulse point, light enough not to mark but sharp enough to make you gasp. "So sweet. So fucking innocent. Makes me want to wreck you."
His mouth returned to yours before you could respond, and this time there was nothing patient about it. He kissed you like he was starving and you were a feast, like he wanted to crawl inside you and live there. When his tongue traced the seam of your lips, you understood what he wanted without being told.
The first slide of his tongue against yours pulled a sound from your throat you'd never made before—desperate, needy, completely involuntary. Your whole body shuddered, a tremor that started at the base of your spine and rolled outward like an earthquake.
"Fuck," he groaned into your mouth, and the profanity should have appalled you. Instead, it made heat pool between your thighs in a way that had you pressing them together. "Christ, you're shaking for me. You that worked up from just a kiss?"
You tried to answer, but he was already kissing you again, deeper this time. His tongue stroked against yours with devastating skill, teaching you a rhythm that made your head spin. You tried to follow his lead, to give back what you were getting, and when your tongue tentatively met his, he growled like a man possessed.
His hand tightened in your hair, holding you still as he plundered your mouth. The other hand slid down to grip your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise through the fabric. You should have protested the possessive handling. Instead, you arched into him, seeking more contact, more pressure, more everything.
Time lost meaning. The world narrowed to his mouth on yours, his hands holding you in place, the solid weight of him pressing you into the counter. Your lungs burned for air but you couldn't bear to break away, too drunk on the taste of him—coffee and cigarettes and something darker, essentially male.
He bit your bottom lip, a sharp nip that made you gasp, then soothed it with his tongue. The alternating pain and pleasure short-circuited something in your brain. Your hands slid up to tangle in his hair, messing his perfect style, pulling him closer.
"Jesus," he panted against your mouth. "Look at you. Coming apart for me already. I barely touched you and you're about to combust."
"Shut up," you managed, and pulled his head back down.
He laughed into the kiss, dark and delighted. "There she is. There's that fire I knew was hiding under all that propriety."
His hips pressed forward, pinning you more firmly against the counter, and you felt—oh God. The hard length of him pressed against your belly, obvious even through layers of fabric. The evidence of his arousal should have terrified you. Instead, it made you feel powerful. You did that. You, with your inexperience and nun clothes and good girl manners.
He must have felt your realization because he ground against you deliberately, making sure you felt every inch. "Yeah, baby. That's what you do to me. Got me hard as a fucking rock just from kissing you."
The crude words made your face flame, but lower, between your legs, something clenched with want. You pressed your thighs together harder, trying to ease the ache building there.
"You feel it too, don't you?" His mouth moved to your throat, sucking at the sensitive skin. "That need. That empty feeling that wants filling. Bet if I put my hand under that ugly dress, I'd find you soaking wet for me."
You shuddered. "Don't—"
"Don't what? Don't tell the truth? Don't make you face what your body already knows?" He bit down where your neck met your shoulder, hard enough to mark, and your vision whited out. "You can lie to yourself all you want, dollface. But your body's honest. It knows who it belongs to now."
His mouth returned to yours, swallowing any protest you might have made. This kiss was filthier, deeper, his tongue fucking into your mouth in a rhythm that made your hips move involuntarily. You were making sounds—desperate, needy little whimpers that would have mortified you if you could think. But thinking was impossible with his hands on you, his mouth devouring yours, his body caging you in like you were something precious he refused to let escape.
You didn't know how long he kissed you. Minutes? Hours? Days? Time meant nothing in the face of such overwhelming sensation. You were drowning in him, in the taste and smell and feel of him, and the terrifying part was that you didn't want to surface for air.
When he finally pulled back, you both were breathing like you'd run a marathon. His perfectly styled hair was completely wrecked, sticking up where your fingers had gripped. His lips were swollen, slick with your shared saliva. And his eyes—God, his eyes were nearly black with want, only a thin ring of blue remaining.
You probably looked worse. You could feel how swollen your lips were, how flushed your face must be. Your hair had come completely undone, falling around your shoulders in waves. And between your legs... you squeezed your thighs together, mortified by the wetness you could feel there.
"Look at you," he said, voice rough as gravel. "Thoroughly kissed. Marked up. Looking like somebody's been taking real good care of you."
His thumb traced your bottom lip, and you couldn't help the way your tongue flicked out to taste it. His eyes flared with heat.
"Fuck." The word came out strangled, and something shifted in his expression—a flicker of vulnerability that disappeared so fast you might have imagined it. His jaw clenched. "Christ, no wonder your old man kept you locked up. One kiss and you're ready to spread your legs for the first man who shows you a good time."
The cruel words hit like cold water, shocking after the heat of his kiss. You flinched, and his smile turned mean.
"What? Thought this was some fairy tale? Thought I'd kiss you and fall in love?" He laughed, but it sounded forced. "You really are green, aren't you? This is business, dollface. Nothing more."
"I know what this is," you managed, though your voice shook.
"Do you?" He pulled out a wad of cash, thick enough to make your eyes widen, and tossed it carelessly on the table. It landed next to your father's sympathy cards, the bills fanning out like an insult. "Buy yourself something that doesn't look like it came from a church rummage sale. Something that shows you got tits. Maybe some lipstick that won't come off so easy."
Your face burned with humiliation. "I don't need your money—"
"Yeah, you do." He was already at the door, not looking at you. "Eight o'clock tomorrow. Don't be late. And dollface?" He glanced back, but his eyes didn't quite meet yours. "Try not to read too much into this. You're a debt and a convenience. That's all."
The door closed behind him with a soft click. Your knees immediately gave out, and you slid down the counter to sit on the floor, fingers pressed to lips that still tingled from his kiss.
What had you done? What had you agreed to? And why did his cruel dismissal hurt more than it should?
You could still taste him. Still feel the phantom pressure of his hands, his mouth, his body holding you in place. Your skin felt too tight, like you might burst out of it at any moment. And between your legs...
You pressed your thighs together harder, but it only made the ache worse. He'd kissed you like he was drowning, held you like you were precious, then tossed money at you like you were exactly what he'd implied—a piece of goods to be purchased and dressed up.
But you'd felt the way his hands shook, just slightly, when he pulled away. Heard the rough catch in his voice before he covered it with cruelty. He could pretend all he wanted that you were just business, but his body had told a different story.
You sat on your kitchen floor until your breathing returned to normal, staring at the money scattered across your table. More cash than you'd seen in months, thrown at you like scraps to a dog. Part of you wanted to burn it. The practical part knew you'd spend it on exactly what he demanded—a dress that would make you look like you belonged in his world, even if you never would.
You'd agreed to be Bucky Barnes'... what? Pretend sweetheart? Fake companion? The terminology from your mother's generation felt antiquated, but his “girl" seemed too modern, too casual for whatever this arrangement was.
One thing was certain—you were in deep trouble. Because despite his cruel words, despite the dismissive way he'd thrown money at you like you were nothing, you were going to dream about him. About the way he'd kissed you like he wanted to consume you whole. About the hardness pressed against your belly and the way he'd groaned into your mouth like you were unraveling him.
About the split second before his mask slipped back into place, when he'd looked at you like you'd shaken something loose in him he hadn't expected.
The coffee had gone cold on the table. The sympathy cards lay scattered, defiled with ash and now mocked by dirty money. Tomorrow you'd walk into the Barnes family home on the arm of their enforcer. Tomorrow you'd start playing a role that might destroy everything you thought you knew about yourself.
Tonight, you climbed to your feet on shaky legs and gathered the bills with trembling fingers. You'd buy the dress. Play the part. Be his empty-headed arm candy who didn't know she was being used.
But you knew the truth, even if he didn't want to admit it. That kiss had shaken him just as much as it had destroyed you. And maybe, just maybe, that gave you more power than either of you realized.
You touched your swollen lips one more time, remembering not just the heat of his mouth, but the way he'd said "fuck" like the word had been punched out of him. Like you'd affected him in ways he hadn't anticipated.
Eight o'clock tomorrow. Less than twenty-four hours to figure out how to play a part you'd never auditioned for. How to be the kind of girl who belonged on Bucky Barnes' arm. How to survive in his world without losing yourself completely.
But as you got ready for bed, the money tucked away in your kitchen drawer, you wondered if the real danger wasn't in losing yourself.
It was in finding out that maybe, underneath all his cruelty and dismissal, James Barnes was just as lost as you were.
Summary: You’ve held it together all day. The final straw? Someone stole your snack. Bucky makes sure you know you’re still allowed to fall apart - but only for him.
A/N: my entry for @avengers-assemble-bingo for Spring Bingo Sorry I'm late to start this! Will have them all up in June! :)
Square: A4 - Stolen Snacks
Card Number: AAS001
You stared at the empty space in the cupboard like it had personally betrayed you.
You’d held it together. Through the botched recon brief that ended with you getting shoulder-checked into a wall. The two-hour debrief with Fury that circled the same five points and still managed to assign you clean-up duty. Through training drills with Natasha that left your muscles screaming, a cracked tablet that shorted out mid-field report, and a stray pulse round from testing Tony’s gear that seared through your glove. Through trying to calm a panicking rookie in the med bay and brushing off Steve’s attempt to talk about team morale while your ribs throbbed from the fall no one noticed.
But this?
This was too much.
Your last chocolate bar. The one you’d shoved to the back of the shelf, behind the rice cooker like a goddamn dragon hoard, and even labelled.
Gone.
You felt the tears before they came. That tight, angry pressure in your throat. The prickle behind your eyes. It was more than frustration, it was the weight of everything you'd swallowed down all day finally pushing up from your chest. A battle cry turned into a whimper.
You hated it.
Hated crying over something so stupid, hated how this tiny, ridiculous moment had cracked the dam you’d patched together with stubbornness and caffeine.
Your breath hitched. The cabinet blurred. You clenched your fists tighter. Maybe if you stood still enough, quiet enough, you could push the feelings back down where they belonged. Somewhere deep. Somewhere no one could see.
That’s how Bucky found you. Still standing there like a statue in mourning, shoulders drawn tight, fists white-knuckled, eyes locked on that empty shelf like you could will the universe to give you one goddamn break. Just one.
“Doll?” His voice behind you was soft. Careful. Like he already knew something wasn’t right.
You blinked, throat tight and eyes burning. “Fine.” It came out too fast, too brittle.
He stepped closer, his footsteps quiet on the kitchen tile. “Sweetheart…”
“They took it,” you whispered, voice barely audible.
“Took what?”
You sniffed and gave a shaky little laugh that didn’t reach your eyes. “My chocolate.”
He paused, one long second where you could feel him processing that. Then, with a low, understanding note in his voice. “Oh.”
You still didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. The heat in your cheeks was too much, and the tears were already pushing harder. “I just wanted one fucking thing today,” you said, the words gaining a tremble. “One thing. And someone… I don’t even know who, but someone went in and…”
Your voice cracked. A tear fell before you could catch it. You scrubbed it away with the back of your hand, furious at yourself for crying over something so small, but it wasn’t just the chocolate. It never was.
His body pressed in close, not just touching but anchoring, like he was stitching you back together with every inch of contact. You felt the brush of his stubble as he dipped his head closer, his breath warm against your ear.
“I got you,” he murmured, voice low and sure like it was a promise. “I got you, baby. Just breathe.”
You turned into his chest, burying your face in his shirt as more tears spilled free. His arms wrapped around you without hesitation. No teasing. No judgment. Just strength. Steady, unshakable warmth. You could feel his heartbeat through the fabric, solid and calm, syncing with your own stuttering rhythm like it was trying to coax you back to yourself. He smelled like leather and soap and something uniquely his. That grounding, familiar scent that always made you feel like home was wherever he stood.
He didn’t rush you. Didn’t ask what was wrong or try to fix it yet. He just stayed there, solid as ever, letting you feel every heartbeat in his chest and the slow, steady rhythm of his breath like it could replace the storm in your own.
He held you there for a long moment, rubbing his hand up and down your back, pressing a kiss to the top of your head without needing to say anything more yet. Just being held like that made your chest ache in a different way, an ache that felt like the release you'd been holding back all day.
“You wanna yell?” he asked, finally, his voice light but sincere. “We’ll go down to the training floor- think most of them are there- you can scream at every single one of those snack thieves until you feel better.”
A wet laugh hiccupped out of your throat. It surprised you, but you didn’t fight it. “It was probably Peter.”
“I’ll drop-kick him. Promise.”
That earned another laugh, softer now, your fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. You could feel his smile against your temple before you even looked up. And when you did, you caught the full picture- his brows drawn with worry, his jaw tight like it physically hurt him to see you upset, and his eyes so full of quiet love it made your knees go weak.
Every inch of his expression said it plain: You are safe. I’ve got you. I always will.
“You’ve had a hard day, huh?”
You nodded, swallowing back a fresh wave of emotion. Your lip trembled again, and this time you didn’t fight it. It felt like if you said even one word, everything would crack wide open again. Maybe you didn’t have the energy to pick the pieces up this time.
Bucky saw it. He always did. He didn’t push, didn’t fill the silence. Just stayed steady and warm at your side.
“Then let me fix it,” he said gently, brushing your hair behind your ear. His voice dropped even lower, like he was speaking to something raw in you. “Let me take care of my girl.”
You expected another hug. Maybe a kiss on the forehead. Maybe for him to lead you to the couch and tuck a blanket around your shoulders, like he sometimes did after a mission that ran too long or left you rattled. You expected soft words and gentler hands. The kind of quiet that didn’t ask anything from you.
But what you got was more. A presence that didn’t just hold you together, it reminded you that you didn’t have to be perfect to be loved. That your breaking point didn’t scare him away. That he’d carry it all if you let him.
You didn’t expect him to grip your hips and lift you onto the kitchen counter.
“Bucky- ” you gasped, palms braced against his chest, heat flushing up your neck. The cold countertop under your thighs only made his warmth feel more intense, more consuming. Like a fire had started under your skin and only he knew how to tend it.
But he was already stepping between your knees, lifting your skirt with slow, deliberate care. His fingers skimmed your thighs like they were something fragile, like he had all the time in the world to unwrap you, gaze locked on yours with a hunger that sent sparks straight through your core. Every brush of his knuckles sent goosebumps racing up your legs.
“You think you gotta hold it all in,” he murmured, lips grazing your jaw, his voice like velvet and smoke. “But you don’t. Not with me. You don’t have to be strong right now. You just have to be mine.”
He kissed the corner of your mouth, then lower along your jaw, down your throat- each press of his lips a quiet promise. You could feel the devotion in each one, like he was spelling out his love with his mouth, soothing away the hurt one kiss at a time. His hands moved under your underwear, warm and certain, fingers spreading you open with aching care, reverent like he was learning you all over again and loving every second of it.
“You’re tense,” he murmured, voice lower now, thumb brushing slow, perfect circles over your clit. “Let me take care of that. Let me make you feel good, baby. Just let go.”
“Bucky, someone could- ”
He dropped to his knees.
Right there- like it was the most natural thing in the world. His broad shoulders framed by the spread of your thighs, his blue eyes already locked onto your face with that look that always undid you. Soft hunger. Absolute focus. The kind of reverence that made you feel like a temple he’d worshiped at a thousand times before and still found holy.
He pushed his hair back from his face with one hand, jaw tense, a little smirk curling one corner of his mouth like he knew exactly what he was about to do to you. Like he was proud of it. Of you. Of how wrecked you were about to be.
“You didn’t get your chocolate,” he said, breath hot and heavy against your soaked folds. “So I’m giving you something sweeter.”
Then his mouth was on you.
Hot. Wet. Filthy.
His tongue dragged upward in one slow, claiming stroke that had your head knocking back against the cabinet. Then he did it again, circling your clit like he had all the time in the world, savoring every reaction. His lips wrapped around you and sucked with the perfect amount of pressure, after all, he’d memorized the way your body begged to be touched.
You gasped, legs trembling, one hand flying to the edge of the counter, gripping it for balance as your other dug into his hair. He groaned at the contact, the sound vibrating straight through your core. The smirk you’d seen moments ago returned against your skin, devilish and pleased with himself.
“God, look at you,” he murmured, pausing only long enough to drag his tongue flat over your slit. His lips brushed your clit again as he grinned. “I know you wanted chocolate, but fuck- you taste like candy.”
Then he dove back in.
He devoured you like it was his sole purpose in life. Like your pleasure was his mission and he had no intention of failing. His metal arm wrapped securely under your thigh, holding you wide and open for him, while his flesh hand slid up your stomach to your breast, fingers curling over it possessively as he groaned against your cunt.
Tears blurred your eyes again not from grief this time, but from how completely he meant it. From the way he worshipped you with his mouth, like this was his heaven. Like he needed this more than breath.
You couldn’t stop the sounds spilling from you, gasping cries, sharp breaths, needy little sounds you didn’t recognize as your own as his tongue worked you harder. Faster. Each stroke more precise, more demanding. Your hips tried to jerk away from the intensity, but he growled and tightened his grip, locking you down.
“Uh-uh,” he rasped against your swollen clit, slick with spit and need. “You take it. Take what you fucking need. Let go for me, baby.”
And you did.
You shattered for him; loud, messy, legs shaking as your orgasm tore through you, slick flooding over his mouth. He didn’t stop. He moaned like he was the one coming, mouth locked to you as he coaxed every last aftershock from your body.
Only when you sagged back, breathless and twitching, did he slow down. His lips softened their rhythm, moving with care now, peppering soft, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs, the kind that made you shiver from tenderness rather than urgency. He murmured praise between each kiss, like he couldn’t help it, like worship was the only language he knew.
“So fuckin’ sweet,” he whispered, licking his lips with a slow, satisfied drag of his tongue. His face glistened with you, and he wore it like a badge of honor.
He kissed your thighs again, then trailed up to your hips, stroking your sides with reverence. He nuzzled your skin like it was his safe place, his temple, murmuring against the shell of your hip, “Could stay here all day, baby. Right here, tasting how good you are. You don’t even know what you do to me.”
His hands never left your body- constantly caressing, grounding, reminding. His metal fingers curled around your thigh possessively while the other swept gently up and down your waist. You felt utterly surrounded by him, like there wasn’t a single part of you he hadn’t claimed.
He looked up at you then, pupils blown wide, lips swollen, his expression dazed with devotion. Like he hadn’t just eaten you alive but knelt at your altar and meant it.
“You’re mine,” he whispered, voice ragged and thick with love. “No one gets to take from you. Not while I’m here. Not ever.”
And you believed him. Because when Bucky touched you like this- held you like this- he didn’t just give you pleasure. He gave you proof.
Proof that someone saw you. Fought for you. Loved you enough to hold the pieces no one else knew were broken.
Because when everything else went wrong…Bucky always made sure you still felt right.
When you finally blinked through the haze, he was standing again, unzipping his pants with that same look in his eyes.
Oh- Bucky wasn't through yet.
He leaned over you, kissed you slow, then deeper, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His cock pressed hot and heavy against your thigh, and when his hand gripped your jaw, his voice came low and reverent.
“Wanna fuck my sweet girl now. Gonna fill you up slow…make you feel everything, baby.”
Your breath caught as he guided himself between your thighs. Then he placed one firm hand on your ass and slid you forward across the counter, dragging you closer to the edge until your legs dangled more, your core perfectly aligned for him. The sensation of the heat of him pressing forward made your head spin.
And when he pushed inside, slow, stretching, claiming- you swore he moaned louder than you.
“That’s it,” he groaned, forehead to yours, hips rolling deep. “Just like that.”
He rocked into you with slow, sinuous thrusts, hips rolling in smooth, deliberate motion as if he had no interest in finishing quickly, just in working you open, keeping you full, keeping you right there on the edge. Each pass stroked that aching place deep inside- your thighs tightening, breath catching, every nerve singing like it had been tuned to his rhythm.
“Right there, yeah?” he rasped. “I feel it. You clench so good when I hit that spot.”
His hand smoothed up your spine, the other gripping your ass to keep you pinned just where he wanted you. He didn’t pound, he rolled, deep and deliberate. Deep and slow, hips pressing tight against yours with each drag of his cock, like he wanted to replace every ache and frustration you’d carried today with the stretch of him.
“You don’t need a sweet treat now do ya?” he murmured against your cheek, voice thick and low. “Not when I can get you high like this. Give you every endorphin your pretty little body’s been begging for.”
And when he pressed into that spot again- again- until you panted and quivered for him, you stopped caring who might walk in. Stopped caring about anything except the wet, slick sound of him inside you and the way he whispered, "Gonna wash all the bad day away, yeah? Gonna let me do that for ya, doll? Gonna let me take every ounce of tension and fuck it right outta you?"
The rhythm of him built gradually, rising like a wave pulling you under- his hips rolling, staying deep, making your breath stutter and your nails curl into the strong slope of his shoulders. Each drag of his cock pushed you higher, stretched you further, until all you could do was cling and shake and feel.
When he adjusted his angle, grinding down into that tender place inside that had you gasping every time, the one that made your legs twitch and your stomach tighten, dragging a helpless, high-pitched whine from the back of your throat- you broke. The orgasm crashed over you, hot and sudden, your body pulsing around him in tight, desperate waves.
Bucky swallowed your cries with his mouth on yours, kissing you through it, devouring every sound you made like it was his favorite dessert.
“Good girl,” he growled, voice shaking. “Just like that. Fuck- gonna give it to you, baby. Gonna fill you up nice and warm, yeah?”
Buck jerked, moaning into your mouth as his hips snapped once, twice, before he spilled into you, thick and deep and perfect. You both shook, breathless in the kitchen, bodies slick with sweat and love and everything unspoken.
His hand brushed your jaw as he whispered soft words against your lips. “So good for me. My perfect girl. Took all of it.”
Then he stepped back just enough to grab a paper towel, cleaning you up with gentle care.
You stayed on the counter, legs still trembling, smiling and a little fucked-out, watching as he fixed his pants with that stupidly smug grin like he’d just won something sacred and maybe he had.
“I’m sure I’ve got one of your snacks in my room,” he said, voice still husky but playful. “Let’s get you back there… we can shower and snuggle, and you can tell me everything- or we can just watch a movie. End the day right.”
He stepped in close and lifted you easily off the counter, one arm under your thighs, the other around your back like you weighed nothing. You curled instinctively into him, nuzzling into the warm crook of his neck, your breath still uneven, your heart still stuttering from everything he’d given you.
“Bucky Barnes,” you murmured, your lips brushing his skin as you smiled, “better than chocolate.”
He chuckled low, chest vibrating against yours. “Damn right I am.”
summary | congressman barnes thought he had control—over his office, his image, and especially his no-nonsense assistant. That illusion ends the moment you hit a man's head against a table, ruin your blazer, and ride him across a random desk like you're the one running the country.
tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, desk sex, semi-public sex, rough sex, lowkey dom!reader, subtly-subby!bucky, smut with feelings, workplace romance (technically), power imbalance (handled), public speaking anxiety, reader handles everything, mild violence, sexual tension so thick it pays rent
a/n | based on this request, and ooooh I loved writing them
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
Sometimes, Bucky still couldn’t figure out how he ended up here.
Not in the existential way—he'd dealt with plenty of that in therapy. No, this was more of a literal confusion.
Because somehow, in the span of a two years, he’d gone from military black-ops missions with Sam to sitting behind a government-issued desk in D.C., wearing suits that cost more than his first apartment, and debating tax reform with men who’d never touched grass.
Being a congressman wasn’t the weird part.
Doing it well was.
And if he was being honest, that was probably 95% thanks to her.
You.
His assistant. His handler. His chaos manager. And, if he was being really honest—which he rarely was—you were probably the best part of the job. Even if you drove him insane.
You were brilliant. Unshakeable. The only person on staff who could tell him he was being an idiot and still have a coffee waiting for him after. You kept his schedule running like a military op and shut down press rumors before they could start trending.
And you were only thirty. Or—wait, no. Your birthday was in November, so you were still twenty-nine. He remembered because you'd corrected him with the driest look possible and said, “Do not age me prematurely, Barnes, I will unionize this building and have you replaced by a TikTok intern.”
He smiled at the memory as he walked down the hallway toward the bullpen, nodding at staffers, pausing only to fake-laugh at a joke he didn’t quite hear from someone in comms.
Then he saw you.
You walked in like you owned the building—which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely untrue. Blazer cinched, hair flawless, phone in hand, nails sharp, heels unapologetically loud. And everyone noticed. Everyone always noticed.
So did the IT guy—Trevor? Tyler? Something with a “T” and too much Axe body spray—who popped his head out from behind his desk the second he saw you walk in.
“Hey, uh—wow. You look great today,” he said, grinning like a freshman talking to the hottest senior.
You didn’t even slow down. Barely spared him a glance.
“It would be breaking news if I didn’t,” you said with a scoff, breezing past without missing a beat.
Bucky bit back a snort.
God help him, you were a menace.
And he was in so much trouble.
You didn’t stop walking until you were right in front of him, flipping through the sleek black tablet in your hand with the focus of someone already mentally ten steps ahead.
“Okay,” you said, tapping your screen like it personally offended you. “We need to talk about your last interview.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow, following you as you turned and started walking again—because you never stood still for these things. You moved. You commanded. People got out of your way like it was instinct.
“I thought it went okay,” he said, already bracing himself.
You shot him a look over your shoulder. “You said ‘worrying’ five times in two minutes. This is worrying, that’s worrying, the whole country is apparently on the verge of a panic attack because you don’t own a thesaurus.”
“I didn’t realize I was repeating myself that much,” he muttered.
You stopped short, turning on a heel so sharply the assistant from admin nearly dropped her coffee trying to dodge you.
“You are a congressman,” you said slowly, like he was the one who needed phonics help. “Not a Tumblr doomer post. Use a new word. I am begging.”
He smirked. “I’ll add ‘thesaurus’ to the list.”
You pointed at him. “Matter of fact, expedite ‘worrying’ from your vocabulary. Evacuate it. Execute it. Eject it from the goddamn building.”
Bucky couldn’t help the laugh that broke out. “You always this dramatic before 9 a.m.?”
You turned and started walking again, this time toward his office.
“I’m not dramatic. I’m effective. You know what’s dramatic? Your public approval rating when you accidentally sound like the world’s ending every time you open your mouth.”
“Okay, that’s fair,” he admitted, trailing behind you.
You pushed the door to his office open with your shoulder and turned back to face him, standing in the doorway with that terrifyingly calm look you got when you were about to change lives and ruin someone’s whole day.
“Now sit down, sip your over-priced oat milk latte, and go over these updated talking points like a big boy while I do everything else required to keep this administration from crumbling.”
You handed him a folder.
He took it.
You turned on your heel again.
And Bucky just stood there, folder in hand, still trying to figure out how someone so casually cruel could also make his heart beat like he’d been running up stairs.
He was totally, completely screwed.
The office was, for once, quiet.
A miracle.
You were perched on the edge of his desk, scrolling your phone with one leg crossed over the other, lip gloss freshly reapplied, looking more like a fashion editorial than someone juggling fifteen constituent emails, three policy briefs, and a senator’s ego on speakerphone.
Bucky watched you from his seat, pretending to read the speech notes you’d revised. Which meant he was reading the same paragraph three times and thinking about the shape of your mouth every time you sipped your iced coffee.
You snorted suddenly at something on your screen.
He raised an eyebrow. “What now?”
“Someone edited your last speech over that one TikTok audio—‘girl, be for real,’” you said, showing him the screen. “Honestly? Accurate.”
He rolled his eyes. “Back in my day, people just read the paper if they wanted to roast politicians.”
You didn’t even look up.
“And back in your day, people thought lobotomies cured headaches.”
He stared at you, face blank. “...Wow.”
You glanced up with a smug little look. “You brought the ‘back in my day’ energy. I just matched it.”
He blinked again. “That was brutal.”
“You survived Hydra, Barnes. You’ll live.”
You hopped off the desk, still scrolling, already halfway out of the room like nothing had happened.
Bucky sat there, mind blank, trying to decide if he should be offended or more in love.
It was a toss-up.
The moment Bucky stepped onto the sidewalk outside the education committee hearing, he knew it was a mistake.
Cameras flashed like strobe lights. Microphones thrust forward like weapons. Reporters shouted over each other with that gleeful, rabid tone they got when they smelled blood in the water—and this morning’s article about his “alarming silence on key policy points” had put them into a frenzy.
He barely got a foot down before—
“Congressman Barnes, are you avoiding questions about your defense budget stance?”
“Why did you cancel your Pittsburgh appearance, is it true there was internal conflict?”
“Do you still consider yourself aligned with Captain America’s legacy?”
The barrage came fast. Bucky blinked, stunned into silence, his brain caught between fight-or-flight and turn-on-your-heel-and-run-to-therapy.
He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
Where the hell were you—
And then.
The crowd parted.
Like God herself said let there be chaos management.
You came storming through the press like a thunderclap in heels—perfect blouse tucked into razor-sharp slacks, tablet in hand, hair slicked, expression set to absolutely fucking done. The press instinctively stepped back, some startled, some frightened, all curious.
Your voice rang out, clear, sharp, and lethal.
“I’m sorry—do y’all even brief before you yell Or is the strategy just ‘shout over each other and hope something sticks’?”
Every camera swung to you.
You didn't flinch.
“First of all—he’s not avoiding questions. He’s walking. Because he has a job. Wild concept, I know.”
One of the bolder reporters started, “We just need—”
You raised a hand, and he actually stopped talking.
“Second,” you continued, flipping your tablet open with the dramatic flair of a magician about to pull a dove out of her sleeve, “if any of you had bothered to read the full statement instead of the chopped-up quotes getting passed around like a sad little rumor chain, you’d know the Pittsburgh visit was postponed, not canceled. And yes, we’re still going. Next Thursday. Bring sunscreen. And better sources.”
A collective murmur. One woman lowered her camera entirely.
You weren’t done.
“As for the Captain America legacy? I’m sorry—do you want him to punch a Nazi on live TV just to keep the branding tight? Because he can, but I promise you’ll cry about that too.”
The air crackled.
Silence.
Actual, stunned silence.
You finally turned to Bucky, handed him a neatly folded schedule, and said—without looking up, without a single ounce of visible emotion,
“Try not to look like a hostage. You’re polling in Gen Z now.”
He blinked. “Right.”
You glanced back once at the press, offered a professional, poisonous smile, and added, “Any follow-ups can go to our press contact. Or the trash. Whichever comes first.”
Then you turned and walked toward the car like you hadn’t just verbally burned down a crowd of trained professionals in under ninety seconds.
Bucky followed, somehow still holding the schedule like it was a lifeline, his pulse in his throat.
“You… good?” you asked over your shoulder, casual as hell.
He stared at you like you’d just walked out of a superhero movie.
“I think I need a minute.”
You raised a brow. “Too bad. You’ve got a budget subcommittee call in ten.”
And that was that.
You slid into the car. He followed. Speechless. Spinning. Aroused.
Definitely aroused.
He was completely, completely gone.
The door to the black SUV slammed shut behind him, but Bucky still hadn’t caught his breath.
You were already typing away on your phone, thumbs flying across the screen like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t just verbally suplexed a half-dozen members of the national press with the poise of a Vogue editor and the accuracy of a sniper.
He stared at you.
“You, uh…” he started, then stopped.
You didn’t look up. “Spit it out, Barnes. I’ve got a senator on hold and a lunch order to bully through Postmates.”
He cleared his throat, tugging at the collar of his shirt, still slightly warm from adrenaline. “That was… something.”
You paused, glanced up, one perfectly arched brow rising like a challenge.
“Something?”
He floundered. “I mean, it was… damn. You were like. I don’t even—”
“Again I ask… you good?” you asked, deadpan. “You short-circuiting mid-sentence or just trying to say thank you in the least efficient way possible?”
Bucky blinked, mouth opening, then closing again.
Because the truth was he’d watched you take on that crowd like a one-woman PR army, and somewhere between do y’all even brief before you yell? and he will punch a Nazi, something in his brain fried.
You looked hot when you were angry. Not just pretty—intimidating. Like your words could disarm bombs and rewrite legislation at the same time. Like you didn’t need backup, just better lighting.
He wanted to say all of that.
Instead, he muttered: “You, uh… you ever thought about running for office?”
You snorted. “Why? So I can spend my life getting asked what I was wearing when I dismantled a reporter?”
He smiled despite himself. “I’d vote for you.”
“You’re contractually obligated to,” you said, already turning back to your phone. “I handle your calendar. Don’t get cute.”
He stared at you for another second, heart still hammering like he’d been dropped into a mission zone.
You didn’t look at him again.
But you smirked.
Just slightly.
Like you knew.
The green room smelled like nerves, burnt coffee, and the slow, suffocating panic of public office.
Bucky Barnes was pacing like he was back in a mission briefing—except instead of tactical gear and threat maps, it was a podium, two network cameras, and a press corps that could ruin a man’s legacy with the wrong pull quote.
You, on the other hand, looked like you’d been born in this room just to dominate it.
Sitting on a velvet chair in the corner, you had one leg crossed over the other, heels off, full glam, phone in hand, scrolling through TikTok like it was your lifeblood. Nails fresh. Lashes sharp. Unbothered. Entirely immune to the political stress leaking from the walls.
Bucky looked over for the third time in sixty seconds.
“I don’t think I should open with the tax credit line,” he said, voice low and tight. “It feels... forced. Like I’m trying too hard.”
You didn’t glance up. “You are trying too hard. It’s giving ‘read directly from the pamphlet.’ It’s giving post office PSA.”
He frowned. “What does that even mean?”
You sighed, the kind that said you’d dealt with enough of his old-man questions for one day. Finally, you looked up, setting your phone in your lap.
“It means stop being stiff. Loosen your shoulders. Drop your voice an octave. Talk like you're not addressing a room full of mannequins. You’re not a WWII poster anymore—you’re a congressman with a decaf dependency and a wildly underpaid assistant.”
He blinked, caught between laughing and sulking. “I—”
“Uh-uh.” You raised one finger. “Don’t speak. Reset.”
He inhaled, tried again. “Americans deserve relief that doesn’t require three jobs and a miracle to get by—”
You nodded, finally satisfied. “Better. Less ‘Captain America,’ more ‘guy who teared up at the coffee commercial last week.’ They like when you sound human.”
“That coffee commercial was sad,” he muttered, defensively.
“And that’s exactly why they trust you,” you said, standing and slipping back into your heels like it was part of your battle armor. “You’re not fake. You’re just emotionally constipated and afraid of disappointing everyone. That’s what I’m here for.”
He paused. “You make it sound like I’m broken.”
“You’re not broken.” You fixed the collar of his jacket. “You’re rebranded.”
Bucky opened his mouth. Closed it.
Because you looked incredible. Hair sleek. Dress hugging you like it was custom-cut. That slit was illegal in at least three counties. But before he could blurt something pathetic—like You smell like vanilla and ruthlessness—you were already moving.
You shoved his speech notes into his hand, then offered him a bottle of water like he didn’t just forget how to breathe every time you touched him.
“Sip slowly. No weird throat noises at the mic. And don’t stare at the interpreter this time, she filed a complaint.”
“She did not—”
“She did. I covered it.” You were halfway to the hallway, heels clacking like a countdown clock. “Five minutes. Please try not to become a meme this time.”
He followed, dazed, heart thudding, trying not to stare at the back of your dress like a man starved.
The event was packed. Too packed.
The press conference had just wrapped, the applause still echoing as staffers ushered attendees toward the exit. Bucky had stepped down from the stage, tie slightly loosened, head turned toward you across the room.
You were checking your phone, clipboard under one arm, lips pursed in that way that said, Yes, I heard everything you said, and no, I still think it was weak.
Then it happened.
The shouting started at the back.
At first, it sounded like heckling. Normal. Predictable.
Then it grew louder.
Angrier.
A man shoved past the security barrier, red-faced and screaming. Another climbed onto a chair, holding a megaphone, spitting vitriol.
“Traitor!”
“HYDRA plant!”
“You’re not American, you’re a puppet!”
Bucky’s blood ran cold.
Then came the movement—too fast to be random. Three more men, surging forward through the crowd, coordinated. Too aggressive. Too armed.
The moment his instincts flared, he snapped into gear.
“Everyone out!” he barked, shoving a staffer behind a column, scanning for entry points, exit routes. “Move, move!”
His hand reached instinctively for a weapon that wasn’t there—not since the uniform, not since the missions. But he didn’t need it.
He just needed you.
“Where’s—” he turned, scanning, heart hammering, trying to spot your blazer in the chaos.
And then he froze.
You weren’t hiding.
You weren’t running.
You were standing over a man twice your size with your heel planted between his shoulder blades, one hand gripping his collar, the other fisting the back of his belt as you slammed his face into a table.
BANG.
“I am not the one to mess with,” you shouted, your voice feral, electric, alive. “You redneck motherfucker!”
BANG.
“Keep talkin’. I got time today.”
BANG.
The man made a sound like a dying goose and crumpled.
The others paused. One backed off. The last one raised a fist—only to get elbowed in the throat by you so fast Bucky couldn’t even process it.
You turned, breath heaving, hair half undone, lip gloss smudged, looking like war.
And Bucky?
He stood frozen, surrounded by chaos, heart pounding in his ears—and all he could think was:
Holy. Shit.
You were beautiful. And terrifying.
And he was completely, catastrophically in love.
The second the last attacker hit the floor, Bucky was on you.
You were standing over the man you’d just dropped, breathing hard, blood trickling from a gash on your forearm. Your blazer was ripped at the seam, silk blouse stained.
Your eyes met his, and your face twisted—not in pain.
In indignation.
“This was Valentino!” you snapped, holding up the torn sleeve like it personally betrayed you. “I paid rent money for this blazer!”
Bucky didn’t hear any of it. Not really.
He was already reaching for your wrist, inspecting the bleeding cut. “Come on—we need to get you cleaned up.”
“I’m fine,” you said, trying to wave him off, but he was already dragging you toward the nearest exit, weaving through stunned staffers and security guards who were still trying to make sense of what had just happened.
He shoved open the door to a small conference room and guided you inside. Closed the door.
Then turned on you, jaw tight. “What the hell was that?”
You blinked at him, incredulous. “I was handling it.”
“You are bleeding!”
“I got grazed. Calm down—”
“You think this is about a scratch?” His voice rose. “You could’ve been killed, and I just—damn it, I should’ve protected you.”
You stared at him like he’d grown two heads. “You what?”
“I should’ve been there—should’ve kept you safe—”
“Oh, shut up, Barnes.”
He froze.
“Seriously? You wanted me to wait for you? Let those assholes dogpile me so you could come in all noble and traumatized? I don’t need to be protected.”
“That’s not—!”
“It’s 2027. Women don’t need men to jump in swinging just to feel relevant.”
His mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again, lost in the sputter of a man who’d just been emotionally bitch-slapped with logic.
You let out a slow, tight exhale. “I’m not your mission. I’m not your PR problem. I’m your assistant, and I’m a New Yorker, and if you’d grown up where I did, you’d understand why waiting around to be saved is a luxury some of us never had.”
He said nothing, still stunned.
You held your arm out. “Bandage me if you’re gonna be useful.”
Wordless, still trying to recalibrate, he opened the first aid kit on the wall and started wrapping the cut with more care than necessary. His hands were gentle, precise.
“You scared the hell out of me.”
You blinked. That you’re being ridiculous blink that always made him want to throw things and kiss you at the same time.
Then, calmer now, quieter, he asked, “How do you know how to fight like that?”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
And then you said, like it was obvious, like it was as much a part of you as your name:
“You say you’re from Brooklyn—but it’s clear you never grew up in Brownsville.”
Your eyes held his, fierce and dark and unapologetic.
And Bucky?
He’d never wanted to kiss someone more in his life.
Silence settled between you, heavy and frayed at the edges.
You were still perched on the edge of the table, your wounded arm now wrapped with neat gauze, your ripped blazer folded beside you like a casualty of war. Bucky stood in front of you, breathing uneven, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest.
He didn’t know how to say what was building up inside him.
So he didn’t.
He just leaned in.
His hand hovered near your face. No command. No pressure. Just need.
And then he kissed you.
Soft. Careful. Like the world might shatter if he rushed it.
For one breath, it was perfect.
Then your brow furrowed.
Your palm pressed flat against his chest.
Bucky’s heart bottomed out.
“What the hell are you doing?” you asked, voice cool, sharp, dangerously unreadable.
He froze.
“I—” he stepped back slightly, hand dropping. “I thought—God, I’m sorry. I just—”
Your eyes didn’t soften. If anything, they sharpened.
“I’m your assistant,” you said. “You’re my boss. You’re violating, like, four ethics codes right now. Five if you count how many times you’ve stared at my legs in budget meetings.”
He blinked. “I haven’t—okay, that happened once.”
You raised a brow.
“Twice.”
Your mouth twitched, but you weren’t done.
“I could report you to HR,” you said, calm as ever. “Get you removed for sexual misconduct. Sue you.”
He stumbled back, eyes wide, a pit forming in his gut so deep he nearly doubled over.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable—shit, I swear I wasn’t trying to cross a line—”
You tilted your head, watching him spiral.
Then you murmured, almost thoughtfully, “Your term’s almost over anyway.”
His breath caught. “What?”
And then?
You grabbed him by the collar, yanked him back toward you, and smashed your lips against his.
The kiss was nothing like before.
It was hungry. Commanding. Yours.
Your other hand slid into his hair, tugging him closer, and he groaned into your mouth like he’d been holding that sound back for months. His hands found your waist, gripping tight, anchoring himself to your body like he was afraid you’d vanish.
You kissed him like you were mad about it.
And Bucky kissed you back like he was never going to recover.
There was no hesitation. No slow build. No questioning what this was.
It was you, claiming him.
Your fingers were in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him gasp. Your other hand slid down his chest, nails dragging over the buttons of his dress shirt as you kissed him like you’d been planning to ruin him for weeks.
Maybe you had.
Bucky groaned into your mouth, deep and guttural, pulling you closer, hands gripping your waist so tight he thought he might leave fingerprints. You tasted like gloss and adrenaline, like sweat and something he couldn’t name—something real.
You broke the kiss just long enough to bite his lower lip—hard.
He shuddered.
“Still think I’m gonna file an HR report?” you whispered, voice low, teasing, lethal.
Bucky laughed—breathless, dizzy. “I’m not even sure I can spell HR right now.”
You pushed him back until his legs hit the edge of the conference table.
Then you shoved him.
Not hard. Just enough.
He landed on the tabletop with a soft grunt, eyes wide, hands bracing behind him.
“Off,” you said, fingers already at his tie.
“Jesus,” he muttered, letting you yank it loose.
“Not quite.”
His blazer hit the floor.
Then the shirt. Button by button, you peeled it off like you were unwrapping a problem you planned to solve with your teeth.
He was hard beneath his slacks. Painfully. Obscenely.
You noticed.
“Oh,” you said softly, eyes flicking down. “So you do like a woman in charge.”
“Have you met you?” he rasped.
You climbed onto his lap, straddling him right there on the table, grinding down slow and firm. His head fell back with a groan, hands flying to your hips, gripping like he was drowning.
“Touch me,” you said.
He did.
Everywhere.
And he was so gone for you.
You ground down on him again, slower this time, your hands planted on his chest, dress hiked up, his belt digging into your thigh. His hands gripped your hips like he wasn’t sure if he was guiding you or just hanging on.
Bucky's breath came in ragged pulls. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Maybe,” you whispered, lips brushing his. “But you’ll die happy.”
You kissed him again—slower, deeper, tongue sliding into his mouth with a confidence that made his spine arch. He felt like he was melting, hands skimming up your sides, over your back, desperate to touch, to anchor.
And then you pulled back.
Stood up between his knees.
Hiked your skirt up higher.
No underwear.
He made a sound—low, guttural, almost a prayer.
You grinned.
Then you undid his belt. Slow. Deliberate. Let the metal clink open, dragged his zipper down with one nail, and reached into his briefs to free him.
He hissed through his teeth when your hand wrapped around him, stroking once, then again, firm and slow and utterly in control. You looked down at him like you were studying something you planned to break and rebuild better.
“You been hard for me since the press room?”
“Since our briefing,” he groaned.
You climbed back into his lap and lined him up with your entrance, teasing the tip against your folds, dragging it through your slick with a roll of your hips.
“You’re so lucky I like older guys.”
And then you sank down.
Slow.
Deep.
All of him.
He choked on a gasp, head falling forward against your shoulder, arms wrapping around you like his whole body had just been plugged into a power grid.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “You feel so good—so fucking tight.”
You rolled your hips once—hard—and he whined.
“Look at me,” you said.
He did.
And the look on your face?
Smug. Wild. Unapologetic.
You started to move.
Up and down, grinding, hips snapping, thighs strong as you rode him like you owned him—and maybe you did. His mouth parted, hands clutching your ass, eyes locked on your face as you took him faster, harder, moaning softly every time he hit just right.
“You gonna come, congressman?” you teased, voice breathy. “Gonna fall apart for your assistant like a cliché?”
He laughed—barely. “Already did.”
And when your nails dug into his shoulders and your rhythm stuttered, when your moan turned breathless and high and he felt you clench around him—
He lost it.
He groaned loud and long, spilling inside you as his vision blurred, body shaking beneath your grip.
You kissed him through it, slow and deep, hips still rocking until his hands went limp and his head dropped to your shoulder.
summary: you and bucky finally discuss what your relationship is.
warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, oral (male receiving), riding, language, bucky's kinda? submissive, angst, fluff, happy ending! yippee!, no use of y/n, alternating pov's, bucky briefly gets in his head with the self loathing, he stalks for like two seconds, peter is your best friend now!
word count: 7.8k
a/n: its over :') what am i to DOOOOOOOO i will miss this characterization of reader i thought she was so funny lmfao idk if anyone does this but i legit made myself giggle more than a few times
previous chapter | masterlist
Bucky couldn’t bring himself to approach her in the upcoming days. He was home, and realized quickly that he shouldn’t be avoiding the apartment he paid for to hide in the compound because he was afraid of a little confrontation. Or rejection, actually. Bucky was very clearly hellbent on the fact that this was a rejection waiting to happen.
Even when he was in his apartment, he stayed silent. He didn’t want her to know he was home. He knew it was foolish, stupid, that he was just delaying the inevitable, but he couldn’t help himself. Bucky was at a loss.
It wasn’t difficult for Bucky to find out that she had finally gotten a new lab and new sponsor– both of which were long term commitments written out by contract that would not be broken any time soon. It also wasn’t that hard to find out that Peter was her only teammate helping her work on her technology.
How close were the two of them able to get in his absence? They had to be close enough, he realized, for her to have gone out drinking with the guy then bring him home.
Bucky didn’t even want to imagine what happened once they crossed the threshold of her apartment door. Did anything else happen where he couldn’t hear? Did things progress quickly between the two of them? Was there someone else that she looked at with that fond smile and sparkling eyes that he adored?
Bucky was never an insecure man. Though he had baggage and some self loathing issues, he had no issue with himself in terms of appearance. Sam never stopped reminding him, either. Yet, this boy, this other man seemed to fit her side much better.
Another university student, much closer to age to her than he would ever be. This kid understood technology, and the two of them would be able to bond over their shared love of science on a level that he wouldn’t be able to converse with her on. Peter looked softer, kinder, and seemed much more gentle than he could ever be. Bucky even looked into Peter’s background, just to make sure that he wasn’t secretly a criminal. Bucky’s heart dropped when he realized he couldn’t even hate the kid. There was nothing that he had done wrong in his entire life.
So, Bucky watched from afar. He felt like some sort of fucking stalker doing this, but he couldn’t help himself. If she was happy with someone else, then who was he to deny her of that happiness? He watched as the two of them would grab lunch together in between research and classes. He felt every inch of pain radiate through his body when she would laugh at something that kid said, and hate seeing the smile on her face– hate that it wasn’t him that she was smiling for.
Peter was a stable choice for her, Bucky decided on his own. Perhaps it would be better for her to find someone normal, he thought. Someone that wouldn’t leave her behind for days to weeks at a time because the world needed him, when all he wanted to do was stay by her side. Bucky realized that he wouldn’t be able to provide her the stability that she deserved, no matter how hard he would try to provide it to her.
“So your boyfriend–”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“So your not-boyfriend, hot neighbor that you’re sleeping with goes on business trips that call for absolute silence, and you’re still pining for him? Am I getting this right?” Peter asked you with a raised eyebrow.
You let out a deep sigh, burying your face in your hands. “You make it sound so bad.”
“I’m not gonna lie… I think that’s kinda bad. Really bad,” Peter said, giving you a look from across the lab table. You groaned deeply.
“Why did I even ask you for advice if you were just gonna point out the obvious?” you asked him with a frown.
“Well, hold on. I’m still trying to process this,” Peter said quickly, crossing his arms over his chest as he sat up straight on the lab stool. “Have you tried texting him first? Calling him?”
“I mean– I did. The other day,” you admit– because you did. You texted him in the middle of the day, hoping that wherever he was the sun was also out. It wasn’t anything large or grand, but just a simple question.
Are you doing okay?
Your phone alerted you that your message was not delivered almost immediately. Multiple scenarios were running through your mind at the time. Maybe his phone was dead or turned off. Dead, since Bucky’s possibly always on the move during his missions. Turned off so there would be no signal interference, or maybe someone was tracking his phone and he needed to go off the radar.
Or maybe, he blocked your number. He didn’t want to talk to you anymore.
You didn’t even think of the possibility that he was dead somewhere. It was the most unlikely scenario to you. Bucky, in all his glory and strength, couldn’t die. Maybe he would sustain one bad injury every once in a while, but the super soldier was resilient.
You were more than certain that he blocked you.
“And what? Nothing in return?”
“He can’t have his phone with him during these… business deals…” you said slowly, trying to find the right words to describe his job. Honestly, you might be making Bucky sound like even more of an asshole by not being truthful about his job, but you can’t just expose him like that.
“Right… Why? Did he ever say that? Tell you why he can’t?”
“It’s sensitive information that he deals with.” You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant about the fact the man you have a crush on has a metal arm, and was recently a wanted criminal all over the world.
“Do you realize how insane you sound?” Peter asked, giving you a look of concern.
“Yes! Okay, God– Can you be better at girl talk? Why do all guys try to solve the issue at hand when girls complain? I just want you to listen to me, agree that it’s a problem, and then whine with me!” you exclaimed at him.
“I’ve never had girl talk before, so I’m also learning the fundamentals on how this works,” he quickly said.
“Did MJ not ever complain to you about issues she had with her friends?” you frowned at him.
“Well, MJ was kinda a self made loner,” Peter said, a small smile coming onto his face as he recalled memories of his maybe-ex-girlfriend. “She became friends with my best friend because I introduced them. Otherwise, it was just the three of us together. She didn’t really have other friends to complain about.”
“Why don’t you get Dr. Strange to undo the spell he did?” you sighed, running your hand through your hair.
“Because it would destroy the multiverse. Weren’t you listening when I told you?” Peter asked, frowning.
“I mean, I was, but I still think you’re full of shit,” you tell him. “Come in here with the suit on and then I might believe you.”
Peter sighed deeply and rolled his eyes, but there’s a smile on his face.
The two of you had gotten especially close after that night you went drinking. He crashed on your sofa after you dragged him up the five flights of stairs, and thankfully did not throw up everywhere. When you woke up, he seemed to remember what he had told you the night before and looked absolutely horrified that you knew his ‘secret.’
After telling him that you didn’t really believe a drunk man’s words, he ended up confessing to you about the whole situation. You’d be lying if you said you understood everything right away. The multiverse? Different versions of him coming to Earth, along with other enemies that were going to threaten the collapse of all universes?
Then again, you remember Thanos and being snapped out of existence, so maybe it wasn’t such a far fetched story in the end.
Either way, it seemed like a weight had been lifted from Peter’s shoulders after he confessed it to you– to somebody. You still weren’t sure if you believed it, but the look of desperation on his face was enough for you to tell him that you were someone that wouldn’t forget him. He cried that morning, saying that he’d felt so alone for so long.
You felt a sort of kinship with the guy.
“How many times have you contacted him since he left?” Peter asked, bringing you out of your thoughts.
“Just… once,” you muttered, looking away. You can feel the weight of Peter’s eyes on you, taking in the two words that you managed to force out.
“Are you sure that you like him?”
“I don’t like your accusatory tone right now, Parker,” you said, head turning to look at him again. The boy raises an eyebrow at you, waiting for you to explain yourself. You sigh deeply. “I– I’m not his girlfriend, you know? What if I’m clingy about it? If I start texting him all the time when he’s gone, then what does that look like? What if I bother him?”
Peter sighed deeply. “I honestly don’t even know what to say about this. I’m bad at relationships, but this just seems messy in a way that I can’t help.”
“Ugh,” you groaned, dropping your head onto the lab table.
At the very least, finally being able to talk to someone about all of this made your shoulders feel lighter. Peter, despite his comments, had no judgement in his eyes. Honestly, you think he’s just worried for you. Which, you can’t even be mad about. If this were someone else’s situation, you would be reacting the same exact way that Peter was.
“Alright, let’s go,” he said with a sigh, standing up.
“Where?” you asked with a sad frown.
“To the deli. I realize that girl talk makes me hungry.”
You let out a scoff at that, but move to grab your things as well. You shove some notebooks into your bag as well as a couple of other trinkets that you’ll work on at home tonight, and you pick up your phone. You swallow as you tap on the screen, watching it come to life.
You can’t hide the disappointment on your face.
No new notifications.
Your phone gets shoved to the deepest part of your bookbag as you follow Peter out the door. You have no appetite to eat. You haven’t had an appetite the past four weeks at all. You know that Peter would break down your apartment door if you didn’t join him to eat at least once a day whenever you guys were together– which was almost every single day at this point. You were certain that you saw his face more than you saw your own in a mirror.
“What if he hates me?” you suddenly asked him.
“Oh my God. Please, no more,” he begged you, sincere.
Peter walked you back to your apartment after the two of you ate at the deli. The sun was going down, and it was a common occurrence for him to bring you home on the late nights that you guys worked together.
“Spider-Man things,” he said with a shrug. “I feel better knowing that you got home safe.”
“Friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, huh?” you chuckled as you got up to the fifth floor. You’re unlocking the door when Peter grabs your arm, stopping you.
“You said your neighbor isn’t home, right?” he asked, frowning.
“He normally texts me when he is,” you nod. “Which he hasn’t.”
“I can hear movement on the inside of his apartment,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper as he stared at Bucky’s door. You pause, trying to focus on your own hearing. You don’t hear jack shit. You turn back to him with a frown of your own, and he lets out a deep sigh. “Spidey senses.”
“Spidey senses,” you repeat, your voice dry. “What’s next? You're gonna tell me the deli meat was two hours from expiring because of Spidey taste buds?”
“Okay, founder of regenerative nanotechnological medicine, I’m sorry that I don’t have long scientific names to explain what my abilities are!” he hissed at you.
“It’s just a little hard to believe that you’re fucking Spider-Man when you refuse to stick onto the wall like a spider!” you hiss back. You’re not even sure why the two of you are whispering. Bucky isn’t here.
“Oh my God, is that what it’ll take for you to believe me? For me to hang upside down on the ceiling?”
“Wouldn’t that make you Batman?” you asked, fighting a grin.
“HA! HA!” he laughed sarcastically at you, with just those two syllables.
You’re about to burst out into real laughter when the door beside yours opens. You both freeze, turning to the door. Your mouth falls agape, staring. Bucky’s there, staring right back at you– staring at where Peter has a hand on your arm.
“Buck–”
“Your boyfriend is the Winter fucking Soldier?” Peter asked, cutting you off. Your head whips over to him now, eyes wide in panic and shock.
“What the fuck! Keep your voice down!” you whisper-shout at him. “How the hell do you know that–”
“Holy shit! You got a vibranium arm now, too? I thought King T’Challa hated you,” Peter continued, ignoring you to stare at Bucky’s metal arm.
You’re staring at him, more confusion painting your features as you do. Then, Peter turns to face you, pointing at Bucky.
“I fought him, as Spider-Man. Do you remember that Sokovia Accords bullshit? I was on Iron Man’s side,” he quickly tells you, and there's a notable excitement in his voice. “I was like, fifteen years old, and he punched me real hard a couple times. Steve, too. I had a black eye for like, two weeks.”
You take a deep breath, your mind spinning. “Peter. What the fuck ar you talking about?”
“Don’t Peter me!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “You made him seem like such an asshole, ignoring your texts for a business trip? You could’ve just said it was the Winter Soldier and I would’ve understood why he has to fucking ignore you when he’s on those so-called business trips!”
“Peter–”
“You texted me?” Bucky asked, his voice soft, cutting the two of you off. Your breath hitches as you turn to look at him again, and you nod wordlessly. Bucky blinks at you, eyebrows furrowing. “My phone… is in the ocean, somewhere. I have a new number– just got a new phone the other day.”
“See!?” Peter exclaimed. “The Winter Soldier– oh my God. You’re insufferable, you know that? You really could’ve just said it was him–”
“You’re so fucking loud, we’re in the middle of the hallway, Parker,” you hissed, pushing your door open to shove Peter inside. “Why don’t you just announce his identity to the rest of the damn building?”
“Sorry, Sergeant!” Peter called out to him from inside your apartment. Then, he takes the door from you, and gently pushes you further into the hall while taking your bag and keys from you. “You go talk to him though. I’ll work on the regenerative piece.”
Then, he’s closing your own door in your face, leaving you in the hallway with Bucky still staring at you. Your mind is still spinning at how fast everything just happened, the amount of information that was just thrown at you, and you bury your face in your hands. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself.
“Do you want to come inside?” Bucky suddenly asked, his voice still soft. You lift your face out of your hands to look at him. He’s already opened the door wider for you to come in, and stepped to the side as well.
He looks… exhausted. It’s not the same sort of tired that he usually looks when he comes back from a mission, either. This is different. It makes your chest hurt to see him like this.
“Yeah,” you breathe, and move to enter his apartment.
You can’t help but feel a bit awkward in his apartment. You’re not sure why. The air is different for some reason. Tense. You try to be natural, moving towards his couch like you always do, and sit down. You try not to notice the way that he’s basically dragging his feet to join you, avoiding your eyes.
“I’m sorry about… him. Peter, I mean,” you finally speak, clearing your throat. Your leg is bouncing up and down, your throat feels like it’s about to close in on you, and your hands are becoming clammy.
Bucky’s quiet. He’s leaned forward, elbows on his knees, flesh and metal fingers interlaced tightly. His gaze is trained on the wall, the coffee table, his feet. Everywhere but you. You begin to feel a bit restless.
“I didn’t– I didn’t tell him anything about you like that. I mean, I talked about you to him, but I didn’t tell him who you were. I was talking about us, and how worried I was that you were gone and that I haven’t heard from you in a while– I never said that you were an asshole,” you quickly said, and you feel like you’re rambling. Your voice dies out on your tongue as you stare at your own fidgeting hands.
“You told him that I was your boyfriend?” Bucky asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He’s still not looking at you. Your heart quickens in your chest. Did he hate it? Hate the idea of it?
“No!” you exclaimed immediately, feeling your face turn red with embarrassment. “I said you were my neighbor and we had something going on and that I wouldn’t mind if you became my boyfriend but I– I didn’t say…”
A strange silence fell between the two of you. You didn’t necessarily feel uncomfortable, but you would be lying if you said that you felt comfortable, too. This was the longest that you had ever been in Bucky’s presence and he hadn’t looked at you. You were used to being under his constant watch, every movement and shift of your body being quietly recorded into his head.
“Bucky?” you whispered, swallowing thickly. “Was… Did the mission go well?”
You can’t think of any other reason for him to be acting like this, truthfully. Something must have happened for him to be acting like this. He said he got a new phone the other day, meaning that he was home. He was home, and he just didn’t want to see you. You lived right next to him, and you didn’t even know he was there.
“Are you hurt anywhere?” you tried next. Your eyes scanned his body. You didn’t see any wounds on him, but then again he had already been home for a couple of days. He would have already healed all the minor injuries.
You felt like you were talking to a wall. There was no response from him. He didn’t even move to indicate that he had heard your words. Nothing about this was natural or normal behavior. You wanted to be upset that he didn’t let you know that he was here– ask why he didn’t think to contact you immediately.
But you didn’t have that right to demand that from him.
So, you sat there silently. Waiting. You watched him carefully. The only telltale sign that he was even here in front of you was the slight movement in his chest to let you know that he was breathing. Every second that passed felt like an hour in the room. Yet, you decided you would hold on, and patiently sit there until he gathered his thoughts to be able to speak to you.
“I thought you and that kid were involved.”
You recoiled at his words, eyebrows furrowing. “Peter?”
“I saw you both. Saw you bring him to your apartment when he was drunk,” he confessed, burying his face in his hands. “I thought you replaced me while I was gone, so I didn’t want to bother you. Then today, I heard you two talking outside– and I just… I wanted to see your face.”
“Wait,” you said, blinking. “You avoided me because you were jealous?”
“I thought you were dating him, doll. Not just jealous,” he corrected, sighing deeply.
“Dating– in just three weeks?” you asked, even more confused. “We’ve been seeing each other for almost much longer than that, and we aren’t even official–”
“That’s why!” he exclaimed, finally turning to look at you. “That is exactly why!”
“There’s no way you’re trying to say that I deserve better. Are you?” you ask, eyebrows raised. The way Bucky’s jaw clenched told you all that you needed to know. “Bucky. Are you serious?’
“He’s a good kid,” he dismissed, looking down. “Smart. Bright future. A bit of a tragic past, but you seem to attract people that are mildly to severely depressed anyways–”
“You did a background check on him?” you cut him off, eyes wide.
“I needed to make sure that he wasn’t a psychopath with mental issues that would kill you!”
“Do you hear yourself right now?” you asked.
“Yes, so that’s what I’m saying– he would be a much better fit. He helps you with your research and he’s apparently fucking Spider-Man which has yet to be proven–”
“I’m not attracted to him! Did you not hear any of that conversation out there? I talk about you to him. Extensively! He listens to me complain and whine about the fact that I miss you!”
“That doesn’t change the fact that he is a much better choice!”
“Is that what you want? You want me to walk out of here and choose somebody else?!” you demanded, standing up. You were heading towards the door, trying to prove your point when he grabbed your arm, forcing you to stop.
“No! I don’t! Why would I ever want that?!” Bucky shouted back at you. He looked scandalized, as if you’d asked him to wear a maid costume in the middle of Central Park.
“Then what do you want?!”
“You! I want you!”
“I’m yours, Bucky! I’m already yours, what don’t you understand?!”
“What– just like that?”
“Yes, just like that!”
“Fine!” he scoffed.
“Fine!” you mocked.
The exchange happened so fast, so quick. You two were staring at each other, breathing heavily. Then, he released your arm, dragging a hand down his face in frustration as he took a deep, controlled breath. His eyebrows were pinched close together as he tried to gather himself.
“This isn’t how I wanted this to go,” he murmured.
“How you wanted what to go?” you frowned. “Your self deprecating, loathing speech or this stupid argument?”
“Well, I didn’t want either of these to happen at all, but that’s not what I’m talking about,” Bucky sighed, shaking his head as he dropped his hands to his sides. “I… God. I just– I missed you.”
“And I missed you,” you said, your body relaxing from tension you didn’t know you were holding.
Bucky clenched his jaw, and swallowed. “You weren’t mine. Officially, at least. So if you found someone else while I was gone, then I figured that I couldn’t have a say in it. That it was my fault for just… disappearing this time for three, four weeks.”
“The way I looked at it,” you sighed, “I couldn’t be mad that you didn’t tell me anything. I figured the silence was for your safety.”
“Yours, actually,” he shook his head. “There was a possibility of my phone getting tracked, and I didn’t want anyone being able to get back to you. Which is why my phone ended up in the ocean– it was compromised. Took the battery out and removed the SIM and threw everything out after shattering it.”
“But other than that?” you asked softly, feeling worry course through your veins. “You’re okay?”
“Mission’s over. Chapter closed,” he reported, letting out a breath. “Minor injuries, but nothing that hasn’t already gone away. I’ll be home for a while. Nothing’s on the books right now.”
You nodded slowly, sighing in relief. That was all you wanted– not him staying home, but just knowing that he was safe.
“And… us,” you said softly. “What about us? Where do we go from here? Because I really don’t know if I can handle another month of silence like this. I’m not asking for daily updates or classified information. I just want to know that you’re alive, Bucky.”
“I can do that,” he quickly said, hands reaching for you. They rested on your arms, and his eyes locked with yours. “We can get encrypted phones that send scrambled data so even if there were someone trying to track messages, they wouldn’t be able to trace ours– no one would be able to get to you. I already have a few people keeping an eye on a couple of your lines to ensure your safety, and will have them report to me if there’s a flag somewhere.”
You blinked. “What– Right now?”
Bucky paused, his mouth falling open briefly he closed his eyes tight. “I… also needed to make sure you were safe while I was gone. My line of work isn’t the best thing, doll. I might be doing good things, but there are some fucked up people that would do anything to stop me and the people I work with.”
“No, I mean… We’re not even… together. Why would you go that far for me?”
“So?” he frowned at you. “You’re important to me. I don’t want anything to happen to you regardless.”
“Bucky, how deep are your feelings for me?” you asked, your heart pounding in your chest.
“Doll, I’m falling so hard for you and I never want to stop,” he answered immediately. “I think you’re it for me.”
“And you were going to let me go?”
“I just want you to be happy. With or without me– and with what I do for work, I can’t blame you if you end up choosing to walk away from me. I know you plan for the future, and everything you do is carefully thought out. I just… I don’t want to hold you back from anything.”
You were at a loss for words. He was sincere. Both the tone of his voice and the look on his face let you know that. You couldn’t even conjure up a simple sentence to reply to his confession– the feelings that you wanted to hear from him. So, you reached for him instead. You pulled him down to you, angling your head up towards him into a devastating kiss. He reciprocated immediately.
You missed him so much.
One arm wrapped around your waist, the other one snaking up your back to have his hand cradle your neck to deepen the kiss as he held you even tighter to him. You sighed against him, and he took the opportunity to slip his tongue into your lips.
“Doll? Does this mean–”
“You’re mine, Sarge,” you confirmed, a little breathless. “Lost your chance to get rid of me.”
“Wouldn’t ever dream of it,” he chuckled, a smile ghosting on his lips as he caught you in another kiss.
You both tumbled into his bedroom, clothes being haphazardly shed as you two made your way there. His shirt came off first. Yours followed quickly after. While you undid the ties of his sweatpants and began to shove them down his legs for him to step out of, Bucky unclasped your bra and threw the underwear somewhere off to the side that you weren’t even sure that you would find later. Your jeans came off last, and you were thankful you wore something baggier today to be able to shimmy off easily.
Your hands ran all over his body, feeling for any cuts, maybe any swelling. To your relief, you saw none. You squeezed his sides experimentally to test if he would flinch slightly under your grasp, and quietly thanked every deity out there when he didn’t react.
He laid you down onto the bed, only for you to use every ounce of your own strength to flip the two of you over. You straddled him now, but did not sit fully on top of him. You simply hovered, keeping your weight off of him.
“What are you doing, baby?” he chuckled, hands resting on your thighs.
“I’m still mad,” you said with a fake, deep sigh. A hand rested on his neck, then slowly trailed down to his collarbone. “I don’t really think you get to touch me tonight.”
“No?” he asked, eyebrow raising.
“No,” you echoed, a small smile playing on your lips as your hand continued its journey down his sternum, moving to feel the ripples of his abdomen under your fingertips. You hummed in approval, stopping at the waistband of his briefs. “If you touch me, I might just pack up and leave. Go back home. Peter’s waiting for me, after all. We were supposed to finish the antiseptic release component of our second prototype for the regenerative nanotech. I’ll probably just send him home early and use that vibrator that you hate so much.”
“You’ll be the death of me,” he whispered. Your hand moved slowly, just ghosting over the length of him. He was already hard.
“You always get so excited for me, so easily,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him.
“What can I say? You have that effect on me,” he grunted, his hips bucking up to meet your hand. Your other hand moved, pressing against his thigh.
“Nuh uh,” you clicked your tongue at him. He groaned, closing his eyes tight.
“Doll.”
“Just relax, Sarge. Let me take care of you for once. The mission was long, right? I made you stressed out and jealous, right? I wanna show you how much I really like you,” you hummed, grinning at him.
Bucky let out a shaky breath, “You said no touching?”
“No touching,” you confirmed.
“Fuck,” he grunted, removing his hands from your thighs. You beamed at him, pressing your hand against his length fully now. At the same time, you pressed your chest against his as your lips attached to skin where his neck met his shoulder. Bucky let out a soft groan, moving his head to the side to grant you more access to him.
You had to admit, this was different. You hadn’t expected him to let you just take over like this without a fight. All the other times you spent with Bucky, he never gave you the impression that he would want to be in this position. Maybe today was just a special day.
You left a dark bruise on his neck. Happy with your work, you gave him another one on his collarbone, and another one on his chest. Then, you slipped your hand under the waistband of his underwear to touch him directly. Bucky moaned softly at the first contact, eyes closing shut as you took him in your hand, slowly spreading the precum from the tip of his cock down the sides and starting a lazy pace.
He was so pretty like this. You never really had the chance to admire him while he was in such a vulnerable state. Bucky was always so focused on you, getting you to be in this kind of headspace. You could see why. You could get addicted to seeing him like this.
You moved once more, kissing lower and lower.
“Buck, help,” you murmured, tugging on his briefs with your free hand. He opened his eyes to look down at you, where you were. His eyes went wide, just slightly.
“Jesus, doll,” he moaned. “You gonna suck me off?”
You gave him a nonchalant shrug. “Wanna taste.”
“Shit,” Bucky whispered, but lifted his hips up slightly for you to help remove the last piece of clothing off of his body. The thick length of him hit his stomach with a soft thud, and you stared for just a moment, feeling your stomach jump at the sight. Your own walls clenched over nothing, but you ignored it for now.
You reached for him once more, holding him at the base loosely. You watched him as you licked a thin strip up from the base of his cock all the way up to the tip, seeing his eyes close tight, watching him fist the sheets by his side. Then, you licked up the cum that had leaked out as you had stroked him earlier. You moaned at the saltiness of him– he tasted exactly like you thought he would.
His chest was falling and rising at a faster rate now.
Bucky’s jaw clenched as your lips closed around the tip of him, and he swallowed thickly as you started to take him in deeper. You may have been way over your head. You thought you knew the length and size of him from him being inside of you multiple times, but fuck he was large. You opened your mouth wide to take him in, your jaw already beginning to ache as you sucked your cheeks in to create a seal.
When you finally fit him, you started to move, bobbing your head up and down while keeping your tongue flat against him.
“You’re so good, sweetheart,” he praised from above you, his voice coming out as a wrecked noise.
You hummed from beneath him, his hips jolting in response to the vibration. The tip of him hit the back of your throat, and you choked, freezing in place as you tried to calm yourself down. Bucky, on the other hand, reacted positively to the feeling of being in your throat. His thighs clenched under your hands and his abs tensed.
You forced your throat to relax, and you reached for one of his hands. You could feel the hesitation when you touched him, but he allowed you to guide him to your head– and he weaved his fingers through your hair as you took him deeper into your mouth. Your eyes prickled with tears that ran down the sides of your cheeks, but you couldn’t seem to care with the reactions that he was giving you.
“Oh, fuck!” Bucky moaned out your name, his hand tightening around your hair as he pushed. You moaned into him, eyes falling shut as you kept moving. You didn’t want to stop, not when he was this responsive. He was damn near trembling underneath you, moaning like you’d never heard before. You were high on endorphins and he hadn’t even touched you yet.
Then, you felt it. The jump and twitch in his cock that you often felt inside of you– the telltale sign that he was going to cum. You heard the broken moan fall from his lips next, another indicator. You wanted it. You wanted to taste all of him.
“I can’t– Shit– Baby, I’m gonna cum,” he warned you, his voice coming out broken and desperate. You moaned around him, trying to tell him that it was okay and to please cum. You weren’t sure if it was the vibration from your throat or if he understood, but he was moaning your name a moment later.
You always loved the feel of him filling you up to the brim. This was a different feeling, and you loved it all the same. The salty bitterness of it was delightful, and you swallowed up every drop greedily. It came out in thick, hot spurts, filling your mouth so full that you thought you were going to leak out from the corners of your lips.
When you finally released Bucky from your mouth, he looked down at you, breathless.
“You okay?” you asked, your voice coming out slightly hoarse from having him in your throat. Bucky stared at you for a few moments before you were both sitting up.
You were pulled into his lap, legs on either side of his hips, his mouth on yours. If he cared about tasting his own release, he didn’t voice it. His tongue was on yours, licking into your mouth like a man on a mission.
“Gotta be inside you, doll. Please? Let me touch you now?” he begged, kissing down your neck. A shiver ran down your body at the sound of his voice. He was so needy.
“Wanna ride you,” you told him, reaching between your bodies to feel him– he was already hard again, as if he didn’t just release a fat load into your mouth. His refractory period was always short.
You pushed against his chest next, his back hitting the headboard as you quickly moved. You took off the final piece of clothing that separated the two of you, discarding your underwear somewhere to the side. Bucky groaned at the sight of your pussy glistening, exposed to him.
You positioned yourself over him, both of you letting out a soft moan as you let him slide against your folds, wetting him with your own juices for a few moments. His hands rested on your hips as you did, but he took no charge in moving you. You finally shifted properly, catching the tip of him in your entrance, slowly sinking down on him.
You hadn’t had him in a month.
The stretch was delicious, your eyes falling shut, your moan mixing with his as your forehead rested against Bucky’s. His hands tightened on your hips, letting you know how much he was being affected by just the feel of you surrounding him like this. He waited for you to be ready, to move first.
You grinded against him experimentally, whimpering at the feeling. Then, you started. You lifted your hips, then slammed back down onto him. You watched as his head hit back against the headrest, his eyes closing shut as you fucked yourself on his cock.
“You feel so good,” you whispered, your head dropping onto his shoulder.
“Yeah? Let me make you feel better, baby,” he grunted. “Let me fuck you even better.”
You weren’t the most athletic person ever. Your thighs were beginning to burn, your legs were getting tired, your core was getting sore– and you wanted Bucky to fuck you. But you wanted to watch him like this just a little bit longer.
“Mm… Not yet,” you said, letting out a breathy giggle as you ground your hips against his again.
“Fuck,” he groaned, leaning his head against yours. He started rubbing circles into your hips with his thumbs, trying to coax you as you continued to ride him. “Come on, baby. I know you love it when I fuck you– when I play with your clit and press against your stomach. You want me to do that for you? I’ll fuck you through your orgasm, make you cum again and again for me. It’ll feel so good, doll.”
You whimpered at his words, eyes rolling back. You were breaking. You did want that.
“I’ll put a pillow under your hips, too. It’ll let me hit inside you deeper. You always ask for me to go deeper, don’t you?” he continued, voice low and lips close to your ear. “Always want me so hard and deep– never fast. Just always wanting to feel all of me.”
“Bucky,” you moaned, gripping onto his forearms.
“Just let me know when, pretty girl. Tell me when, and I’ll take such good care of you,” he promised, squeezing your hip again.
You let out another breathy moan, contemplating your options, recognizing your burning hips… Then nodded. A moment later, you were on your back with a pillow folded in half under your hips– and Bucky snapped his hips into you with enough force to move the bed a couple inches.
“There you go,” Bucky whispered, eyes roaming all over your figure as he set a slow, yet punishing pace. He fulfilled everything he said he would.
His fingers were dancing on your clit, another hand was pressed against your abdomen, he was fucking into you hard and deep– everything to make you fall apart as quickly as possible on his cock.
“It’s too much,” you gasped, eyes falling shut.
Bucky chuckled from above you. “Too much? You wanted this, doll. Do you want me to stop?”
You shook your head violently, unable to find the words. You gripped at the pillows at your head, feeling the thread within you begin to pull taut as Bucky continued to play your body like a well tuned instrument. At this point, he might as well be a master at your body.
Bucky knew your body better than you knew it.
You didn’t even need to tell him that you were about to cum– he was already moving faster, trying to get you to the end quicker. He never stopped fucking you as your body tensed under his. Bucky moaned, hips stuttering as your walls clenched and fluttered over his cock deliciously.
“Bucky, please,” you moaned, grabbing at him as your hips moved to meet with his. “More–!”
“Don’t worry, doll. I’m not finished with you yet,” he whispered, his voice thick with need.
“Personally, I think it would be smarter for both of you to just move to the compound. Safer, too,” Sam said as he helped carry the last of the boxes into the truck downstairs.
“And see you every single day? No,” Bucky said, crossing his arms.
“The new apartment is closer to the lab, anyways,” you said, smiling at Sam. “Bigger place than either of these spaces, so it’ll be good!”
“Which means you won’t have to bring work home then,” Peter said, sounding hopeful.
You made a face at that. “If anything, I think I might end up at the lab earlier and later because I live closer.”
“Peter, change the codes in the lab every once in a while,” Bucky told him. You froze. Peter nodded immediately. “Don’t let her do that.”
Neither man would listen to your protest as Bucky escorted you into his car– Steve’s old car. Both Peter and Sam piled into the back as Bucky got into the driver’s seat, the moving truck driver following behind you guys as you moved to your new apartment.
The space was definitely bigger, and it was a nicer place. You found out there were some great financial benefits to whatever mission Bucky had last went on, and even more financial benefits that Bucky hadn’t even touched that the Wakandans had given him when he had left their kingdom to come back to the states. You had originally protested the idea of using the savings, but he insisted, saying that he didn’t have anything to spend it on to begin with and there was nothing more that he wanted but to spend it on you.
Besides that, the two of you were already living together already. If you weren’t at his place, he was at yours. There was no logical reason for the two of you to be paying for two apartments at this point, so you looked for a bigger space. One that would allow you to be able to do some work from home if you ever ended up without a lab, and a space for Bucky to be able to have some peace and quiet away from the world that he lived in.
Sam and Peter were here just to help bring boxes up to your new place, which had an elevator. Most of these boxes were yours, anyway. Other than the couch, coffee table, and the bed, all of the furniture was yours.
It took the two of you the entire weekend to unpack, and another weekend to decorate .
“This is why I didn’t decorate before. Takes too damn long,” he murmured.
“Is that it, or you just didn’t know what to add?” you asked with a grin.
You didn’t want to make the space look like a museum, but you wanted to bring back pieces that you thought Bucky would appreciate. You had an old record player that was rigged up in a way to be able to play both old record vinyls and connect to bluetooth, as well as forties vinyl records to match it. You included a copy of The Hobbit on the bookshelf next to your textbooks. There were some plants around as well, something to brighten up the space and give Bucky something to do and take care of when you were at the lab.
As you placed the last picture on the wall– memorabilia of Captain America– you felt Bucky’s arms slide around your waist. Then, his lips were pressing against your shoulder, your neck, and your cheek.
“Hi,” you hummed, leaning into his touch.
“Hey,” he whispered back.
You paused at the tone of his voice, and turned in his arms. Your eyebrows furrowed in worry when you saw his face. His eyes were glassy, his own eyebrows knitted together as well.
“Buck?” you asked, holding his face in your hands. “What’s going on?”
“I love you.”
If he wasn’t already holding you, you were sure you would have fallen over at his confession. Fainted even. However, there was still something else to address at this moment.
“You’re crying because you love me?” you asked, blinking. The confusion must have been evident on your face because he let out a soft laugh, shaking his head.
“No, doll. I'm crying because I’m happy. Overwhelmed. I didn’t think that I would be able to get this in my life. Get someone like you,” he said, smiling. A tear slipped down his cheek, colliding with your thumb. “I feel so damn lucky to have you in my arms every day. I just… I love you so much. You don’t know how much I love you. I think I’ll spend the rest of our lives together trying to prove how much I love you.”
You let out a soft sigh, eyes scanning his face. You smiled back at him, feeling your own emotions begin to get the better of you.
“I love you, too, Bucky,” you grinned at him. “Thank you for taking care of me when I was drunk that night.”
Bucky rolled his eyes at your words, then pushed his forehead against yours. “You are an awful drunk, you know that?”
“Can’t be too bad though, since you fell for me,” you giggled, pressing a kiss to his lips.
Bucky scoffed, “Yeah, sure. That’s what made me fall for you.”
“Looks like I can’t go out drinking anymore. Wouldn’t want more people falling for me,” you joked.
“Mm… Let them fall, doll,” Bucky hummed. “Doesn’t matter. I’m never letting you leave my side.”
