summary | you were the best thing that ever happened to him — and that was exactly what you wanted him to believe.
tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, rough sex, oral sex (f!receiving), two smut scenes, stalker!reader, obsessive!reader, manipulative!reader, gaslighting, psychological manipulation, soft control, emotional dependency, baby trapping, breeding kink, fluff, smut, domestic fluff, hurt/comfort (manipulative), dark romance, power dynamics, emotional possession, flipped stalker trope, strategic relationship building, marriage, parenthood, bucky barnes is whipped, found family (manufactured), groomed attachment, soft!dad bucky
a/n | me if I was in the MCU (jk)
taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
divider by @uzmacchiato
April 2024
First Meeting
Bucky wasn’t a fan of spring in the city.
Too many people. Too much noise. The air too warm for layers, but he wore them anyway — hood up, gloves on, jacket zipped — because it was easier to feel overheated than exposed.
He kept his head down as he moved through the crowd on West 47th, letting the noise of traffic drown out the chatter in his own skull. Morning rush hour meant no one looked too closely. Perfect.
Or it should have been.
He spotted you only in passing at first — standing near the edge of the sidewalk, angled toward a shop window, holding a small hand mirror. You were brushing your fingers along your cheekbone, touching up lipstick maybe. Hair catching the morning light, coffee in the other hand. The kind of ordinary picture he was used to glancing past.
Only, as he stepped closer, you turned.
Quick — almost too quick.
And then the coffee hit.
It was hot, sharp against his jacket sleeve before he even registered you stumbling back. The paper cup dropped from your fingers, liquid soaking in fast, blooming across the front of your white blouse.
“Shit—” The word came out before anything else, his hands coming up uselessly, hovering between your shoulders and your arm like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you. “I’m— I’m sorry. I wasn’t—”
You glanced down at the spreading stain, jaw tightening like you were holding something in. “I— I have a meeting,” you muttered, like you were talking to yourself more than to him. “Of course this happens now…”
Bucky winced. “Here—” He was already shrugging out of his jacket, the air hitting his sleeves like a reminder he’d regret this later. “Take this. Just to cover it up until you can—”
You shook your head immediately, taking a step back. “No. It’s fine. Accidents happen. Don’t worry about it.”
“Let me at least buy you another coffee,” he said quickly, still holding the jacket out like maybe you just hadn’t heard him. “And a shirt or something—there’s a shop right around—”
“I’m fine,” you cut in again, softer this time, almost apologetic, like you didn’t want to make him feel bad but also really needed to get away. Your voice had that rushed edge to it, but not frantic. “Seriously. I just need to go.”
Bucky glanced at your blouse again, the dark coffee already drying in jagged edges. He could practically hear Sam in his head telling him to stop letting people walk off with problems he’d caused. “I really don’t mind—”
“It’s fine,” you repeated, stepping sideways into the flow of the crowd. “Water under the bridge. Totally fine.”
You gave him one more faint smile — not dismissive, but final. Then you turned and slipped into the moving stream of pedestrians, your pace quick, almost purposeful.
He hesitated, jacket still in his hand.
For a second, he thought about following — just enough to press the jacket into your hands whether you wanted it or not. But the crowd had already swallowed you up. And it wasn’t like he could shout after you without drawing attention.
Still, he stood there for another beat, scanning the faces ahead as if you might turn back.
You didn’t.
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One Month Later
Second Meeting
Bucky wasn’t really paying attention to much of anything when he pushed his cart down the produce aisle. Just the quiet hum of the refrigeration units and the low music overhead, some ’80s pop song playing like it was trying too hard to cheer people up.
He stopped at the fruits section, scanning the shelves for plums. He didn’t even know when they’d become a habit — something about the taste, the simplicity of them, the fact it helped him remember things.
That’s when he saw a woman.
Standing by the stacked baskets of peaches and plums, head tilted as you inspected one like you were weighing the worth of it. The aisle was empty except for you, which meant there was no mistaking it.
It was you.
The woman from the street. The one he’d dumped a cup of coffee on last month.
Most people would’ve turned around right there. Pretended they needed something from the other end of the store, avoided the potential awkwardness.
But for reasons he couldn’t explain — maybe guilt, maybe curiosity — Bucky kept walking forward.
“Plums,” he said when he reached you, his voice coming out rougher than he meant.
You glanced up, brows pulling together in a faint, confused crease. “Sorry?”
Bucky cleared his throat, tried for a faint smirk that probably looked nothing like one. “They’re good this time of year.”
It sounded stupid the second it left his mouth.
Your confusion didn’t fade.
He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Uh— I’m… the guy who spilled coffee all over you. Downtown. About a month ago.”
For a beat, you just stared at him like you were searching your memory. Then your expression shifted — the small widening of your eyes, the slight downturn of your lips in recognition. “Oh… right,” you said slowly, almost hesitant.
“Yeah,” he muttered, suddenly hyper-aware of how ridiculous this was. “That was me.”
“Hi,” you said, the word soft, polite.
“Hey.”
It hung there between you for a second, both of you standing in front of the plums like neither quite knew what to do next.
Bucky cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Listen, about that coffee—”
You were still holding the plum in your hand, looking at him like you weren’t sure if he was about to apologize or confess to some bigger crime.
“I, uh…” His mouth twisted like the words physically hurt to get out. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been paying more attention. I just—”
He trailed off, realizing he was rambling to someone who probably hadn’t thought twice about it since.
You hadn’t said anything, just stood there, watching him with that polite, unreadable expression.
Bucky let out a quiet sigh, trying again. “I’m James,” he said finally, sticking to something simple.
Your mouth curved into the faintest smile, like you were both amused and maybe a little charmed by how bad he was at this. You told him your name, and it sat warm in his mind the second you said it.
“Right.” He nodded, a little too fast, and then… nothing. Just the hum of the cooler and the faint sound of some kid whining two aisles over. You both stood there, staring in this weird not-uncomfortable but definitely awkward silence.
Yet you didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. Not in the way most people in the city were — always glancing at their phones, shifting toward the exit. You stood there, weight relaxed, like you were giving him the space to figure out whatever the hell this was.
“Hey,” he said after a beat, surprising even himself. “Do you… wanna grab a cup of coffee? You know, for the one I spilled on you.”
Your brows lifted just slightly, your smile curling into something softer, almost confused, like you couldn’t quite tell if he was serious. “It’s ten p.m. on a Tuesday.”
“Decaf, then,” he said, not missing a beat.
The corner of your mouth twitched like you were trying not to laugh. “You don't look like you drink decaf.”
“Not usually,” he admitted, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “But I figured… you know. Fair’s fair.”
It came out gruffer than he intended, like an apology and an invitation wrapped into one. He could feel that familiar, awkward heat creeping into the back of his neck, but he kept his gaze on you, waiting.
You tilted your head, letting the silence stretch just enough to make it look like you were actually weighing the offer. Your eyes dropped briefly to the plums in your hand, then back to him, like maybe this was a coin toss in your mind.
Bucky stayed still, watching you — and maybe that was why it felt like a bigger deal when you finally let out a small, almost reluctant breath and said, “Okay, James.”
You said his name slowly, like you were trying it on for size. No flicker of recognition, no double take, no oh-you’re-that-guy-from-the-news. Just James.
And that… did something to him. Most people knew who he was now, or at least thought they did. You didn’t seem to care — or maybe you didn’t know — and somehow, that made your answer feel more genuine.
Bucky’s mouth pulled into the faintest smile, one corner higher than the other. “Alright then.”
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He ended up picking a small café a few blocks from the grocery store. One of those places with low lighting, scratched wooden tables, and the faint smell of burnt espresso that clung to the walls. It was quiet enough for conversation, but not so empty that it felt like an interrogation.
They got their coffees — his black, yours decaf — and a couple of glazed donuts because it felt like the kind of thing you were supposed to get with coffee. You took a seat by the window, the city lights outside casting a warm reflection across your face.
You were the one to break the silence. Leaning back in your chair, coffee cupped loosely in your hands, you asked, “So, James… what’s your deal?”
He blinked. “My deal?”
You nodded, casual, like you weren’t digging for anything too deep. “Yeah. You just… I dunno. Seem like you’ve got a story.”
That threw him a little. Most people either knew the story or thought they did. You didn’t seem to. And maybe that was why he stumbled over his answer. “Uh… nothing special. I keep to myself. Do my thing.”
You arched a brow, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “That’s vague as hell.”
“It’s the truth,” he said, shifting in his seat.
You just smiled knowingly, like you could see through him, but didn’t press. Instead, you glanced at the donut on your plate, tore off a piece, and popped it into your mouth. You chewed, swallowed, then said flatly, “These donuts are terrible.”
Bucky’s head jerked slightly at the bluntness, and before he could help it, a huff escaped him. It was quiet but real — the kind that crept up unexpectedly. “Guess I’ve had better,” he admitted.
“I work in a bakery,” you said simply, sipping your coffee. “So I have the authority to say that.”
“Maybe I’ll have to come by,” he said without thinking. “Try some of your desserts.”
You looked at him, eyes glinting, head tilting just a fraction. “Is that some kind of innuendo?”
“What? No—” He almost choked on his coffee, sputtering a little. “No, I was being serious. Actual bakery stuff.”
You bit back a laugh, but the way your lips twitched gave you away. “Relax, James. I’m just messing with you.”
He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Yeah, I’m starting to figure that out.”
It was strange, how easy it was to talk to you.
Bucky wasn’t great at… this. Conversations usually felt like work — too much effort to keep up, too many pauses he didn’t know how to fill. But with you, he didn’t notice the time passing.
You’d sip your coffee, tilt your head, say something that made him laugh without meaning to, and it all just… happened.
And you smiled a lot. Not the fake kind either. The real ones that crinkled the corners of your eyes, that made him wonder what you looked like when you laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe.
He caught himself staring more than once, and when he realized how long they’d been sitting there, the barista was already hovering. “Sorry, guys. We’re closing up.” Her tone was polite, but it was still the gentle shove toward the door.
Outside, the air was cool, city sounds echoing off the buildings. You both stood there for a second, neither really sure what came next.
You were the one to break it. “Well, thanks for the coffee,” you said softly, giving him that same easy smile, “I’ll see you around, James.”
You turned slightly, like you were about to go — and maybe that’s what made him do it.
“Wait—” He shifted his weight, running a hand over the back of his neck. “I mean… we should… uh…” He frowned, trying again. “Go out. Sometime. You and me.”
It came out more like an order than a question, and his jaw tensed like he was annoyed at himself for it.
You looked at him, eyebrows lifting just a little, like you were amused but not in a mean way. “Are you asking me, or telling me?”
Bucky’s mouth twitched in a half-smile. “Guess I’m not good at either.”
“Guess not,” you said — and then, without missing a beat, “Alright. When and where?”
That made him freeze for half a second, eyes narrowing like he had to replay your words in his head. “Uh—”
You just stood there, patient, still smiling like you had all the time in the world.
“Tomorrow,” he blurted. “Uh… that diner on 8th. Six o’clock?”
“Okay,” you said easily, like you hadn’t just completely hijacked the momentum of the conversation.
And just like that, you turned, walking away into the night — leaving him standing there with the ridiculous thought that he already wanted to see you again.
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The Next Day
First Date
Bucky didn’t remember agreeing to the date so much as the fact that it had just… happened.
You’d looked at him with that easy smile and said, “When and where?” — like it was nothing. And somehow, without thinking, he’d said tomorrow and six o’clock.
Now it was tomorrow. Six hours away. And he was pacing his apartment like a caged animal.
It had been decades since his last real date — and if he didn’t count that mess with that waitress last month (which he didn’t), then this was his first since 1942.
Leah had been kind. Pretty. She’d said yes when he asked her out, and for a moment he thought maybe he could do this, maybe he could be… normal. Then she’d mentioned Yori’s son, and the bottom had dropped out. That wasn’t a date. That was guilt with beer.
This though? This felt like something else. And maybe that was the problem.
Because you were just… a pretty girl. That should’ve made this easier. But it didn’t. You had a way of looking at him that knocked him off balance, like you could see right through him without making him feel exposed. You laughed easily. You spoke without hesitation. You weren’t awkward — hell, you probably didn’t even know what awkward felt like.
Meanwhile, he felt like a guy trying to speak a language he hadn’t practiced in eighty years.
He stopped pacing long enough to glance at the jacket draped over the back of his chair. Too formal? Too casual? In the forties, you wore a suit and tie. In 2024, people wore jeans to weddings. The idea of showing up underdressed made his stomach tighten — but overdressed felt just as bad.
He sat, bounced his knee. Stood up again.
Every time he thought about the way you’d smiled at him, that slow curve of your mouth, he felt something coil in his chest. It wasn’t nerves exactly — more like… anticipation.
Not that he’d admit that. To himself or anyone else.
By the time the clock ticked past five, he’d changed shirts twice, Googled “first date small talk” (and immediately slammed the laptop shut), and muttered a few possible openers under his breath. None of them sounded right.
Catching himself in the mirror, he tugged at his collar and smoothed his hair back. He looked… fine. Not good, not bad. Just fine.
He told himself it was just dinner. Just a date. Just you. But that didn’t explain why his chest was tight, or why his palms felt damp.
You were just a pretty girl. And he was just a guy trying to keep up.
At least, that’s what he thought as he grabbed his keys and stepped out into the warm May evening.
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Bucky had been sitting in the booth for five minutes already — too early to be casual, but late enough that he hoped it didn’t look like he’d been waiting all day.
The place wasn’t fancy, but it was clean, warm, with a faint hum of conversation that made it feel… safe. Neutral ground. He’d picked it for that reason.
The flowers sat in front of him, wrapped in brown paper — not a big bouquet, just enough to look thoughtful without overdoing it.
At least, that’s what he hoped.
He’d stood in the florist shop for ten whole minutes debating whether flowers were still something you did in 2024, or if they’d come across as… desperate.
Maybe he was desperate.
His gloved hands tapped against the table as his eyes flicked to the door every time it opened. He ran through a hundred worst-case scenarios in his head — the conversation dying after two minutes, you looking bored, him saying something that made you leave.
And underneath it all, that other thought.
The one that never quite left him.
You didn’t know who he was. Not really.
You didn’t know you were about to have dinner with someone who’d been a murderer, a weapon, a name whispered in fear for decades. You didn’t know the blood on his hands.
A part of him felt relief at that — maybe you’d just see him as a guy named James, nothing more. But the guilt hit just as fast. It wasn’t fair. You didn’t get the choice to decide if you wanted to sit across from someone like him.
His knee bounced under the table. His hand curled around the flowers again, like the rough paper could ground him.
The door opened. And everything went quiet.
You stepped in like you weren’t even aware the whole world could tilt toward you without trying. Black dress, simple but clean lines, fitting you just enough to make his chest tighten. His first thought was that he’d underdressed. His second thought was that he couldn’t look away.
Your eyes found him in the corner, and that small, slow smile broke across your face.
It wasn’t wide or showy. Just… soft. The kind of smile that made the noise in his head fade, made his shoulders lose a fraction of their tension.
For the first time all day, he wasn’t thinking about what he was going to say, or if he’d mess this up. He just knew you were walking toward him.
And that, somehow, felt like enough.
You slid into the booth across from him, the faint scent of your perfume slipping into the air between you. Up close, that black dress looked even better — understated, but it clung just enough in the right places to make his throat tighten.
His hand went to the bouquet almost on instinct, pushing it toward you like he was afraid if he didn’t do it immediately, he’d chicken out.
“Uh… these are for you,” he said, voice low, awkward, almost apologetic. “Figured it… y’know. Might be a nice thing.”
You blinked down at them, and he had no idea if you were surprised, amused, or trying to decide if you even liked flowers. That hesitation stretched for a beat too long, and his stomach tightened. Maybe this was too much. Maybe—
Then you looked up at him, smiling in that slow, deliberate way again. “Not many guys bring flowers anymore,” you said, taking the bouquet. “Guess I’ll have to forgive you for being old-fashioned.”
Something about the way you said it made him huff out a laugh — but he still shifted in his seat, the tips of his ears warming.
“Old habits,” he muttered, full on knowing you wouldn't catch the double meaning.
You brushed your fingers over the petals like you were committing the flowers to memory before setting them gently beside you on the seat. “They’re beautiful,” you added, and for a second, he felt like maybe he hadn’t already messed this up.
When the waiter came to take your orders, you didn’t look at the menu for long. Confident, decisive — nothing like him, who kept second-guessing whether the steak here was even good.
As soon as the waiter left, you leaned in just slightly, elbows resting on the table. “So, James… was this place your first choice? Or did you have, like, a list of approved restaurants for a random Wednesday night?”
He smirked — or at least tried to. “I’m not that bad.”
“You seem like the type who thinks about these things,” you teased.
If you only knew, he thought.
You twirled the straw in your water glass, glancing at him over the rim. “So… you said last time you just keep to yourself. Do your thing.”
He nodded, keeping his posture casual even though he could feel every muscle in his shoulders locked tight. “Yeah. That’s pretty much it.”
You leaned in just a little, chin resting on your palm. “Okay, but… what’s your thing? Like, what’s the long-term goals?”
Bucky blinked. “The what?”
Your lips curved and you tilted your head, almost amused. “Your goals… long-term.”
It was such a simple question, but his mind went blank. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, trying to come up with something that sounded halfway decent. “I dunno. I, uh… haven’t really thought about it.”
The corner of your mouth lifted. “So you’re just floating through life, huh?”
He frowned, but there was no edge to it. “Guess so.”
“Not the worst thing,” you said, sitting back and taking a sip of your drink. “Some people like the drift.”
He studied you for a moment. You didn’t ask it like you were judging him, or trying to dig too deep. It was just… curiosity. Pure, easy curiosity. And yet somehow it made him feel like you could see right through him.
“What about you?” he asked, deflecting.
You shrugged. “Work. Pay my bills. Try not to lose my mind in the process. I’ve got smaller goals — learn how to make a croissant that doesn’t deflate, try every cocktail on the menu at O’Malley’s, maybe get a dog one day.”
A laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it. “That’s your big plan? Pastries, alcohol, and a dog?”
“Pretty solid life, if you ask me.”
He shook his head, smiling to himself. He’d expected this to be awkward, expected to feel the way he always did around new people — like he was under a microscope, like every move was being analyzed. But with you… it was just talking.
The waiter came back with your plates, setting a steaming plate of pasta in front of you and a medium-rare steak in front of him. You thanked the waiter without breaking eye contact with Bucky, like you didn’t want the conversation to slip away.
“So no dreams of retiring on a beach? No cabin in the woods?” you asked as you picked up your fork.
He thought about it for a beat. “Cabin sounds nice.”
“There you go.” You pointed your fork at him. “Long-term goal: cabin. Look at you making progress.”
Bucky huffed a laugh and shook his head, but inside, he was already picturing it — and, to his own surprise, you were in that picture too.
The conversation didn’t slow down after that. It wasn’t forced, either — just one topic folding into the next, your questions pulling him along, your little comments sparking thoughts he didn’t even realize he had.
Every time you smiled, his chest felt like it loosened a little. Every time you laughed, it felt like something in him woke up just to listen.
And before he knew it, the plates were cleared, the check was paid, and you were both standing at the door, the cool night air rushing in.
“You, uh…” He scratched at the back of his neck. “You headed home?”
You gave him that small, easy smile that made him feel ten years younger. “Yeah.”
“Can I… walk you?” He tried to sound casual, but it came out tentative, like he wasn’t sure if it was overstepping.
You tilted your head in that way you did when you were thinking, then nodded. “Sure.”
Something about that word — the way it rolled off your tongue, unhurried and warm — made his pulse skip. He held the door for you, falling into step at your side as you stepped onto the quiet street.
The city was winding down, streetlights casting halos on the pavement. Your heels clicked softly against the sidewalk while his boots fell into a slower rhythm to match yours.
For a while, you didn’t speak, and that was fine with him. He found himself just… watching you out of the corner of his eye. The way the breeze tugged at your hair. The way you tucked your hands into your coat pockets but kept your shoulders loose, like you weren’t afraid of anything.
“You live far?” he asked finally.
“Couple blocks,” you said. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna make you walk across the city.”
He smiled at that, but didn’t say anything else, afraid he might break whatever this was — this quiet, this ease.
When you finally stopped in front of a brownstone, you turned to him, your eyes catching in the streetlight. “This is me.”
Bucky nodded, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “Right. Uh… thank you for asking me to walk you.”
That earned him a soft laugh. “Pretty sure it was your idea, James.”
He blinked, thrown for a second, then nodded again, sheepish. “Yeah… yeah, right.”
And then… nothing. His mind blanked. If this had been back in the ’30s, the polite thing would’ve been to kiss your cheek, tip his hat, say goodnight like a gentleman. But it wasn’t the ’30s anymore. People had boundaries. And he had no idea if crossing that invisible line would ruin everything.
Still, the urge was there — humming beneath his ribs, pooling low in his chest. You looked so damn pretty in that black dress, the flowers he’d given you cradled in your hands. He could smell your perfume, faint and warm, and it was killing him not to close the distance.
You caught it. The way his eyes lingered, the faint crease between his brows. That tiny flicker of indecision.
Your teeth caught your bottom lip like you were thinking about it and that was when you stepped forward — deliberate, slow, your heels clicking against the pavement.
You didn’t just close the gap — you took control of it. One hand lifted, your fingers curling lightly along the line of his jaw, your thumb brushing over the scruff on his cheek. His breath caught instantly, eyes locking on yours, the flicker of surprise almost boyish in his expression.
And then you leaned in.
The kiss was soft but unflinching, holding him there for a few long, head-spinning seconds. His brain stalled completely — no wariness, no hesitation now, just you, the faint press of your body, the taste of your lipstick, the warmth of your palm against his face.
By the time you pulled back, his lips were still parted like he hadn’t realized it was over.
“Thank you for the date,” you murmured, giving him that small, sweet smile again, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Goodnight, James.”
And just like that, you stepped past him and slipped into the building, leaving him standing there on the sidewalk — still feeling the ghost of your touch on his cheek, still trying to remember how to breathe.
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Three Days Later
Second Date
You didn’t expect him to ask you on another date so soon.
But here you were — only three days after your first date, and Bucky Barnes was already inviting you out again. Saturday evening. A picnic date in Central Park, of all things.
Not some busy lawn where people tossed frisbees or jogged past, but one of those quiet corners where the trees closed in enough to give you privacy, the sound of the city tucked far behind the green.
It was… old-fashioned. Which made sense, given who he was.
You sat across from him on a checkered blanket, a wicker basket between you — the whole thing looked like it had been pulled straight out of some black-and-white film. He’d even brought sandwiches wrapped in brown paper, a couple of glass bottles of soda, and what you were willing to bet were store-bought cookies.
And like before, you kept the conversation going. Asking him about the park, about what kind of food he liked, about what he did when he wasn’t… well, whatever it was he actually did now. He’d answer, but never with much detail — pausing often, like he was trying to figure out the right words, like he was still deciding how much of himself to give away.
That was fine. You didn’t need him to hand over his life story.
You already knew that.
It wasn’t hard to smile, nod, and throw in the right laugh at the right time. You leaned into his pauses, let the silences hang just long enough to make him want to fill them. He’d shift a little when you tilted your head at him, his eyes flicking to your mouth like he wasn’t sure if he should be looking there.
If he thought you didn’t notice, he was wrong.
And all throughout the date, between bites of sandwich and sips of soda, you couldn’t help but wonder when he’d actually confess who he really was.
You’d already known from the moment he bumped into you — hell, from before that. But you wanted to hear him say it.
So, you decided to give him a little push.
You let your gaze drift away from him mid-conversation, scanning the trees, the open green beyond.
Slowly, your brows drew together, the faintest frown pulling at your lips. You didn’t speak at first — just kept glancing around, your expression tightening like you were trying to puzzle something out.
Finally, you said it. Soft. Almost embarrassed. “James… people are starting to stare. I don’t… I don’t know why.”
The shift in him was immediate. His shoulders, relaxed a moment ago, pulled tight. His jaw clenched. His eyes darted past you, scanning the edges of the park.
You tilted your head at him, feigning confusion. “It’s fine,” you added quickly, like you were trying to brush it off, “I just… thought maybe I had something on my face or—”
“No.” His voice was quiet, but it had that weight to it, the one that made people shut up and listen. “It’s not you.”
You blinked at him, all innocence. “Then what—?”
“Maybe I should walk you home,” he cut in, already beginning to gather up the blanket and basket. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
You kept your face neutral — maybe just a little uncertain — but inside, you could feel the hook sinking deeper.
“Okay,” you murmured, and let him help you up, his hand firm but careful at your elbow.
It was sweet, how gentle he was. It was even sweeter knowing you’d planned this moment from the start.
The walk back was quiet at first. The city sounds filled the gaps between you — the low hum of traffic, a siren somewhere blocks away, the occasional rush of wind that made you hold your skirt down.
You noticed he kept glancing at you like he was trying to time something, trying to figure out the right moment.
Finally, a few blocks from your place, he let out a sigh. “So… my name isn’t just James.”
You looked at him, brows raised, a faint smile tugging your lips. “Okay…?”
“It’s James Barnes,” he said, watching your face for any flicker of recognition.
You tilted your head slightly, the smile still there. “Barnes. Got it.” Like you were just making a mental note, nothing more.
Bucky let out a slow breath, then shook his head faintly. “No. James Buchanan Barnes.”
The name landed like a weight between you. You stopped walking without meaning to, staring at him as the pieces “clicked” together.
“Oh.” Your voice was soft, your eyes a little wider now. You brought a hand up, half-covering your mouth. “Oh my god—wait. I’m… I’m an idiot.”
He frowned immediately. “What? No—”
“I knew I recognized you from somewhere,” you rushed out, shaking your head at yourself. “And here I’ve just been—God, I’m so—”
“Hey,” he cut in, his tone sharper now, trying to pull you out of it. “Don’t do that. Don’t—don’t make it a thing about you being stupid.”
You bit your lip, looking away, embarrassed. “I just… I feel like I should’ve known—”
“I liked that you didn’t,” he said, and there was an odd softness to it. “I kind of liked you not knowing who I was. It was… nice. Normal.”
You looked back at him then, letting your gaze linger, like his words had just made you see him differently.
“Normal’s good,” you said softly.
You took a couple more steps, the sound of your shoes clicking against the pavement, before glancing over at him. “So… why do things have to change?”
That stopped him in his tracks. He looked down at you — really looked — eyes scanning your face like he was searching for something underneath your words.
“You’re really okay with that?” he asked finally, voice low. “Going out with… someone like me?”
Your brow furrowed, your lips pressing into a faint, almost thoughtful purse.
“Are you?” you countered gently.
He blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“Are you okay with it?” you repeated, tilting your head a little. “Because… it seems like you’re the one who’s more hesitant about this than I am.”
He exhaled sharply, his gaze sliding away like the weight of his own history was tugging it down.
“I mean,” you continued, your voice even, not pushing but not backing away either, “I get it. Because of… yeah.” You let the word trail off, letting the unsaid things hang in the air — the things you knew he thought about himself every day.
His jaw tightened, and for a moment you swore you could almost hear the gears in his head turning. He looked back at you, his blue eyes clouded but intent.
“Yeah,” he murmured finally. “Because of… yeah.”
You studied him for a second, watching the way his jaw shifted like he was still carrying the weight of that confession.
“So…” you tilted your head, voice easy but deliberate, “what do you want me to call you? James… or Bucky?”
He didn’t answer right away. His brows drew together, really thinking about it, like the question was heavier than you meant it to be.
Finally, he exhaled, gaze settling back on you. “James,” he said quietly. “I… I like being James with you. I’m trying to get used to being Bucky Barnes again, but…” he hesitated, the corner of his mouth twitching almost sheepishly, “James feels… easier. Lighter. With you.”
A slow smile spread across your face, soft but deliberate. Without breaking eye contact, you slipped your arm through his, your hand looping into the crook of his elbow like it belonged there.
Leaning in just enough for your lips to brush against his cheek, you murmured, “Good ’cause I like being with James.”
It was quick, simple — but you felt the way his stride faltered for just a fraction of a second, his breath catching like he didn’t know what to do with the way those words landed.
────────────────────────
One Week Later
Third Date
The first date was to hook him.
The second was to soften him — to show him you were safe, someone he could trust without even realizing it. Someone who’d never push too hard, never pry… but who’d listen to every word like it mattered. You knew exactly what that would do to a man like James Barnes.
And the third? The third was to turn trust into something else entirely.
The kind of connection you couldn’t just walk away from without feeling the absence like a phantom limb.
You’d kept the night light — a small jazz club tucked in the quieter part of the city, a little whiskey, easy conversation, nothing too loud or overstimulating. You let him set the pace, let him laugh more than you talked, let him think he was the one leading.
By the time you were back at your building, he was looking at you like you were gravity itself — and you didn’t let him look for too long before you moved in.
You barely had the key out before his hand was on your hip, the other bracing against the doorframe, his breath warm against your mouth. The kiss hit fast — a low, almost desperate press of lips that made you smile into it. You could taste the whiskey on his tongue, feel the tension in the way his body pressed into yours.
Your back hit the cool metal of the door, and you let out the kind of quiet sound that made his fingers flex against your side. His mouth dragged from yours to your jaw, his stubble catching on your skin as you tilted your head, giving him space, giving him permission.
His metal hand skimmed down your waist, and you could feel the restraint in him — the way he wanted more but was holding back, trying not to push too far too fast.
You, on the other hand, had no such reservations. Your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer until there was no space left between you. You caught his mouth again, deeper this time, teeth catching his lower lip before your tongue traced against his. He made a low sound in his throat, one you filed away instantly — a tell, a weakness you could pull from later.
Then, suddenly, he broke the kiss — just enough to breathe, just enough to murmur against your mouth, “We should… probably slow this down.”
You blinked up at him, lips still parted, feeling his breath ghost over them. “Yeah… yeah,” you said, though your fingers were still hooked in his shirt like you had no plans to actually let go.
There was a beat — that awkward, suspended moment where neither of you knew what to do with all that tension — and then, completely straight-faced, you asked, “So… you got any hobbies?”
The question caught him off guard so hard you could see it in his face. His brow furrowed, mouth opening like he wasn't sure if you were joking. “Uh…” He blinked a few times, like he was flipping through a mental list that was embarrassingly short. “I like to… read?”
You nodded, like you were genuinely considering this while still catching your breath. “What have you read?”
There was a stumble in his answer, his gaze flicking briefly away as though embarrassed. “Uh… The Hobbit.”
You pulled back half an inch, your brows lifting. “The Hobbit? You read The Hobbit?”
He shifted his weight, defensive but sheepish at the same time. “…Yeah?”
And without missing a beat, you grinned and said, “That’s kinda hot.”
The corner of his mouth tugged up, almost disbelieving. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you confirmed, your voice low enough to make him swallow.
And then you were both leaning in at the same time, the kiss reigniting instantly, just as heated as before — maybe more. His hand slid up your side, the other finding the back of your neck, and you could taste the faint trace of a smile against your mouth before it turned hungry again.
You didn’t break the kiss when you pulled him through the building’s front door, not even when you started walking him backwards toward the stairs. His hand stayed locked at your hip, your mouth moving against his in hot, deliberate bursts between breaths.
The elevator ride was a blur of glances and unspoken tension — his chest rising and falling, your lips still tingling from where his teeth had grazed them. You could feel the battle in him, that rigid line between wanting and restraint.
By the time you reached your apartment, you had no trouble coaxing him inside. You guided him straight to the couch, giving him a gentle push until he sat, his legs spread slightly, hands resting awkwardly on his knees like he wasn’t sure what to do next.
You took care of that.
Climbing into his lap felt natural — slow, unthreatening, like you were still playing. You straddled him, your knees pressing into the cushions on either side, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders.
Bucky’s eyes darted to yours, and then down to your mouth. You could see it again — that hesitation, the restraint. So you leaned in, brushing your lips over his once, twice, before deepening the kiss just enough to coax him into leaning forward, his hands finally settling on your hips.
You were just getting lost in him again, the warmth of his mouth, the press of his hands, when Bucky pulled back suddenly. His breathing was uneven, his forehead resting briefly against yours before he leaned back enough to meet your eyes.
“I, uh—” He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I haven’t… done this. Not since… 1942.”
You blinked, tilting your head, the corner of your mouth tugging upward. “You mean—”
He gave a small, almost sheepish nod, his cheeks heating.
A slow grin spread across your face. “So… this’ll be like your first time again?”
“Don’t say it like that,” he muttered, but the flush in his face deepened.
You bit back a laugh, leaning forward to kiss him again — softer this time, deliberate — your hand coming up to cup the side of his face. When you pulled back just enough to whisper, your tone was almost teasing. “Don’t worry… I’ll be gentle.”
His jaw flexed, his blue eyes flicking away for a moment before coming back to yours. “I’m just… worried I won’t last.”
You gave him a small, knowing smile. “That’s fine,” you murmured, your lips brushing his as you spoke. “We have the whole night.”
And before he could answer, you kissed him again — slow, coaxing, until you felt him melt back into it.
You rolled your hips against him, slow at first, then harder, letting the friction build until you could feel the hard line of him beneath you.
“Fuck—” he groaned, low and almost pained, his head tipping back for a second before you dragged his mouth back to yours.
His metal hand slid up your back, cold even through your dress, the contrast making you shiver as his flesh hand gripped your ass, pulling you against him in a way that made you gasp. You rocked on him harder, and the sound he made — somewhere between a groan and a curse — went straight to your core.
“Jesus, doll…” he muttered against your mouth, his voice wrecked, his hips twitching upward involuntarily to meet your movements.
You grinned against his lips, rolling your hips just right, grinding down until he was cursing under his breath. “You like that, James?”
His response was a rough, desperate kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting you like he couldn’t get enough.
The rhythm between you grew messier, hotter — all friction and panting and little sounds that filled the quiet apartment. Your dress had ridden up around your hips, and his grip had turned bruising, like he was fighting not to lose control completely.
Your lips broke from his just long enough to whisper against his ear, “Take a breath, James.”
His grip loosened a fraction, and you leaned back, still straddling him, your hands sliding to the straps of your dress. His eyes followed every movement like he couldn’t look away.
You let the straps fall slowly down your shoulders, holding his gaze the whole time before sliding the dress up and over your head, then tossing it aside.
The way he looked at you — hungry, reverent, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed — made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t expect. You reached behind you, unhooked your bra, and let it fall.
Bucky’s breath caught, his jaw flexing like he was holding something back. His gaze raked over you, lingering in places that made your skin feel like it was burning, but he didn’t reach out — almost like he thought touching would break the spell.
You smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss to his mouth before murmuring, “Your turn.”
He hesitated, and you knew why. You could feel the tension in him, the way his body stiffened when your fingers brushed the hem of his shirt.
“You can,” you said softly, but with an edge of certainty that left no room for doubt. “I want to see you, James.”
For a moment, he looked like he might refuse. Then, almost reluctantly, he grabbed the back of his collar and pulled the shirt over his head.
You didn’t let your gaze flick away from the scars that marred his skin, or the gleam of metal that caught the low light of your apartment. You let your eyes take in every detail, slow and deliberate, until his breath started to quicken under your stare.
“God, you’re beautiful,” you said, and meant it in a way that made him swallow hard.
You leaned in, pressing your mouth to his neck, tasting the salt of his skin. You let your lips travel to the edge of his jaw, down to his collarbone, over a scar that looked like it had been there for decades. Your fingers traced the seam where flesh met vibranium, and you kissed it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He shuddered beneath you, and you felt some of the tightness in his body begin to melt.
“See?” you murmured against his skin. “Nothing here I can’t handle.”
His hands found your hips again, steadier now, and when you kissed him this time, he kissed you back without hesitation, pulling you closer, letting you feel every inch of him.
Your fingers slid into his hair, keeping him close, and you could feel the last traces of tension bleeding out of him. That guarded, wary edge he carried like armor was slipping — and you were the one peeling it away.
When your lips left his neck, his mouth moved lower without you even asking. His head dipped, and his lips brushed over the swell of your breast. You let out a low sound, arching into him, and that was all it took — he wrapped an arm around your waist and took your nipple into his mouth like he’d been starving for it.
“James—” your voice cracked, your nails digging into his shoulder.
He groaned against your skin, the vibration shooting straight through you, and you swore you could feel him getting harder beneath you. His tongue circled, teasing, before he sucked hard enough to make your breath hitch. His other hand came up, fingers rolling and squeezing your other nipple until you were practically squirming in his lap.
“Fuck—” you gasped, heat pooling low in your belly, “—you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, lips slick, eyes dark with something feral.
You didn’t even try to play it cool. “I need you,” you said, the words spilling out rough and desperate. “I need you in me right now or I’m gonna fucking die.”
For a split second, he froze — like the full force of your want for him had short-circuited his brain. Then his jaw set, and his hands gripped your hips tighter, almost bruising.
“…You sure?” he asked, voice low and gravelly, like it physically hurt him to wait for your answer.
“James,” you whispered, leaning in until your lips brushed his, “if you don’t fuck me right now—” you bit his lower lip, hard enough to make him groan, “—you’re gonna regret it.”
That was it. Whatever was left of his guard shattered. And you didn’t wait for permission — you didn’t need it. Not when you could feel him, hard and heavy against you, straining against the denim.
Your hands moved between you, fumbling for the button of his jeans before dragging the zipper down in one smooth, determined motion. Bucky’s breath stuttered, his hips jerking involuntarily when your fingers slipped inside, brushing over him through the thin cotton of his boxers.
“Fuck—” he hissed, his metal hand gripping the couch cushion like he was afraid to touch you too hard.
You looked him right in the eye, daring him to stop you, and then you shoved his jeans down just far enough to free him. His cock sprang out, thick and flushed, and you wrapped your hand around him, stroking once just to feel the way he twitched in your palm.
His head fell back, a low groan rumbling from his chest. “Baby—”
“Shhh,” you murmured, shifting just enough to hook your fingers into your panties and drag them aside. “I can’t wait.”
Before he could even process it, you lined him up and sank down in one slow, deliberate motion.
Bucky’s entire body jolted beneath you. His hands flew to your hips like he was going to push you away — but instead, his fingers dug in, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. His eyes were wide, mouth parted, chest heaving.
“Holy—fuck—” The word came out broken, almost like a whimper, and that alone made you clench around him.
You leaned forward, your breasts brushing his chest, your lips grazing his ear. “Told you I’d be gentle,” you whispered, rocking your hips just enough to make him groan again. “But right now? I’m gonna make you lose your mind.”
Your nails dug into his shoulders as you started to move — slow at first, letting him feel every inch of you clench around him, before you shifted your weight and began to ride him in earnest.
Bucky’s head dropped back against the couch, a ragged moan tearing from his throat. His flesh hand slid up your thigh, gripping hard, while his metal hand stayed fixed at your hip like he was terrified you’d pull away.
You set the pace — hard, fast, bouncing on him until his thighs flexed beneath you, until his hips started to jerk upward in time with yours.
The moment he began thrusting into you, the sound that left him was almost pained — years of restraint breaking all at once. “Ohhh, fuck—baby—”
You leaned in close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, your breath hot as you whispered, “That’s it, James… just like that… give it to me.”
He groaned again, a shiver running through him at the sound of his name on your lips.
“You feel so good inside me,” you breathed, grinding down between bounces so he could feel how wet you were for him. “God, you’re so deep—”
His hips snapped up harder, faster, chasing that rhythm. You rewarded him by dragging your lips along the line of his jaw, sucking at his neck until you knew you’d leave marks there — marks he’d have to think about later, maybe even hide.
“Fuck, I’m—” His voice broke, his metal hand clutching you tighter, forcing you down onto him as he drove up into you with desperate, uneven thrusts.
You kissed his ear, biting lightly before murmuring, “Don’t hold back, baby… I want it all.”
That did it — his eyes screwed shut, a choked noise spilling out as he slammed up into you like he was trying to get even deeper, every thrust shaking through both of you.
“Shit—” he hissed, forehead pressing to your collarbone like he needed the contact to ground himself. But it didn’t last.
With a sudden growl, Bucky shifted beneath you, his hands gripping your waist like you weighed nothing. Before you could react, he twisted the two of you, rolling you onto your back without ever slipping out of you.
Your gasp turned into a moan when he settled above you, caging you in with his broad shoulders, bracing himself with his metal arm against the couch. His flesh hand slid under your thigh, pushing your leg higher, deeper, until the angle made you see stars.
Then he started moving — really moving — and the couch creaked in protest under the pace. Deep, filthy thrusts that had you gasping his name, every snap of his hips forcing you further into the cushions.
“Jesus, James—” you panted, nails digging into his back.
He groaned against your neck, his breath hot and ragged. “Can’t—stop—” he managed between thrusts, like he was talking to himself as much as to you.
Your head tilted back, mouth falling open as you pulled him down for a desperate kiss, swallowing the sounds he made. You felt the tension in him, the way each movement was turning rougher, more unrestrained.
“That’s it,” you murmured against his lips, pulling his metal hand from the couch and pressing it to your throat — not enough to choke, just enough for him to feel how hard your pulse was racing. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me.”
He groaned like the words burned through him, his hips slamming into you harder, faster. His eyes locked on yours, glassy and wild, and you knew right then he was gone — lost completely in you.
Your hands clung to him, nails dragging down the scars of his back as his pace grew erratic — that telltale stumble of rhythm that told you he was teetering right on the edge.
His forehead pressed against yours, breath ragged, eyes squeezing shut like he was fighting it, trying to hold on.
“Don’t—” he started, but you cut him off, voice low and sweet against his ear.
“James… I want you to finish in me.”
He froze for a fraction of a second, hips buried deep inside you, his entire body trembling. “You— you don’t—”
“I want it,” you whispered again, cupping his jaw so he had to look at you. “I want you. All of you. Don’t hold back from me.”
Whatever control he’d been clinging to shattered.
A deep, guttural sound ripped from his chest as he slammed into you harder, desperate, chasing the inevitable. His metal hand drifted to your thigh, holding you open for him, while his flesh hand fisted the couch cushion beside your head like he was trying to keep himself from completely falling apart.
Your own release crept up fast — too fast — his thrusts hitting that perfect spot over and over until your legs were shaking around his waist.
“James—” you gasped, pulling his mouth to yours, kissing him deep as you clenched tight around him.
The sound he made against your mouth was half a groan, half your name, and then he broke. His hips stuttered, buried as deep as they could go as he spilled into you, the heat of it pushing you right over the edge with him.
You cried out into his mouth, your nails sinking into his shoulders, your entire body arching into his as the two of you came together — messy, unrestrained, yours.
When it was over, he collapsed against you, chest heaving, his face tucked into the crook of your neck like he couldn’t bear to let you go. You could feel the rapid thud of his heart, the way his breath still came hard and uneven.
Your fingers threaded lazily through his hair, still a little damp with sweat, your other hand tracing soft circles along the line of his spine. His weight was heavy on you, solid, grounding — and you didn’t push him to move.
“Hey…” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, like you were afraid to disturb whatever fragile peace had settled over him. “You alright?”
There was a long pause. You could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against yours, the subtle shift of his breath against your collarbone.
And then, without lifting his head from where it was tucked into the warm crook of your neck, he spoke — low, almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it.
“I’m more than alright,” he said. “I’m… perfect.”
The word sounded foreign on his tongue, like it had been years — decades — since he’d felt it.
You smiled, not the teasing kind you’d given him earlier, but something softer. Your hand cupped the back of his head, holding him there like you were keeping the world away from him for just a little longer.
“That’s good,” you whispered. “That’s just how I want you.”
He let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a hum, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you closer. You could feel how reluctant he was to let the moment pass, how badly he needed this — to be held, to be wanted without condition.
You didn’t press for words. You didn’t need them. Every small shift of his body against yours, every quiet breath into your skin, told you what you needed to know.
And somewhere in the quiet hum of the moment, you felt it — the shift.
The wall he kept between himself and the world? You’d just stepped inside it.
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Three Months Later
The quinjet hummed around them, the steady vibration of the engines filling the space. Sam sat across from Bucky, leaning back with that look on his face — the one that meant he was bored enough to start prying into someone else’s business.
“So,” Sam started casually, “you gonna tell me about her, or do I have to drag it outta you?”
Bucky didn’t even look up from checking the mag on his sidearm. “About who?”
Sam gave him a flat look. “Don’t play dumb with me, man. The mystery girl you’ve been seein’. The one that’s got you walking around like you’re… I dunno, not completely miserable.”
Bucky clicked the mag back in place and set the gun down. “You’re imagining things.”
Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Oh, am I? Because last time I called you, you sounded—” He put on an exaggerated, low imitation of Bucky’s voice — “‘busy.’”
Bucky’s lips twitched, but he stayed silent.
“C’mon,” Sam pressed. “What’s she like? What’s her name?”
Bucky stared at the floor for a long moment, jaw tight. “None of your business, Sam.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Translation: you really like her and you’re afraid I’ll scare her off.”
Bucky shot him a look. “No.” A pause. “…Maybe.”
That got Sam grinning. “Uh-huh. So what’s she like?”
Bucky hesitated. He could’ve brushed it off. He could’ve just said “normal” and left it at that. But Sam was his friend. His only friend, really. “She’s… different,” he admitted reluctantly. “Smart. Funny. Knows how to make me shut up without even trying.”
Sam chuckled. “Sounds like a saint.”
Bucky looked away, fingers flexing against his knee. “…I really like her.” The words felt heavier than he expected. “Like… more than I should.”
Sam tilted his head. “Yeah? That’s good, right?”
Bucky didn’t answer.
Sam leaned forward a little. “You know her well?”
Bucky’s brow furrowed. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean—where’s she from? Family? Friends? What’s she do, besides makin’ you act all—” Sam gestured vaguely at him—“less grumpy?”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Why are you asking me this?”
Sam held up a hand. “I’m just sayin’, Buck… after everything you’ve been through, maybe make sure you know who you’re lettin’ in.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “I do know.”
“Do you?” Sam’s tone wasn’t accusing, but it was steady. “Look, I’m not tryin’ to mess with you. I want you happy, man. I just don’t wanna see you blindsided.”
Bucky sat back, arms crossed, irritation creeping in. “…You done?”
Sam gave a small shrug. “Yeah. I’m done.”
But Bucky could still feel the words sticking in the back of his mind, even as the quinjet kept on toward their mission.
────────────────────────
Five months.
If someone had told Bucky Barnes back in Wakanda that he’d be here now — in a steady relationship, with someone who actually wanted him around — he’d have laughed in their face.
And yet… here you were.
Perfect. Too perfect.
You were all the things he didn’t think he could ever have — kind without being condescending, patient without pitying him, sweet in ways that didn’t feel fake. You listened when he talked. You didn’t push when he didn’t. You gave him space when he needed it, and held him close when he didn’t know he needed that, too.
And God, you were genuine. Or at least, you seemed to be.
That was the problem.
Bucky had lived long enough to know that perfect didn’t really exist. Not for him. And that little voice in the back of his head — the one that kept him alive through decades of torture and conditioning — kept whispering that nothing this good could be real.
At first, it was just little thoughts. Harmless. Easy to shove aside. But lately it was growing. Festering. Like a splinter buried too deep to pull out.
He’d watch you laughing at something stupid on TV, hair falling in your face as you leaned against him, and his chest would tighten — not from love, though he did love the moment — but from the sharp, nagging fear that there was something he wasn’t seeing.
He told himself it was paranoia. That Sam’s questions months ago had just gotten under his skin. That you’d given him no reason not to trust you.
Still…
He now noticed when you’d change the subject after certain questions. He noticed when you’d smile just a bit too easily in moments that should’ve felt vulnerable.
He noticed because he couldn’t not notice. It was wired into him to see the things other people didn’t.
And the worst part?
The more that doubt grew, the more he hated himself for having it. Because if he lost you over nothing — over his issues — Bucky knew he’d never forgive himself.
────────────────────────
It was supposed to be an easy night.
Movie, takeout, you curled up against him — the kind of thing he’d learned to look forward to.
But his head wouldn’t shut up.
You were leaning into his side, hand absently tracing the seam of his Henley, your attention on the movie — and Bucky could feel himself pulling away. Not physically, but somewhere deeper.
He hated it. Hated that he couldn’t just enjoy the damn moment.
Still, the words came out before he could stop them. “So… what was it like growing up in Chicago?”
You glanced at him, a little surprised at the question, but answered. Simple, vague. He pressed again, asking about your family, your friends, places you used to hang out.
After the third or fourth question, your brows knit together. “Why are you asking me all this?”
Bucky tried to keep his voice even. “I just realized I don’t know that much about you.”
You tilted your head, confused. “You know plenty.”
He shook his head slightly, the frustration prickling under his skin. “No, I don’t. You know everything about me — hell, the world knows everything about me — but I…” he trailed off, jaw tightening. “I know next to nothing about you.”
Your eyes narrowed a little, your nose scrunching the way it did when something rubbed you the wrong way. “The whole world doesn’t know everything about you, James. But sure, they know more about you than most. That’s not my fault.”
You shifted, pulling away from his arm and standing up, crossing your arms loosely over your chest. “Why are you acting like this?”
And that was it. The dam broke.
“Because I don’t know if I can trust something that feels this… perfect,” he snapped before he could rein it in. “Every time I ask something real, you dodge it. Every time I try to get to know you — really know you — you smile and change the subject. And maybe that works for other people, but not for me. Not after everything I’ve been through.”
You just stared at him, your expression unreadable.
Bucky raked a hand through his hair, his voice low but hard now. “If we’re gonna be together, I need to know you’re not hiding something from me. I can’t— I won’t— go through another situation where I don’t see it coming until it’s too late.”
You didn’t answer him at first.
You just stared down at the blanket bunched on the couch, jaw tight, like you were holding something in.
Bucky’s chest was already tight, heart thudding harder than he wanted it to. He waited.
And then, finally, you spoke. Your voice was quiet. Flat at first. “It was true when I said I didn’t have family in Chicago.”
Bucky’s throat bobbed. He stayed still, watching you.
You took a breath, still not looking at him. “My mom died when I was six. Home invasion.”
He blinked, the words hitting him sharper than he expected.
You swallowed, your voice dipping even lower. “Thing is… I didn’t even know she was dead at the time.”
Bucky’s stomach knotted.
“I remember brushing her hair that morning. Talking to her. Asking why she was still sleeping in the afternoon.” You let out the smallest, bitter laugh. “I fell asleep on her chest that night. The next day too.”
A shaky breath escaped you as you reached up and wiped a stray tear with the back of your hand.
“It wasn’t until the police came… three days later… because the neighbors noticed the window was broken…” Your voice cracked, and you pressed your lips together for a second before finishing. “…Three days. I spent three days with her body, thinking she was just… asleep.”
Bucky’s hands curled into fists against his knees, the weight of your words sitting like lead in his gut. He felt sick. Guilty. Ashamed for even pushing.
Finally, you lifted your head — slowly. Your eyes were glassy, rimmed red. You met his gaze, and your voice was barely above a whisper.
“Do you feel better now?”
Bucky opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“Do you feel closer to me now?” you asked, your lips pursed, like you were holding yourself together by a thread.
And all he could do was stare at you, feeling that ache in his chest grow heavier, every ounce of irritation he’d felt earlier dissolving into raw shame.
You stared at him for a long, long second. His face, his expression, his guilt — all of it. And then you scoffed. Soft, sharp, bitter.
Your gaze dropped, breaking away from him like it hurt to look. “You know what…” You shook your head, your voice low but cutting. “I think I’m gonna go home.”
Bucky’s shoulders stiffened. “What?”
“I just—” You exhaled hard through your nose, the sound almost like a laugh but with no humor in it. “I don’t wanna be here right now.”
Something in his chest lurched. It was like you’d just reached in and yanked him out of whatever fog he’d been sitting in. His whole body went tense.
“Wait, no—” He shot up from the couch so fast the blanket slid off his lap and onto the floor. “Sweetheart, please… don’t—”
You were already stepping toward the door, grabbing your bag from where it hung on the chair.
“Just—listen, okay? I didn’t mean—” He was moving around the coffee table to get to you, words tumbling over themselves, his voice rushed, almost frantic. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve pushed, I— I’m an idiot, I don’t think sometimes—”
You didn’t slow down, didn’t look at him.
“Please,” he said again, softer now but still desperate, his metal hand twitching at his side like he didn’t know if he could touch you without making it worse. “Don’t walk out like this. Not like this.”
Your fingers wrapped around the doorknob—only for it not to turn. You froze, looking up. Bucky’s metal hand was braced flat against the door, holding it shut. His knuckles were tight around the edges of the plates, his arm locked like he was physically anchoring you there.
“Please,” he said, his voice low, strained. “Don’t go.”
You didn’t look at him. Your eyes stayed fixed forward, shoulders tight. “Let go of the door, James.”
He didn’t move. “I’m sorry,” he rushed out, voice breaking at the edges. “I didn’t mean it like that. Please don’t leave like this.”
Your head tilted slightly, your breath sharp through your nose. Then, slowly, you turned to face him.
“I can understand,” you said quietly, “where all your doubt and mistrust comes from. God knows you’ve had enough reasons to feel that way.”
His eyes flickered, guilt written in every line of his face.
“But what you said to me tonight—” You shook your head. “It wasn’t fair.”
“Baby, I—”
“No.” You cut him off, your voice soft but final. “Maybe we’ve been spending too much time together. Maybe… we should take a little time apart.”
His chest rose and fell hard, panic tightening every word. “No. No, I don’t want that. We can— we can fix this. I just—”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” you said, stepping back from him and the door. “When I feel better.”
The look in his eyes nearly stopped you—but you turned away before it could.
You opened the door and stepped into the hall, leaving him standing there, still holding the doorframe like he needed the support, the silence in his apartment pressing in around him until it was deafening.
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The next morning, sunlight bled through your blinds in soft, dusty lines, warming the sheets around you. You stayed in bed longer than usual, lazily tracing your fingers over the fabric, listening to the faint hum of traffic outside.
Your phone was on the nightstand, face down. You knew it would already be buzzing.
This was part of your next move. And, maybe, just a little bit of punishment for going off script.
Your past was your past — jagged, bloody edges smoothed down by time, but still yours. Messy, ugly, yes — but more than twenty years behind you. He had no right to dig it up like that. No right to look at you like you were some puzzle he needed to solve to make you safe.
And last night, when you’d told him, I’ll call you tomorrow, you already knew you wouldn’t.
Almost like clockwork, it started.
The first text came before nine.
Morning. I’m sorry about last night.
Then another, a few minutes later.
Can we talk? Please?
By noon, there were six more, all variations of I didn’t mean it, please call me, I just need to see you.
By mid-afternoon, the messages tripled. The tone shifted — still apologetic, but heavier now, more desperate.
And then the calls began.
The first time his name lit up your screen, you let it ring until it died out. The second time, you silenced it before the first ring finished. The third, you just let it buzz in your hand, your thumb hovering over accept, knowing you wouldn’t press it.
You read every message. You didn’t respond to a single one.
By early evening, you could almost see him — pacing his apartment, jaw tight, thumb running over the edge of his phone like it was a trigger. Telling himself to stop. Telling himself to give you space. Failing miserably.
That gnawing, hollow feeling would be sinking in now. The weight in his chest. The restlessness in his hands. The way he’d keep thinking of the sound of your voice, the feel of your touch, the way your smile hooked him without effort.
The withdrawal was starting to take hold. And the best part? You didn’t need to lift a finger. He’d come to you.
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You had given him four days. Four, maybe five, before the silence became unbearable and he caved. Before he came knocking at your door like a stray, looking for warmth, for you.
But he surprised you. He lasted a week. Seven whole days without seeing you. Without hearing your voice. Without touching you.
When the knock came, it was almost quiet enough to miss. Three soft raps against the wood, tentative, like even his hand was unsure whether it should be there. You paused in your kitchen, head tilting slightly toward the sound, the smallest flicker of a smile tugging at your lips before you schooled it away.
You weren’t expecting anyone. Which meant there was only one person who could be standing on the other side of that door.
You took your time crossing the room, letting your bare feet make soft thuds against the hardwood, your expression carefully shifting into something neutral. Concerned, maybe. Curious. Certainly not expectant.
The lock clicked, and you opened the door slowly. And there he was.
God, he looked miserable. Pale, like the color had been drained out of him. Dark, heavy bags carved into the skin beneath his eyes, shadowing them, making the blue seem even more raw. His hair was a little disheveled, his jaw unshaven, like he’d been too busy — or too restless — to care.
For a moment, he just stood there, his broad shoulders rising and falling as if the walk to your place had been exhausting. His eyes moved over you like he was memorizing you all over again, as though a week apart had been months.
When he finally spoke, his voice was soft — hoarse, like he’d been swallowing too many words before they could escape.
“Can I come in… please?”
The “please” was quiet, almost fragile, carrying the weight of the days you’d kept yourself from him. The kind of please that made you want to pull him inside and fix every inch of him.
But you didn’t move right away. You let the moment stretch — just long enough for him to shift uneasily on his feet, his hand tightening around the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder, his gaze darting from your eyes to the floor and back.
You pursed your lips, your hand still resting lightly on the edge of the door, like you were actually considering telling him no.
Your eyes held his for a long moment. He didn’t look away. He looked like a man ready to take whatever you decided to give him — even if that meant shutting the door in his face.
You let the pause drag just long enough for his shoulders to sink, for his jaw to tighten in that quiet, bracing way that told you he was preparing for rejection.
Then you shifted. Your head tilted slightly, and your lips softened into the faintest, unreadable smile. Without a word, you stepped back, swinging the door open wider.
He moved past you immediately, the tension in his frame palpable — like stepping over your threshold was the first deep breath he’d taken in a week. You caught the faint scent of his cologne as he brushed past, that worn, familiar mix of cedar and soap and something faintly metallic.
He stopped just inside your living room, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides. He didn’t sit. Didn’t touch anything. Just stood there, taking you in like he wasn’t sure where to start.
You closed the door quietly behind him, leaning against it for a second, letting him feel your eyes on his back.
“Are you okay?” you asked, your voice soft but even.
He turned halfway toward you, his mouth opening like he wanted to say no, but what came out instead was, “I… couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
Your brows rose slightly, but you didn’t move closer. You stayed where you were, making him bridge the space.
And of course, he did. Slowly, he crossed the room toward you — every step careful, like he was afraid to spook you. His gaze searched your face, looking for some sign, some opening.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally, his voice low and thick. “For what I said. For… all of it. I just—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I messed up. I know I did.”
You let your silence hang in the air between you, your expression unreadable, forcing him to keep going.
“I just… I don’t wanna lose you,” he admitted, and that raw edge in his voice almost made you smile. Almost.
You didn’t answer right away.
You just stood there, your arms loosely crossed, studying him like you were trying to decide if the man in front of you was worth the trouble. Your silence stretched long enough that he shifted his weight, his shoulders tensing like he was bracing for you to tell him to leave.
“You really hurt me, James,” you said at last, your voice quiet but heavy. No anger. Just disappointment. You watched the way his jaw tightened at the sound of his name, the way his eyes dropped for half a second before finding yours again.
“I know,” he said immediately, almost desperately. “And I hate myself for it. I was—” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “—stupid. I was scared, and I… I let it get in my head.”
You tilted your head, letting your gaze run over him — the pale face, the dark circles under his eyes, the slight slump in his frame. “And what happens next time you get scared?” you asked softly. “Do I get accused again?”
He flinched. It was subtle, but you caught it.
“I’m not gonna make that mistake again,” he said, his voice firm in that way that meant he was trying to convince himself as much as you. “I swear, sweetheart, I’ll do better. I just… I need you to give me that chance.”
You let your lips press together in a thin line, then slowly exhaled, glancing toward the floor like you were weighing his words. “I don’t know, James,” you murmured. “I don’t know if I can trust that yet.”
The panic that flickered in his eyes was quick, but it was there. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Please. Just—don’t shut me out. I can’t…” He stopped himself, swallowing whatever words were about to come out, but the meaning was clear.
You let the silence hang between you again, long enough for him to start fidgeting with his gloves. Then, finally, you gave a small sigh, softening your expression just enough.
“Alright,” you said quietly, as though you’d just made a reluctant decision. “One more chance.”
His relief was almost palpable — his shoulders loosening, his exhale shaky.
You gave him a faint, almost weary smile, then stepped aside toward the couch, letting him follow you deeper into your space. He trailed after you like a man starved, grateful just to be let close again — exactly where you wanted him.
Then, with a slow exhale, you stepped toward him. He straightened a little as you closed the space between you, his hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare.
“James,” you said quietly, your eyes locked on his, “you hurt me.”
“I know,” he murmured. “I know, and I’m sorry.”
You studied him for a beat longer… then finally lifted your hand to his jaw, your thumb brushing over the rough edge of his stubble. He leaned into your touch like it was the first bit of warmth he’d felt in days.
And then you kissed him.
Not forgiving, not yet — but slow and deep enough to make his knees go weak. You felt the way his breath caught against your lips, how his hands finally came up to your waist, pulling you in like he was afraid you’d vanish again.
He melted into you, completely. His shoulders dropped, his tension bleeding out as his mouth moved against yours with quiet desperation. It wasn’t just a kiss to him — it was an anchor, proof you were still here.
You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against his lips, “Please don't make me regret this.”
“I won’t,” he breathed, already leaning back in for more.
This time, the kiss turned hungrier. You tugged at his shirt, pulling it over his head, your fingers splaying over the warm muscle of his chest. His breath hitched when you pressed your body against his, and when you guided him backward toward your bedroom, he didn’t resist for a second.
By the time you pushed him down onto your bed and straddled his lap, his hands were everywhere — his flesh hand gripping your thigh, his metal one sliding up your spine like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to hold you closer or never let you go again.
“God, I missed you,” he murmured against your mouth, the words almost a groan.
You smiled faintly, brushing your lips along his jaw. “Show me,” you whispered.
And he did — with a kiss that turned into something far rougher, far more desperate. The kind of sex that blurred the lines between apology and need, that left him gasping your name like a prayer.
By the time it was over, he was sprawled against you, damp with sweat, his face buried in your neck, muttering quiet promises you knew he’d keep — because now, after this, he’d be even more afraid to lose you.
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Six Months Later
May 2025
You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the rich red fabric over your hips, letting your gaze linger on your reflection. The dress clung perfectly — a slow curve from shoulder to waist, from waist to the flare just above your ankles. Your lipstick matched it exactly, and you’d taken extra care with your makeup, the soft glow on your skin catching the warm light of the room.
You tilted your head slightly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, checking the angle again. Every detail was deliberate. Every choice calculated.
You didn’t hear him at first — not until the familiar weight of his hands slid around your waist from behind, his chest fitting flush to your back like it had always belonged there.
“Mm,” Bucky’s voice was low, already warm with something heavier than words. His head dipped, the scrape of faint stubble brushing against your neck as his lips found the spot just below your ear. He kissed once, slow, then again — lingering, like he needed the taste of you before anything else tonight.
You felt his breath as he murmured, “We could skip dinner.” Another kiss. “Stay in instead.”
The faint scent of his cologne mixed with the heat of him pressed against you, his nose grazing along your jaw as if he was memorizing it. His hands splayed wider over your stomach, pulling you closer, and you caught his reflection in the mirror — eyes half-lidded, locked entirely on you.
“It’s our anniversary,” you reminded softly, though your voice didn’t carry much protest.
“Exactly,” he murmured, lips brushing against your skin again. “I want you to myself tonight.”
You turned slowly in his arms, the soft fabric of your dress brushing against his shirt as you faced him. His hands didn’t leave your waist, thumbs stroking absent circles over the curve of your hips.
You smiled, slow and knowing, letting your hands slide up from his shoulders, fingers curling into the hair at the back of his head. You felt the way his breath deepened under your touch, his body leaning into you like it was instinct.
“Dinner first,” you murmured, your tone soft but edged with promise. Your nails scraped lightly against his scalp, just enough to make him shiver. “And then…” You tilted your head, brushing your lips against the corner of his mouth without giving him the kiss he was angling for, “…you can have me for as long as you want.”
His eyes darkened immediately, the muscles in his jaw flexing as if he was weighing whether to argue. His hands slid lower on your waist, pulling you that fraction of an inch closer until your bodies were flush, the heat of him pressing through your dress.
“You’re killing me,” he muttered, his voice a low rasp. His mouth found your neck again, one slow, hot kiss just under your ear.
“That’s the idea,” you teased, still stroking the back of his head, guiding him without force, letting him think he was the one choosing to stop.
For a moment, he just breathed you in, his lips lingering against your skin like he was storing it away for later. Then, with a quiet groan, he finally leaned back enough to look at you — frustration and hunger warring in his eyes.
“You’d better eat fast,” he warned, but his grip didn’t loosen, his thumbs still brushing over your hips like he needed the contact to keep steady.
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The restaurant glowed in warm, golden light, the kind that softened everything it touched — the gleam of the silverware, the deep reds of the wine in your glass, the way James’ eyes caught the low light like they were lit from within.
A year.
It felt strange, thinking back to that first coffee after the grocery store — how awkward he’d been, how carefully you’d drawn him out. Every step, every move since then, deliberate on your part. And yet, sitting across from him now, you knew it wasn’t all calculation.
You’d worked for this. Planned for it. But somewhere along the way, it had stopped being just strategy.
Because you did love him.
You just needed him to love you more.
Your lips curved softly as you looked at him, letting your gaze linger in a way that you knew would make his pulse skip. He was watching you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing, his elbows resting loosely on the table, wine glass untouched in front of him.
It was still startling sometimes — the intensity in his eyes when he looked at you. Like he was memorizing you, every time. Like he was afraid if he blinked, you’d be gone.
“You’re quiet,” you said, your voice light, teasing just enough.
“Just… taking you in,” he replied, and there was no hesitation, no attempt to disguise it.
You tilted your head, letting a slow smile bloom across your face. “After a year, you’d think you’d have me memorized by now.”
“I do,” he said without missing a beat. “But I still like looking.”
The corner of your mouth lifted, a warmth settling in your chest that you didn’t have to fake. You reached across the table, your fingers brushing over his hand, the contact grounding him. You could feel the subtle shift in his posture, the way his shoulders eased as soon as you touched him.
The waiter came and went, dropping off plates you barely noticed. The whole time, his attention never strayed from you. It was the kind of focus you’d nurtured, protected — and now, it was yours entirely.
And as you sipped your wine, your thumb idly stroking over the back of his hand, you thought about how far you’d brought him from that guarded, skeptical man you’d met.
He’d come to love you exactly as much as you’d wanted. Now you just had to make sure he never stopped.
And now… now you just needed to secure it.
Preferably with the ring you’d seen carefully hidden in his drawer — the one where he kept his dog tags and those other small, weathered pieces of his life he couldn’t let go of. You’d found it weeks ago, tucked inside a worn leather pouch. Platinum band, simple but heavy. Not new. Not flashy. The kind of thing James would choose for forever.
You hadn’t let on that you knew. You’d just been waiting for the moment.
So when he ordered the soufflé for you—“her favorite,” he told the waiter—you sat up straighter, gaze fixed on the dessert menu as though you weren’t paying attention, feigning complete ignorance.
By the time the warm, delicate dish was set in front of you, you’d already pictured it. The glint of the band as your fork broke the surface. His hand reaching across the table, his voice low and a little nervous. The quiet satisfaction of knowing you’d planned every step to this moment.
You took your first bite, light and airy, the sweet steam curling up toward your face. Your heart was steady—your smile soft, practiced—as your fork dipped again, searching.
And then… nothing. Just chocolate. Just a normal soufflé.
You blinked once, twice, forcing your expression to stay exactly the same. You made yourself hum softly in appreciation, licking a smear of chocolate from your spoon as though you hadn’t expected anything else.
James was smiling at you, leaning back in his chair with that relaxed warmth you’d learned to draw out of him. Completely unaware of the tiny shift in your chest, the cool note under the sugar on your tongue.
“Good?” he asked.
You smiled, perfect and easy. “Perfect.”
And you let the conversation move on, your face never betraying the faint, careful recalibration already happening in the back of your mind.
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You weren’t even a full step into the apartment before he was on you — hands gripping, mouth crashing into yours like he’d been holding himself back all through dinner and was done pretending now.
His lips were hot, desperate, devouring yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. You felt your back hit the wall, the cool plaster stark against the heat of his body pressed flush to yours. His metal hand braced beside your head, caging you in, while his flesh hand roamed — down your waist, over your hip, gripping hard like he needed to feel every curve at once.
You gasped into his mouth when his thigh pushed between yours, the friction already enough to send sparks straight through your core. He swallowed the sound greedily, his tongue sliding against yours, his kiss rough and claiming.
“God, this dress…” he growled against your lips, his fingers dragging the hem up your thigh without hesitation. “Been thinkin’ about gettin’ you out of it all night.”
You arched into him, grinding against the thigh wedged between yours, your hands threading into his hair and tugging hard enough to make him groan. He bit your bottom lip in return, one hand cupping your ass and pulling you harder into him until you could feel exactly how hard he was through his pants.
“Bucky—” you breathed, but it came out more like a moan when his mouth trailed hot, wet kisses down your jaw to your neck. His teeth scraped over your pulse before his tongue soothed the sting, his breath coming rough and fast against your skin.
Your dress was bunched high now, his fingers already finding the edge of your panties, dragging along the lace just to feel you shiver.
“Tell me you want me,” he rasped against your throat, his voice low and filthy, more command than request. “Say it.”
“I want you,” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. “I want you now.”
That was all it took. His mouth crashed back to yours, kissing you hard as his hand slipped under the lace, fingers teasing you until your knees nearly buckled.
When you broke the kiss suddenly, your palms pressing against his chest to push him back just enough to catch his confused, darkened stare.
“Wait here,” you breathed, lips still swollen from his mouth. “I have a surprise for you.”
His brows knit, suspicion and curiosity mixing in his expression. “What kind of surprise?”
You just smirked, stepping out of his reach and smoothing your dress back down over your hips as you started toward the bedroom.
“Hey—” he started, pushing off the wall to follow you, but you turned, holding up a hand.
“Nope,” you said firmly, your tone light but edged with finality. “You can’t come in.”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed, a half-smile tugging at his lips despite the heat still written all over his face. “Why not?”
“Because,” you said simply, already stepping inside, “it’ll ruin the surprise.”
And before he could take another step, you closed the door and turned the lock with a decisive click.
On the other side, you heard him let out a low, frustrated groan, the sound deep in his chest. “You’re killin’ me, baby,” he muttered through the wood.
You just smiled to yourself, leaning back against the door for a second before moving toward the closet, already planning exactly how you’d make him wait — and exactly how you’d reward him for it.
So you took your time with the zipper, letting the red dress pool at your feet before stepping out of it and draping it neatly over the chair. The silk lingerie you’d chosen for tonight was new — deep black, sheer in just the right places, the lace framing your curves in a way you knew would undo him the second he saw you.
You ran your palms slowly over your hips, adjusting the straps, smoothing the garter into place. The mirror caught the way the fabric clung to your skin, the way your hair fell loose over your shoulders. You looked like a secret — one meant to be unwrapped slowly, savored, and remembered.
And all the while, you let him wait outside the door, pacing, restless, already half-gone with anticipation.
If Bucky was too scared to take the next step — to slide that ring from his drawer onto your finger — then you’d take the step for both of you.
Marriage was fine. Marriage was symbolic. But it wasn’t permanent. What would keep you and James together forever was obvious.
A baby.
Your reflection smiled back at you, slow and knowing. You’d stopped taking your birth control a week ago, carefully tracking your cycle. Tonight fell just before ovulation — the point when your body was primed, when the odds were stacked in your favor.
You adjusted the bra’s clasp and smoothed your hands down your stomach, picturing his expression when you stepped out there. The way he’d grip you, lose himself in you, be far too lost to think about anything but the moment.
And afterward… well. By then, the future would already be in motion.
You reached for the door, letting the anticipation hang for just another heartbeat before unlocking it. The lock clicked, and you turned the handle slowly, letting the door creak open just enough for the light from the bedroom to spill into the hall.
Bucky was right there. He’d been pacing — you could tell by the restless way his weight shifted from one foot to the other, the faint flex of his jaw.
And then his eyes landed on you.
The change was instant.
Every ounce of tension in him coiled tighter, his pupils blowing wide, his gaze dragging over every inch of you with sharp, hungry precision. You saw the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the muscle in his jaw ticking like he was holding himself back by the thinnest thread.
“Jesus Christ…” he muttered, almost under his breath — not reverent, not even surprised, but like the sight of you had just punched the air out of his lungs.
You leaned lightly against the doorframe, letting the strap of your bra slide just enough against your shoulder to make his eyes follow the movement. “You like?” you asked, voice slow, sultry.
His answer wasn’t words.
In two steps, he was on you, his hands already at your waist, pulling you into him hard enough that your back hit the doorframe. His mouth crashed onto yours, hot and rough, teeth catching your lower lip before his tongue swept in, claiming you with an almost desperate urgency.
You felt the hard line of him through his pants, pressed firmly against your stomach, and the way his hands roamed like he couldn’t decide what part of you to touch first. His metal hand gripped your ass with possessive force, while his flesh one dragged up your side, fingers brushing the edge of your bra, curling like he was about to tear it off.
He broke the kiss just enough to breathe against your mouth, his voice ragged, almost animal. “You’re fuckin’ killin’ me.”
Then his lips were back on you, trailing down your jaw to your throat, biting just enough to make you gasp before sucking hard enough to mark you. You could feel his restraint fraying — every touch growing rougher, more urgent, the kind of need that burned through thought entirely.
The door to the bedroom was still open behind you, and he was already walking you backward through it without breaking from your mouth.
You barely had time to register the way his arms shifted before he bent, gripping you under your thighs.
“Bucky—!” you gasped, the sudden lift catching you off guard, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
He carried you like you weighed nothing, his mouth never slowing — moving from your neck to your collarbone, kissing, biting, sucking with the kind of hunger that had your back arching into him.
You laughed breathlessly, the sound breaking into a moan when his head dipped lower, his mouth closing over your nipple through the thin lace. His teeth caught the peak, his tongue flicking against it, the heat of his mouth soaking through the fabric until it was damp.
“Fuck—James—” you panted, gripping at his hair, your nails scraping against his scalp.
He growled low against you, the sound vibrating into your skin, and then you were being dropped onto the bed — not carelessly, but with the controlled force of someone who needed you exactly where he wanted you.
You bounced once against the mattress, the lingerie strap sliding further down your shoulder, before he was over you, caging you in with his arms. His hair had fallen loose from where you’d been gripping it, his breath rough and fast, eyes fixed on you like prey he was about to devour.
He didn’t wait for permission.
His hands were already roaming, pulling at straps, pushing lace aside, his mouth finding every inch of newly exposed skin like he’d been starved for it. The kiss he dragged back to your mouth was hot, messy, almost uncoordinated in its urgency, and you felt his hips pressing hard into yours, grinding as though the friction alone might undo him.
“Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ night,” he rasped against your lips, his voice almost shaking from how badly he wanted it.
His mouth left yours suddenly, his breathing heavy, eyes blown wide and fixed low like he’d just made a decision he couldn’t come back from.
“Lay back,” he growled, already moving down your body.
You barely had time to register it before his hands hooked behind your knees, spreading them wide. The cool drag of his metal fingers along your inner thighs made you shiver, while his flesh hand gripped firmly, holding you exactly where he wanted you.
Then he was kneeling between your legs, lowering himself until his broad shoulders pressed against your thighs. He dragged you closer in one rough pull, your ass right to the edge of the bed, before hiking your legs up and over his shoulders.
The lace of your panties didn’t last long — he pushed them aside with a flick of his thumb, the air hitting you for a second before his mouth was on you.
You gasped sharply, your fingers fisting in the sheets as his tongue slid through your folds, slow at first, then firmer, more deliberate. He groaned low when he tasted you, the vibration making your hips twitch.
“Fuck, baby…” he muttered against you, already diving back in like a man starved, his tongue circling your clit before sucking it into his mouth with filthy precision.
Your back arched, a breathless moan spilling out as your hands flew to his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan again — and the sound went straight through you. His grip on your thighs tightened, keeping you open, keeping you his.
Every movement was hungry, urgent, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. He alternated between deep, slow licks and fast, sharp flicks of his tongue, never giving you a chance to settle, keeping you right at that dangerous edge.
“James—” you gasped, your thighs trembling against his shoulders.
He pulled back just enough to look up at you from between your legs, his mouth glistening, eyes dark and wild. “Not stoppin’ ‘til you fall apart for me.”
And then his mouth was back on you, more relentless than before, his need to taste you completely taking over.
He didn’t let up — not even a little.
Every stroke of his tongue was purposeful, calculated in that chaotic, desperate way only Bucky could manage — half control, half raw instinct. His flesh hand gripped your thigh hard, fingers digging in, while his metal hand pressed flat against your hip, holding you down when you tried to buck up into him.
The room was filled with the wet, obscene sounds of him eating you out, the low hum of his groans vibrating against your most sensitive spot. You could feel every flick, every pull of his mouth, like it was designed to unravel you completely.
“Fuck, James—” Your voice was breaking now, your grip in his hair tightening until your knuckles ached.
He only groaned in response, the sound deep and rough, like the taste of you was driving him half mad. His tongue changed pace — slow circles, then sudden, precise flicks — keeping you from finding any kind of rhythm, keeping you teetering.
Your breathing quickened, legs twitching against his shoulders, your thighs trying to close on instinct, but his hands were unyielding. He knew exactly where you were, exactly how close.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured against you, his lips brushing your soaked skin before sucking your clit back into his mouth. “Come for me.”
That command — the sheer gravel of his voice — tipped you over.
It hit you hard, your body arching off the bed, a sharp cry leaving your lips as the orgasm rolled through you. Your thighs clenched around his head, your fingers pulling hard at his hair as you rode the waves, every nerve ending singing with him between your legs.
But Bucky didn’t stop. He kept working you through it, licking and sucking until you were trembling, breathless, your hips twitching at the overstimulation. Only when you whimpered his name in that needy, almost pleading tone did he finally lift his head.
His mouth was glistening, his lips red and swollen, his eyes so dark they were nearly black.
“Not done with you yet,” he rasped, crawling up your body without breaking eye contact.
You barely had time to breathe before his mouth was on yours — hot, messy, and deep — and you tasted yourself on his tongue. His hands were already pushing your knees wider, lining himself up without ceremony, his cock heavy and hard against your entrance.
“Gonna fuck you with your taste still on my mouth,” he growled into the kiss, and then he was sliding into you, deep and slow at first, groaning low as your walls clenched around him.
The stretch had you gasping, still sensitive from his mouth, your nails raking down his back as he pressed all the way in, his hips flush to yours.
“Fuck… you feel perfect,” he panted, his forehead dropping to yours for a moment — before pulling back and thrusting into you again, harder this time, setting a pace that told you he was about to fuck you until neither of you could breathe.
The first few thrusts were deep and heavy, knocking the air from your lungs, the kind that made your body jolt and your nails sink deeper into his skin. Bucky’s breath was already ragged, his mouth hovering over yours, stealing your gasps with every push.
Then something in him snapped.
His pace shifted — no more measured control, just raw, driving force. He fucked into you like his body was working on instinct alone, hips slamming into yours hard enough to make the bed creak beneath you. The sounds between you were filthy — wet, sharp, every thrust punctuated by the slap of skin and the low, guttural groans tearing from his chest.
“James—” you moaned, your voice cracking as his cock hit that perfect spot over and over, each thrust deeper than the last.
“Can’t… fuckin’ stop,” he ground out, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you’d be marked in the morning. His metal hand slid up to hold your thigh high, opening you up even wider so he could drive into you with everything he had.
Your back arched, breasts brushing against his chest, and he ducked his head to mouth at your throat — biting, sucking, marking you like he needed the world to see who you belonged to. Every movement screamed possession, his body claiming yours in the most primal way.
The way he was fucking you — it was the definition of breeding, even if he didn’t know it. Every thrust was deep, purposeful, like he was trying to get as far inside you as possible, to make sure you’d feel him long after he was gone.
And you let him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him in, pulling him closer until there wasn’t a single inch of space left between you. “Don’t stop,” you gasped in his ear, your voice low and urgent. “I want it all, James. Every drop.”
That broke what little restraint he had left.
He growled — an actual, raw sound from deep in his chest — and slammed into you faster, harder, the bed frame thudding against the wall in rhythm with his thrusts. His head was buried in your neck, his breath hot and frantic, his hips driving like he was chasing something buried deep inside you.
You could feel him getting closer — the tension in his thighs, the way his thrusts grew rougher, more erratic. His teeth scraped your skin as he gasped, “Fuck—gonna—”
“Yes,” you cut in, your nails dragging down his back. “Inside me. I want it inside me.”
That was it.
With a guttural curse, his hips slammed into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you. The heat flooded you in thick pulses, and he stayed there, grinding into you through it, his breath breaking, every muscle locked as if his body refused to pull away.
You tightened your legs around him, keeping him there, your hand stroking through his hair while you whispered soft, breathless praise into his ear — feeding the moment, cementing it.
By the time his weight finally slumped over you, his cock still buried deep, you could feel his heartbeat pounding against your chest.
And you knew. If this worked—if tonight went exactly as you’d planned—he'd be yours forever.
────────────────────────
One Month Later
It had been exactly a month since that night.
The night you’d set everything into motion.
Now you sat on the closed lid of the toilet, elbows on your knees, staring down at the small plastic stick in your hands.
Two pink lines.
Clear as day.
The satisfaction that curled low in your stomach was warm, steady — not giddy, not frantic. This was what you’d planned for. What you’d worked toward. You let yourself sit in it for a moment longer, letting that small, satisfied smile pull at your lips.
Now came the real work — finding the perfect way to tell him.
And James? He was right where you’d left him. Sitting on the couch, watching some old movie, waiting for you without any idea how much his life was about to change.
You rose slowly, placing the test gently on the edge of the sink for a moment as you composed yourself. The smile softened, the corners of your mouth pulling down just slightly. You practiced the look in the mirror — worried, almost sad, like you weren’t sure what to think.
Perfect.
When you finally opened the bathroom door, you moved slowly, your bare feet making soft sounds on the floor. Bucky glanced over from the couch immediately — and the moment his eyes caught your face, you saw it. His posture changed, that quiet alertness switching on like a flicker of electricity.
“What’s wrong, baby?” His voice was low, careful, already tinged with concern.
You stopped just a few feet from the couch, chewing your lip like you didn’t quite know how to start. Then, without a word, you held the test out toward him.
He frowned slightly, reaching for it — and then froze when he saw.
For a long moment, he didn’t speak.
His eyes stayed on the little stick in his hand, his brows furrowing like the two pink lines were in a language he couldn’t quite read.
Then it hit him.
His gaze flicked up to you — wide, uncertain — then back to the test again. His fingers tightened slightly around it, his jaw working like he was trying to form words and finding none.
“I… I thought…” he finally managed, his voice rough, unsteady. “I thought we were keeping it safe.”
You blinked at him, letting your eyes go wide, your bottom lip trembling just enough. “We were,” you said quietly, almost like you were trying to convince yourself. “I mean… I thought we were.”
His hand went through his hair, dragging hard, the motion jerky and restless. “I—” He stopped, his breath catching. “I just… I don’t understand. This wasn’t—”
He cut himself off again, and you let the silence stretch, watching him wrestle with the storm behind his eyes. His chest rose and fell faster, his grip on the test loosening until it rested in his palm like it was fragile.
You stepped closer, your arms wrapping lightly around yourself, shoulders curling inward as though you were smaller somehow. “James…” Your voice was so soft it was almost a whisper. “What are we gonna do?”
His head lifted at that, his eyes searching your face — and finding what you wanted him to see. The uncertainty. The fear. The quiet plea for him to take control, to protect you.
“I—” He swallowed hard, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t know yet. I just… I need to think. But we’ll figure it out. We’ll… we’ll figure it out.”
He reached for you then, pulling you down onto the couch beside him, his arm curling protectively around you even as his mind clearly spun. You let yourself lean into him, your cheek against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.
Inside, you were calm. Because he’d just said we’ll figure it out. That was all you needed to hear.
────────────────────────
Two Months Later
The morning light spilled across your bedroom, soft and golden, catching on the band of platinum wrapped snug around your left hand.
You turned it slowly, admiring the way it glittered in the mirror.
Simple. Heavy. Perfect.
Your eyes shifted lower, to the faint swell beneath your tank — the tiniest curve of your belly, only just beginning to show. Three months.
You ran your palm over it absently, your reflection looking back at you with a knowing smile.
It had been a month since James proposed.
You could still see the scene perfectly when you closed your eyes.
He’d cooked for you that night — your favorite meal. You remembered the smell of garlic and herbs filling the air, the low hum of old music coming from the speaker, the way he kept glancing over at you when he thought you weren’t looking.
At the time, you’d thought he was just a little more fidgety than usual. Later, you’d realize he’d been working up the nerve.
After dinner, he’d reached into his pocket—slow, careful—and set a small box on the table between you.
“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” he’d said, voice just shy of steady, blue eyes fixed on yours.
You’d blinked, keeping your tone careful, hesitant. “James… are you sure this isn’t just because of…?” You’d glanced down toward your stomach without finishing the sentence.
His face had shifted instantly, that stubborn line setting into his jaw. “No,” he’d said firmly. “This isn’t about obligation. I love you. I don’t want to be with anyone else. And I’m in this for the long game, sweetheart. Always have been.”
You’d let the silence linger just long enough for him to reach across the table, his hand covering yours, his thumb brushing your ring finger like it already belonged there.
“Say yes,” he’d murmured. “Please.”
And, of course, you had.
Now, standing in front of the mirror, the ring catching the light and the small curve of your belly just beneath it, you couldn’t help the small, satisfied smile that spread across your face.
Everything was falling right into place.
────────────────────────
Eleven Months Later
July 2026
The door shut behind him with a dull click, the sound of the lock sliding into place almost drowned out by the faint hum of music drifting from the kitchen. Something warm and rich was in the air — garlic, maybe rosemary — and for the first time all day, Bucky felt his shoulders start to loosen.
He let out a slow breath, setting his briefcase down and dropping his keys onto the entryway table. They landed with a soft clink against the wood, right beside the silver picture frame that had been there since the move.
His gaze found it immediately, like it always did.
You, in your wedding dress, smiling down at the tiny bundle in your arms — your daughter, barely two months old, swaddled in ivory silk to match you. She was sleeping in the picture, her face soft and serene, her little fists tucked against her chest.
And there he was beside you, in the fancy tux he’d married you in, looking straight ahead at the camera. But even in the photo, it was obvious — his eyes weren’t on the lens.
They were on you.
Like they always were.
The tiredness in his bones eased just a little as he stood there, taking it in for a few seconds longer before he made himself move, the smell of dinner pulling him down the hall toward the kitchen.
From the doorway, he could see you — hair pulled back, one of his old t-shirts hanging loose over your frame, swaying your hips gently to the rhythm of whatever old song was playing as you stirred something on the stove.
You didn’t even hear him come in—not until his arms slid around your waist from behind, the heat of his body pressing into your back. You startled just slightly, then relaxed immediately into the familiar weight of him.
“Something smells good,” Bucky murmured against your neck, his voice low and rough from the day.
A smile tugged at your lips as you tilted your head, giving him room when his mouth brushed your skin in a slow, lingering kiss. You turned in his arms, hands resting on his chest as you leaned up to give him a proper kiss — warm, unhurried, the kind that felt like a homecoming all on its own.
“I’m making beef stew and roasted vegetables,” you said when you pulled back, watching the faint flicker of relief cross his features. “Your favorite. Should be ready in a few minutes.”
His shoulders seemed to ease instantly, the tension melting from him as his thumb traced the edge of your hip.
“So you can go get undressed,” you added with a little smile, “and greet a special someone.”
That got the faintest, tired laugh out of him. “Yeah?”
You nodded toward the living room, where the faint sound of a baby’s cooing could just be heard over the music. “She’s been waiting for you.”
His face softened instantly, his lips curving into the kind of smile that was only for her—and for you. Without another word, he kissed your forehead and slipped out of the kitchen, already tugging at his tie as he headed toward the sound.
Bucky rounded the corner into the living room, the exhaustion of his day already fading as his eyes landed on the little playmat spread out across the floor.
There she was.
Shelly — four months old, dressed in a soft pink onesie, kicking her legs and swatting at the dangling toys above her with all the chaotic energy of someone discovering the world one grab at a time.
“Hey… Seashell,” he said softly, and the moment she heard his voice, her head turned toward him like it was instinct. Her little face lit up, her mouth curling into that wide, gummy smile that made his chest ache in the best way.
“Oh, there’s my princess. My pretty girl,” he murmured as he crouched down beside her, his voice low and warm just for her.
Her legs kicked faster, arms flailing as if she could launch herself into him by sheer willpower.
“You waitin’ for me, huh?” he asked, leaning in to press a kiss to one chubby cheek, then the other, then back again, his scruff making her squeal and squirm in delight.
She answered him with a long string of babbles — high and excited, her tiny hands reaching for his face like she had something very important to tell him.
“Oh yeah? You talkin’ to me, Shell?” he grinned, catching one of her hands gently in his and pretending to listen with the gravity of a serious conversation. “Uh-huh. No kidding. That so?”
Her blue eyes — his blue eyes — locked on him, bright and full of life, while every other feature was you. And he loved that. Loved that she was the perfect blend of both of you, but in all the ways that mattered, she was entirely her own little person.
“You’ve been keepin’ your ma company while I’ve been gone?” he asked, pressing another kiss to her cheek just because he couldn’t help himself. “Good girl.”
She rewarded him with another loud squeal, her tiny fingers curling around his thumb like she never wanted to let go.
From the kitchen doorway, you watched them for a moment — Bucky still crouched on the playmat, talking to Shelly like she was giving him a detailed report, his big hands so gentle as he scooped her up and pressed her close.
By the time you set the table, she was tucked in her highchair, the soft click of the tray locking into place as Bucky adjusted it. She babbled happily, smacking her palms against the surface while he set a small bowl of mashed sweet potato in front of her.
“Alright, Seashell,” he murmured, scooping up a little on the tiny spoon. “Open wide.”
She did, but halfway through the bite, her blue eyes flicked toward you. When she saw you setting down the stew, her legs started kicking again, and she let out a happy squeal.
Bucky grinned, glancing over his shoulder at you. “See? She’s a mama’s girl,” he teased.
“Only because I feed her the good stuff,” you shot back, sliding into your seat.
Dinner was easy. Domestic. Bucky took a bite of his stew, then scooped up another spoonful for Shelly, making exaggerated faces until she giggled and leaned forward to take it. He kept his left hand on the table, fingers brushing yours every so often as if he couldn’t stop reaching for you.
You caught him stealing glances between bites — that same soft, almost disbelieving look like he still couldn’t believe this was his life. His wife. His daughter. The warmth of this apartment.
Shelly babbled between spoonfuls, her little voice filling the air with nonsense words that Bucky responded to like she was telling the best story he’d ever heard.
“Oh yeah? You don’t say,” he told her seriously before looking at you. “She’s tellin’ me all about her day.”
“Sounds like she’s got a lot to say,” you said, smiling.
“She gets it from you,” he teased, but the way his eyes lingered on you for a second longer told you exactly where his heart was.
It was easy. Simple. Exactly the picture you’d worked for — and now, it was your reality.
You watched him from across the table, the way his big hands looked almost comically careful as he held that tiny spoon, coaxing Shelly into another bite. He talked to her the whole time, his voice low and soft, filled with a patience that seemed endless when it came to her.
“Good girl,” he murmured when she swallowed, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek before scooping up the next spoonful. She giggled, kicking her little feet, babbling something that made him grin like she just told the best joke in the world.
And your heart… God, your heart felt so full you almost didn't know what to do with it.
Every step. Every careful choice. Every word, every moment, every move you made — it was all for this.
James Buchanan Barnes, sitting at your table in your home, feeding your daughter with that kind of quiet devotion that didn't need to be spoken to be felt. Completely, entirely yours.
And Shelly… your perfect little girl, with his eyes and your smile, the living proof of everything you worked for.
You didn't feel smug. You didn't feel victorious. Not right now. What you felt is love. Pure, unfiltered, bone-deep love for the man across from you and the baby between you.
And as you watched them together, Shelly reaching for him with those tiny hands while he laughed and kissed her again, you felt it — a burst of true happiness so strong it stole your breath for a second.
Your husband. Your daughter. Your family.
Exactly as you planned. Exactly where they belong.
Forever yours.
a/n — I had to cut a bunch of gaslighting scenes, as well as reader's backstory scene. and a fluff scene where bucky talks about the wedding and baby ☹️. and I still had a whole thunderbolts arc, and more manipulation where she includes Shelly in it, sigh.
Pairing: Andy Barber x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 661
Summary: You help Andy blow off some steam after a shitty week.
Warnings: AU. Explicit language. Explicit sexual content. CEO!Andy. Boss/employee relations. Unprotected sex. Fluff and feels. Established relationship.
A/N: Here’s a lil spicy nugget for The Barracuda!Andy 😏 Spoiling y’all ftw!
Andy’s naked body was glistening with sweat, his usually perfectly floofed hair wild and hanging over his forehead, but it was the look of unadulterated bliss on his face as his eyes closed and his head fell back as he ruthlessly fucked into you from behind that had you cumming again.
You had never been more grateful for the large mirror propped up in the corner of your bedroom.
The way Andy had positioned you both–and purposefully so, you were sure–even with your ass up and face down, your warm cheek sticking to the sheets beneath you, you had the perfect vantage point to dazedly watch in the mirror as Andy fucked you.
Used your body exactly how he needed and wanted right now after a truly shitty day at work.
And god, even going at you like a man possessed, like a man with the kind of stamina that blew your mind, he was so gorgeous.
Andy laughed, his rhythm finally slowing as he smoothed one hand up your naked spine and curled over you. His lips hovered just beside the shell of your ear as he purred, “Thank you, sweetheart, I think you’re gorgeous, too.”
With the way his hips were starting to falter, his cock lingering deep inside of you for a beat longer than before on each thrust now, it took a moment for your lust-addled brain to realize that you must have made that gorgeous observation out loud.
You quietly groaned your humiliated misery, covering your face with your hand to hide, but Andy was quick to snatch up your wrist, and gather the other while he was at it, before holding both of your hands captive at the small of your back.
“You know I don’t like it when you hide from me, honey,” Andy breathed.
And then he was groaning as his orgasm finally broke over him, his head falling back again, his enviable eyelashes fluttering against the pale perfection of his bearded cheek as his pleasure finally consumed him.
You watched in the mirror, captivated as Andy’s grip on your hips grew firmer. As the muscles in the side of his ass flexed as he rutted into you with a moan before you felt the warm flood of his cum begin to fill you up.
“Fuccck,” he hissed quietly, chin dropping to his chest as he continued to pump into you with stilted, jarring thrusts–roughly rocking your body in the best kind of way–until he was finally spent.
When he pulled out of you, you immediately flopped further up the mattress, low key star fishing with an exhausted groan as Andy laughed behind you. A moment later he was more carefully stretching out in bed beside you, until he was settled on his stomach and resting his rosy cheek on his stacked arms.
“You sleeping already, sweetheart?” he asked.
“Hnnnngh,” you eloquently replied.
Shaking with laughter, Andy reached for your back with one hand, his palm caressing up your bare skin until you were shivering.
“Wanna see you,” he hummed, and you could tell by the slower drawl of his voice that he was as close to falling asleep as you were.
You turned to him, blinking heavily but smiling softly as Andy grinned at you and shifted closer.
“Thank you for letting me blow off a little steam,” he whispered, caressing your cheek as his eyes dipped between slow blinks.
“Always happy to support you, sir,” you gave him a playful grin.
Lips still curled with amusement, Andy moved closer, one big hand cradling the back of your head as he kissed you slowly.
“Love you sweetheart,” he murmured as he pulled away.
“Love you, too,” you slurred, your eyes blinking shut and staying that way.
Still smiling, Andy pressed a final kiss to your forehead before settling back down beside you, tugging the covers up around you both, and holding you close as he waited for sleep to carry him away.
—
I also have been trying to share some more non-evil Andy content as of late lolllll.
—
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While prepping for my Hoes for the Holidays stories, I realized that I haven’t shared more of The Barracuda verse here, so I’m gonna drop a coupla drabbles and imagines to add on to their story and prep us for some hoeliday shenanigans 🤭
Warnings: AU. Mild sexual content. CEO!Andy. Boss/employee relations. Established relationship vibes.
Imagine you and Andy on a business trip, in a swanky hotel room together at night. The two of you are settling in, standing in front of the floor to ceiling windows, and Andy’s dressed in one of his hot AF, perfectly tailored suits…
Andy catches your hand as you go to step away, tossing aside the folder with tomorrow’s meeting agenda and notes that you had just handed him on the nearby table.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he murmurs, his eyes sparkling at you as he gently corrals you closer, fingers encircling your wrists and placing your hands on his chest.
“This is very unprofessional, Mr. Barber, I’m sure we’re breaking a rule or two right now,” you whisper, your lips curling as you gaze at him and sink against him just a little bit more.
“The thing about being the CEO? I make the rules.” He grins–and it’s almost boyish–a sight that so very few are privy to, and you among them.
Happy, playful Andy is your favorite.
“Lucky you,” you grin right back, twining your arms around his neck as you tip your head back.
“I think we’re both about to get very, very lucky,” Andy hums before dipping close and kissing you with the kind of passion that has your toes curling and any further thoughts about work completely forgotten.
—
P.S. And thennnnn please just enjoy this other fleeting visual: Andy fucking you up against the windows, both of you naked as he presses you against the glass and nuzzles along your nape and shoulder, panting praise the entire time he ruins you with his cock. 😮💨
Pairing: Andy Barber x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 1,437
Summary: Your new boss has quite the reputation.
Warnings: Explicit language. AU. CEO!Andy. Obnoxious coworkers. Maaaaybe inappropriate boss/employee relations but we stan.
A/N: Here's another new verse for us to play in 😍 I know for those of you who joined my membership site, y'all were frothing over this verse, so enjoy!! 😘
You didn't know much about Andy Barber.
You knew he was your new boss. You knew he was a high powered CEO.
And you may have heard some of your new coworkers throw around the word "ruthless" when describing him.
Apparently they called him "The Barracuda" because he was known to tear people to shreds, both rivals and those who worked for him alike.
So, to say that you, his new executive assistant, were nervous to finally meet him was the epitome of an understatement.
Especially since you heard through the grapevine that you were Andy's fourth executive assistant this year alone. In fact, you had barely been in the office an hour before the gossip started flowing your way.
And some of it about you.
People were actually placing bets on how long you would last, and how long it would take for Andy to make you cry.
You hadn't even met him yet, having done your interviews with HR, and although you were quiet by nature, you were damn good at your job.
And you would show these frothing-for-a-show assholes what you were capable of.
You already had a fresh cup of coffee waiting for Andy when he arrived, as well as his upcoming meeting agendas, and the top priority emails in his inbox flagged.
When Andy first saw you, you were giving a disapproving look to some of the nasty accounting hags who were lingering at the end of the hall to catch the show.
You were beautiful, your smile genuine but reserved as you turned to him and introduced yourself, extending your hand for a shake.
Andy was good at reading people, and he could see a shine of nervousness in your unwavering gaze, but he saw determination too.
And your hand was so soft and small in his when he shook it.
For some reason, it was natural in the moment–with you–to smile as he greeted you, distantly aware of the stunned gasps and chattering of the onlookers down the hall as he did so.
When both you and Andy turned to them with disapproving looks at the same time before catching each other’s gazes and sharing a surprised look of amusement, Andy couldn't help but speak his thoughts out loud:
“You know, I think this might just work. I think I’ve finally met my match.”
Your reply only solidified his hunch about you:
“I look forward to proving you right.”
And that quiet murmur of confidence, along with the playful sparkle in your eyes?
It earned you another smile from Andy, and another startled gasp of disbelief from the onlookers down the hall.
From there, you and Andy settled into a routine.
He didn't treat you so much like his executive assistant as his partner and confidante.
He was professional, of course, but kind, certainly much kinder than he was with your coworkers. And Andy was playful, which was a nice surprise, the way you discovered his quiet sense of humor.
But he also took his work–and his company–very seriously.
And you were always there to support him with whatever he needed.
Not only did Andy trust you, but he found you incredibly reliable, which is why, when a few months down the road, you called out sick for the first time, he was immediately concerned.
Andy was so concerned, in fact, that he showed up at your place with a shopping bag filled with all the cold/flu essentials he could find, and then some.
You looked so confused and sleepily startled as you answered the door, that Andy almost felt bad for disturbing you.
But then his eyes were wandering without his permission, and he realized that it was the first time he had ever seen you dressed down, wearing leggings, an oversized sweater, and fuzzy socks with cartoon cats on them that had his features softening.
Especially when you let out a pathetic cough-sniffle combo before greeting him. "I'm sorry for calling out today–"
"Oh no, please don't be," Andy immediately waved off your apology. "It's…probably a little strange that I'm here, which I'm only now realizing."
He chuckled, embarrassed and glancing away as he ruffled a hand through his hair. His cheeks had a rosy hue to them once his gaze found yours again, and you smiled as you teased, "Just can't survive a whole day without me, huh?"
Andy laughed. "Definitely not." He held up the shopping bag in his hand. "And I thought that maybe…I could take care of you for once?"
"Oh." You blinked, feeling a new kind of warmth rise to the surface of your cheeks–one that had nothing to do with your fever–as you realized that it had been a very long time since anyone had taken care of you.
At your hesitation, Andy faltered, his face going very serious as he murmured, "Or maybe I should just leave? It's fine, I probably should have called or texted first–"
"No!" you rushed to assure him. "It's just…unexpected, but very much appreciated."
Andy's lips quirked up into a tentative smile. "Yeah?"
You nodded. "Yeah. Besides, I wouldn't want to get fired for disappointing you, I've heard about your reputation, Mr. Barracuda."
A surprised laugh fell from Andy's lips, his eyes crinkling in the corners, and your belly swooped its delight at his response.
"Come in," you murmured, stepping back and gesturing Andy inside. "And excuse the mess, I've been sleeping most of the day."
Andy glanced around your home curiously, noting that to you, "the mess," meant some balled up tissues on your coffee table and a throw blanket draped haphazardly on your sofa where you'd obviously been laying when he knocked at your door.
Otherwise, your home was immaculate and very well decorated and organized, which didn't surprise him one bit.
"Why don't you point me to the kitchen," he said. "I'm going to make you a pot of my mother's chicken noodle soup from scratch. When I was a kid, she used to make it for me whenever I was sick and it always made me feel better."
Feeling another flutter in your belly, you pointed through the doorway across the living room. "Just through there."
Smiling, Andy nodded before heading that way, and after a moment, you followed, pointing out where all the essentials were so he was set up for culinary success.
As he began to rinse and cut up the vegetables, you lingered, appreciating the picture Andy painted as he took over your kitchen. His suit jacket was long gone, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up, displaying those flexing arm muscles you always tried your best to staunchly ignore while working with him at the office.
He paused, his concerned gaze flickering up to yours. "Why don't you go relax? It'll take me a while to get this going, and I'm sure you could use the rest."
"Okay," you didn't move though, biting your bottom lip before whispering, "Thank you, Andy."
He nodded, giving you another small smile before watching as you turned and disappeared from sight. Andy stared at the empty doorway for a moment before shaking himself, brows furrowing as he turned his attention back to the ingredients and got to work.
A few hours later, you were once again dozing on the sofa.
Your belly was warm and full from Andy's incredible soup and your head was in his lap with no recollection of how it had gotten there–let alone any worries about decorum with your boss–because you were so loopy from the cold meds and your fever that all of your inhibitions were gone.
But you were aware enough to show him your gratitude, again, murmuring another quiet, "Thank you," before snuggling closer to him and shivering.
"You're welcome," Andy whispered back, gazing down at you and feeling soft as your cheek rested against his thigh.
He pressed the back of his hand to your forehead to check your temperature, frowning at the abnormally warm state of your skin before tugging the blanket up higher until your shivering subsided and you were sighing your content in your sleep.
And then, as if his hand had a mind of its own, Andy's touch wandered.
His gaze was avid as his fingers gently traced the shell of your ear, then down the slope of your jaw before finding its way back up along your face. His knuckles caressed your cheek and he felt something flutter in his chest when your nose twitched and your lips curled, just a little, at his touch.
And that’s the moment Andy knew…
Oh boy, was he in trouble.
EEEEP! I THINK WE HAVE ANOTHER DUO OF SWEET BEANS TO COO OVER! Also, if you think it's lost on me that I write descriptors like "ruthless" and "tears people apart" and then proceed to write the softest, floofiest babe that ever did dote, IT IS NOT. I AM JUST A GODDAMN SAP, OKAY? Okay.
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Characters/Pairings: war lord Andy Barber x curvy!Millennial female!reader
Word Count: 3.8k
Summary: You get to freely explore the community under Andy's pervue.
Content/Warnings: post-apocalyptic; offering of a virgin tribute
Author Note: You'll meet a familiar face here...
Previous: 1: TRIBUTE | 2: NEGOTIATION
↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
You discover within the first hour of wandering that Andy Barber’s fiefdom is less a dictatorship and more a barn-raising with a hell of a PR spin. It’s not what you expected—what anyone has been told to expect outside of this new iteration of Boston. You’d been brought in the way that was clearly meant for show to any outsider: the disparate view, bare bones.
But beyond the curated road in the compound is a living organism, more of a community, every molecule of it busy and interdependent, humming with purpose and friction. The main house turns out to be only a sliver of the whole. The fortress fills out behind diligently guarded walls. The stories about this place conjured images of a bootheel regime, rows of conscripted guards and emaciated women, but instead you find a town in miniature, stitched together from the salvage of the old world but vibrating with the will to survive, even sometimes to thrive. Years of work are even beginning to yield some beauty.
A few neighborhoods have been stitched together in the old parts of Boston. As you walk through and experience the different pieces of life, it makes sense. There are deep roots here preserved through historical societies and tradition-keeping, things that were created before the fully modernized Boston, and the people here tapped into that, building on the blocks that still could work.
The more you explore and experience, the more you also see that it really is the people who have built a life here, not a dictatorship only fueled by Andy. The sidewalks aren’t busy and bustling like the time you visited Boston once so long ago in the before-times, but they are alive with men and women, children, even a few cats and dogs—and not once do you see a gun. That’s the other shock: the absence of looming threat. It’s not that the place is unguarded. Quite the opposite. You sense, in the angles of every gaze, the practiced paranoia that comes from a decade of survival, but there is a strong sense of community here, stitched together with hard work and vigilance. It’s the kind of community you just came from, though there are resources—even what you would count as luxuries—here that were rare or non-existent back there, you suspect it’s only these communities that have truly survived at this point. Enough nomads had come through your town to lend weight to that theory.
As the days go on, people nod at you more and more as if you’ve always been here, but you also recognize that you are being watched—not the way prey is watched, but the way a new arrival is measured and fitted for her spot in the machine.
You find yourself spending longer in the gardens than you expected, running your fingers over the raised beds where winter greens sprout in defiance of the season. The gardeners—two older women with identical gray braids and a teenage boy with a birthmark splashed across his jaw—answer your questions without suspicion. They show you the irrigation system they've engineered from salvaged PVC pipes and rain barrels. The boy proudly demonstrates how they've rigged up grow lights powered by the generators, explaining the rotation of crops with the enthusiasm of someone who's found his purpose in this strange new world.
"You can take some spinach if you want," one of the women offers, handing you a small knife. "We've got plenty that needs harvesting today."
The casual generosity touches you. You kneel and cut a few leaves, tucking them into your pocket like contraband, though no one treats it as such.
By day three, you've spent a great deal of time in the school—a converted community center where children sit in mixed-age groups, learning practical math through carpentry, history through storytelling, and science through the gardens. The teachers are whoever has knowledge to share: a former high school biology teacher leads dissections of rabbits trapped for food; a mechanic demonstrateshow the old engines can be repurposed for current needs. You find yourself lingering, watching the children absorb knowledge with the intensity that only comes from understanding its practical value in a world stripped to essentials.
The mechanics workshop fascinates you most. It's housed in what was once a car dealership, the showroom floor now crowded with workbenches and half-dismantled machines. People here don't just repair; they reinvent. You watch a woman in her sixties teaching two teenagers how to convert a gasoline engine to run on alcohol distilled from fermented corn. Their hands are black with grease, but their eyes are bright with understanding.
"You've got good timing," one of the men tells you, wiping sweat from his brow. "We just figured out how to keep the generators running through winter without burning through our fuel reserves."
You ask how, and he explains a complex system involving wind turbines and thermal storage that you only half-understand, but his pride is infectious. You find yourself nodding, asking questions, genuinely curious about this place that functions like a living organism adapting to impossible conditions.
After he explains a few of the other projects he and his crew are working on, he pauses and cocks his head. “You can drop the pretense of the questions,” he says, his tone cooling, cautious. “They told you to come and talk to me, didn’t they?”
“No, I—” you sputter, surprised. “I’m fascinated by what you’re managing here,” you insist. You cock your own head slightly, and probe, “but why would anyone be telling me to come talk to you?”
The mechanic's eyes narrow at your confusion. He sighs, removes his black beanie, and runs a greasy hand over his buzzed head, leaving a dark smudge across his temple.
"I'm Curtis," he says, as if that explains everything. When your expression doesn't change, he adds, "Head of Engineering. The one who always argues with Andy at council meetings."
He picks up a wrench, tightening something you can't identify, muscles in his forearm tensing with the effort.
"People talk," he continues. "They see me disagree with him constantly about resource allocation, security protocols, trade negotiations—you name it. So naturally, they assume I hate the guy." Curtis looks up at you again, his gaze direct and unfiltered. "I respect him. He needs someone willing to push back when his ideas need refinement. That's how we build something that lasts. He knows that better than anyone."
You study Curtis's face, looking for signs of fear or resentment, but find none. Just the matter-of-fact expression of someone stating the obvious.
But you’re not quite convinced. “Are you supposed to say all that to win me over?”
Another mechanic nearby snorts but doesn't look up from her work, and Curtis himself guffaws, before giving you a decisive, “No. If I was supposed to win you over, I'd be showing you the greenhouse harvest or taking you to the community kitchen where they're making actual bread today." Curtis wipes his hands on a rag that looks dirtier than his fingers. "Truth is, I'm just doing my job, same as always."
You find yourself smiling at his bluntness. His tone reminds you of Mayor Douglas. No nonsense.
"So what do you and Andy argue about?" you ask, genuinely curious now.
Curtis leans against the workbench. "Lately? How much fuel to allocate to the factories versus keeping the greenhouses warm. Whether to expand trade routes further west or focus on strengthening what we've got. Regular boring shit that keeps us alive." He shrugs. "Nothing dramatic."
The casual way he describes these life-or-death decisions strikes you as both absurd and perfectly rational. This is just their reality.
"And he listens to you?" you press, unable to hide your skepticism.
"Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn't." Curtis picks up a small gear and examines it. "But he always hears me out. That's more than some of the places I tried to make it work before here.”
It would be easier if this place matched the horror stories, if Andy was the monster everyone outside these walls believes him to be. But the evidence before your eyes and everywhere inside the walls securing this new iteration of a small Boston complicates the narrative, makes you question whether you've been lied to, because this all seems too elaborate to be a performance staged for your benefit.
By the fourth day, you've mapped most of the community out. The kitchens are communal, feeding dozens at a time, with actual shifts of cooks who rotate through the week. Even Andy’s home feeds a group of ten to twenty men and women who seem to have frequent responsibilities or reasons that bring them around daily. You make an effort to sit by different people as much as you can, sometimes engaging in conversations with them, sometimes merely listening and observing, though they speak to you more and more as the week goes on.
There's a medical center with two doctors and five nurses, stocked with antibiotics and other supplies that must have been raided from pharmaceutical warehouses and the old large hospitals. They treat everyone—not just the guards or Andy's inner circle, but the old women with arthritic hands, the children with winter coughs, the men whose backs have given out from lifting and building.
Regardless of where your explorations take you, Andy finds you. It's never intrusive—he doesn't hover or follow you around—but he materializes like clockwork, sometimes just as you're discovering something new.
On the fifth day, you're examining the community's water filtration system when you hear footsteps behind you. You know who it is before you turn around. Andy stands there in a weathered work jacket, hands tucked into pockets, watching you with that measured gaze that seems to calculate everything.
"Impressed?" he asks, nodding toward the intricate network of pipes and filters.
"It's ingenious," you admit. "The UV purification stage especially."
He steps closer but maintains enough distance that you don't feel crowded. "Curtis designed it. Said we were wasting too much fuel boiling water." There's a hint of pride in his voice, not for himself but for his people.
"He mentioned your disagreements," you say, testing the waters.
Andy's laugh is short but genuine. "I'm sure he did." He pauses, studying your reaction. "What do you think?"
"I think it's smart," you reply, meeting his gaze. "Having people who challenge you instead of just following orders."
Andy nods, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Most people assume I want yes-men. But yes-men get you killed in this world."
You consider this, rolling the idea around like a stone in your palm. The winter sun catches on the metal pipes of the filtration system, throwing fractured light across the concrete floor.
He tilts his head slightly, considering your words. "You assumed I'd have people shot for insubordination?" There's a wry amusement in his tone that makes you uncertain whether he's offended or entertained by the assumption.
"Something like that," you admit. "The stories paint a different picture."
"Stories are useful tools," Andy says, stepping closer to examine one of the filtration tanks. "They keep people away who need to stay away. They make our enemies hesitate before they try and strike. Much more efficient than violence."
The casual way he acknowledges manipulating his reputation sends a chill through you despite the practicality of it. You're not sure if you should be impressed or disturbed by his calculated approach.
"But raiders? Forced labor? People disappearing? Women being... collected." You say the last word with deliberate emphasis.
“And what have you seen?” Andy asks.
His question hangs between you, direct and unavoidable. You've seen gardens flourishing, children learning, people working together with purpose. You've seen a community that functions, that provides for its own. Not utopia, certainly—the constant vigilance, the weapons stored strategically throughout the compound, the hard physical labor required to sustain it all—but something far from the nightmarish regime you'd been led to expect.
"I've seen people who work hard to contribute in whatever ways they can and who don't seem afraid of you," you admit finally. "I've seen resources I didn't think existed anymore. I've seen... a future, maybe."
Andy nods, not triumphant but satisfied, like your honesty is all he was looking for. "The stories serve their purpose outside these walls. In here, we need truth and cooperation to survive. And we've done what we had to do to survive, to build this. I won't pretend my hands are clean in all of it."
He moves closer, and you're suddenly aware of how alone you are in this corner of the compound. The water system hums and gurgles around you, providing a strange, intimate soundtrack.
"What do you mean your hands aren't clean?" you ask, unable to stop yourself.
Andy's expression shifts, something darker settling behind his eyes. "You think a place like this just happens? We had to fight for it. I had to make choices." He gestures at the filtration system. "For every person here drinking clean water, there were others who tried to take what we built."
You don't flinch from his gaze. "And what happened to them?"
"What do you think happened?" His voice is quiet, almost gentle, which somehow makes it worse. "I did what was necessary. I still do."
The admission hangs between you, neither an apology nor a boast—just a fact, like the weather or the turning of seasons. You find yourself nodding, not in approval but in understanding. This is the world now. This has always been the world, you suppose, just with different veneers of civilization layered over the brutal truth.
"It's not just about survival," he continues, voice dropping lower. "It's about building something that can last. Something worth passing on."
When he steps closer, you feel the air shift between you. Your body remembers his touch before your mind can construct any defense, and you find yourself studying his hands—those same hands that mapped your body with such precision days ago.
"Have you decided?" he asks, and the question cuts through everything else. No preamble, no manipulation. Just the direct inquiry you've been avoiding since that first morning in the study.
You hesitate. The truth is, you've been gathering evidence all week, weighing options, trying to make a rational choice in a sea of unknowns.
"I’m still not sure," you admit. "This place is... not what I expected."
"And what about me?" His gaze is steady, uncompromising. "Am I what you expected?"
You consider lying, but what would be the point? "No," you say. "You're worse in some ways. Better in others."
He laughs, the sound echoing against the concrete walls, warmer than it should be. "That's fair," he says. "I appreciate the honesty."
His proximity makes your skin prickle with awareness. There's something about his presence that commands attention—not just from you, but from everyone in his orbit. You've noticed it all week: the way conversations pause when he enters a room, not from fear but from a collective recalibration.
You notice that his hand rests on the edge of the filtration tank, just inches from yours. The proximity is deliberate—everything with Andy seems deliberate—but he doesn't close the gap. He's waiting for you to decide, even in this small gesture.
"Tomorrow's the deadline," he reminds you, voice neutral. "I won't pressure you, but I need to know where we stand by then."
You nod, throat suddenly dry. "I know."
He studies you for a moment longer, then steps back, creating space between you that feels both like relief and deprivation. "Come to dinner tonight," he says. "Not just the communal meal. Something smaller. There are a few people I'd like you to meet properly."
"Who?" you ask, suspicious of this new development so close to decision day.
Andy's smile is cryptic. "People who might help you understand what you'd be saying yes to." He turns to leave, pausing at the doorway. “Have you found the dungeons and torture chambers yet?”
"Not yet," you respond with a wry smile. "I've been looking, but they seem remarkably well hidden."
Andy laughs, and the sound is genuine, lacking the calculated edge you've come to expect. "Maybe they're behind a secret bookcase in the library. Isn't that where all good villains keep their implements of torture?"
"I'll check there next," you say, surprised by how easily the banter flows between you.
He nods, then turns to leave, but before your brain can stop you, your hand reaches out, grabbing his wrist to stop him. “Andy…”
Your pulse races as you look up at him, and he waits, his arm held still in your grip. You feel the tension in his forearm beneath your fingers, the steady thrum of his pulse. His expression shifts, eyes darkening with interest.
"Why do the people outside your walls fear you so much?" you ask, releasing your hold but not stepping back. "What do they know that I haven't seen?"
Andy considers you for a long moment, the silence weighted with something unspoken. "Most people don't fear what they know," he says finally. "They fear what they imagine. The rest is just... effective messaging."
"That's not an answer."
"No," he agrees, "it's not. Come to dinner tonight. Ask your questions there. I promise you'll get more honest answers than you would from me alone."
You nod. “Okay.”
Then he steps closer, eliminating the space you'd maintained between you. Andy’s proximity makes your breath catch. He brings his hand up to cup your cheek, and you’re frozen. You're acutely aware of how your body responds to him—the quickening pulse, the warmth spreading across your skin. It's inconvenient and undeniable. His palm, rough and absurdly warm, brands itself along the hinge of your jaw, his thumb tracing a path that’s too intimate at the corner of your lips. The sensation is at once so gentle and so calibrated—so precisely what your body wants, exactly where you didn’t want it to want it—that you find yourself swaying forward before you realize you’ve moved at all.
You don’t know if you move first—if it’s your hand that goes for his wrist again, or his body that leans into yours—but suddenly Andy is kissing you. Not a measured, intent-laden meeting of lips like in the study, but a full, raw assault, a collision like the first night that shudders through your whole body and leaves all your careful analysis blinking in the dark. He pins you against the cool concrete wall, one hand at your waist, the other braced above your shoulder. Nearly everything about him you’ve seen is so controlled, so calculated, but this kiss is something else entirely: wild, desperate, as though he’s spent the last week biting down on the need and suddenly can’t resist his own impulses any longer.
You taste him—coffee, a trace of orange from breakfast, and a hint of mint. The memory of your first night crashes over you: his tongue, the pressure of his hands on your body, the fact that you haven’t been touched by anyone in years and now you’re being devoured in the middle of an abandoned waterworks by the most allegedly dangerous man in what’s left of Boston.
You respond before you even decide to. Your hands tug at the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer, chasing the heat and the friction. You want to fall into how intensely you want him to touch you, to erase the week of waiting and negotiating and just sink straight into the now, the present, the heat of this second.
For a while, there’s no air to breathe. Andy’s mouth covers yours, tongue darting to claim and demand. He pins you to the wall, the concrete cold through your shirt, but the heat of his body against yours renders it irrelevant. You’re startled by how little you mind this, by how freeing it is to let yourself be held immobile for a moment, to have all the power dynamics reduced to the clutch and tangle of hands, the friction of need. He’s larger than you, but not in a way that frightens; it’s a comfort, an anchor. Like being pinned by the world’s gravity.
His hand clenches at your side, blunt fingers biting into the softness of your waist, your plushness around you hip. You gasp, and he takes the opportunity to bite down—not enough to hurt, just to electrify, to remind you again that he can. His beard rasps against your jaw and you shudder, hard enough that he laughs—still kissing, still possessive.
You want to say something, to break his rhythm with words, but Andy doesn’t give you the chance. He breaks the kiss only long enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you panting, then slides his hand up under the back of your sweater, cold fingers splayed and possessive on naked skin. “God, you drive me fucking crazy,” he murmurs, and it’s not a performance. You feel it in the tremor of his wrist, the shake in his voice.
You tilt your head, interlocking your lips again, because you need more. You’re about to take it further—slide your hands under his shirt, undo the buttons and see if his skin is as warm as the vision you’ve conjured of him every night since arrival—but Andy steps back, using the flat of his palm to steady you by the sternum, a gesture half restraint, half invitation.
“If I don’t stop now, I’ll take you right here,” his voice low, gravelled, feeding the ache that’s sprung up in the core of you.
He’s so close you can feel his pulse in your own veins. You study the deliberate self-restraint in his jaw, the way his hands form white knuckles at his side as if physically holding himself back.
He’s the one who finally breaks the spell, stepping away with a groan you almost don’t hear. The absence of his body leaves you shivering against the cold stone, your blood still vibrating with the heat of him. Andy looks at you as if cataloging what he’s just seen—for future use, for blackmail, maybe for nothing more than remembering.
You laugh then, something jagged and desperate to fill the silence that ultimately turns into a cough.
“I’ll see you at dinner,” he says, smoothing his hair, as if that’s enough to restore order to the moment.
He leaves you standing by the humming pipes, unsteady, raw. You touch your lips, your throat, the places he just revisited, and you hold onto the unorthodox mix of pleasure and shame he evokes in you, in all the feelings you haven’t known since the world ended. There’s an unexpected amount of clarity that lingers after this encounter, very different from what you expected to feel, and somehow more dangerous as you get closer to your ultimate decision.
The answer you'll need to give him tomorrow.
This section was much shorter than the previous two, but we hit the arc that I wanted to, and I was eager to share more of our war lord rather than spend time writing more once I hit this breaking spot.
Also, hi Curtis cameo! 🤭 But he very much felt like he fit into this place.
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!
Warnings: dark content, age gap, and other possible triggers. These warnings are not exhaustive but please heed my blog title and my typical content before proceeding. 18+.
Summary: You meet a rock star but he's not so fond of attention as you expect. (silverfox, nomad, rockstar Steve Rogers)
Note: I was listening to the Lumineers and then my mind rabbit-holed and I thought what if I did something stupid? Just imagine the Steve in the gif has way more grey hair hehe.
Please leave some feedback and encouragement if you like! I always love interacting and always happy to share. Make sure to do something for yourself today that tomorrow you will thank you for!💗
There’s a feeling to a convenience store after dark you can’t explain. A place of possibility. It could be dangerous, those desperate for cash plotting to snatch the drawer from the till. Or a rowdy environment full of drunken coeds buying carbs and sugar to soak up the excess. Or nothing at all. Just empty and quiet. Desolate.
To you, it’s the same old. The seven-to-seven is nothing special. People your age are out dancing or drinking or studying. They’re staring at the glow of their future, not the flickering glare of the marquee reflecting in the puddle outside the scuffed windows.
There’s a thrum in the air. A few blocks that way, the concert hall is pulsing. Another thing you can’t afford. Another memory you don’t have time for.
You mindlessly sort through the box of lighters next to the till. You organize them by colour; light to dark, then along the spectrum of the rainbow. The night hums to static as the show ends but the bars crackle to life. Amped up from the music, the fanatics will go and end the night with a drink, or two. Or too many.
You slide the lighters back into place. A man in stained flannel comes in to buy some smokes and beef jerky. He grumbles but doesn’t say much else. As he goes, two women enter in zip-up boots and crop tops. You try not to assume or judge. They pay in ones and go on their way.
You yawn as you’re left alone again. The radio plays songs you don’t know. You use the old bic pen to draw on a crumpled length of receipt paper. Roses on a vine stretching across the thin sheet.
The door chimes and you stand up. No one is really out of place there. Whatever you need after midnight is right there. But he looks lost.
He looks around behind a pair of dark aviators. His brown leather coat is scuffed around the cuffs and elbows, the button-up underneath has three buttons undone at the top, and one leg of his dark jeans is caught over the tongue of his boot. His disheveledness is somehow finely curated.
He looks in your direction but you can’t be sure with his dark lenses. “Hey,” he greets with a nod.
“Hi,” you utter back. You push the receipt aside and rest the pen on it.
You put your hands on the edge of the counter. Remi will be watching the camera back if this guy swipes anything and he won’t be impressed if you’re not paying attention. The man goes back to the fridges as you stand on your tip toes.
There’s a clink of glass and he stands up straight. He strides down the centre aisle and approaches the counter. He puts the dark bottle on the counter.
A shank of his grey blonde hair falls loose from behind his ear. He scratches his thick beard before he flicks it back. Your cheeks dimple in your sheepish attempt at a smile. You slide the bottle closer and scan it.
“ID, please,” you prompt.
He tilts his head and slowly raises his hands. He takes off his sunglasses and reveals two bright blue irises. “Really?” He intones as the lines around his eyes crinkle.
For a moment, you’re speechless. He’s so familiar but you can’t place him. You look at the screen then at him again. You nod and shrug at the same time.
“Gotta scan it to make the sale,” you explain.
“Ah,” he hooks his sunglasses in the front of his shirt. You don’t mean to look at the chest hair peaking out, dark blonde with strands of silver to match the thick shag on his head, as he reaches into his jacket. “If you’re just doing your job.”
His rocky drawl tweaks in your ear. He hands over his ID and flip the small black and white square towards the scanner. As you do, your gaze snags on his name. You glance up at him.
“Not working?” He asks.
“No, it’s…” You offer him the ID. “Cash or credit?”
He sniffs and slides the card back into his wallet. “Cash.”
He holds out the bill and you take it. You do your check with the marker and make change. You peek up again and a quarter slips past your palm.
“Shoot,” you bend down to retrieve the coin. As you stand up, he’s watching you. “Sorry.”
“Tired?” He asks.
“Not really. Still early.” You offer the change and he slowly puts out his large hand. The star above the knuckle of his thumb confirms your suspicion. It really is Steve Rogers. “You want a bag?”
“I’m good. They got you working alone?” He wonders as his eyes scan the store. “Night shift?”
“Not too bad. Slow.”
“Mm,” he hums as he closes his hand and brushes your fingers with his. He diligently slips away the bill and the coins. He looks up at you and you realise you’re staring. “You didn’t hit some silent alarm or something?”
“What?” You blink.
“Just… you been watching me like a hawk.” He puts his wallet away. “Promise,” he shows his palm. “Just here to feed the beast.”
He reaches for the bottle, wrapping his thick fingers around the neck. He lifts it and you shift your weight.
“I just… I know who you are.” You chew your lip. “Was it you playin’ at the Hall?”
He scoffs. “Nah. Not me.”
“Oh, right. No, I must be mistaken,” you show your teeth.
“No, I’m… me. Just. I don’t play anymore.”
“Right, uh. Sorry. You know, my aunt’s a big fan so…”
“You’re not?” He challenges as he lifts the bottle.
“I don’t mean– I like your stuff but I guess…” you stop and chuckle nervously. You don’t want to insult him. It’s not that his music isn’t good, it’s just a little before your generation.
“I’m surprised. Not a lot of the youngins heard of me,” he snorts. “I’m flattered.”
“Oh, sure,” you raise your brows. “Well, I hope you enjoyed your Buy Fast experience, sir.”
He winces, “sir?” He whistles. “Right, old man.” He clicks his tongue and the dimple in his cheek deepens under his cheek. “You don’t gotta say it out loud. I feel it.”
“Feel… what?”
He laughs. “My age.” He looks down at the label of the bottle. “I just came to town ‘cause… buddy of mine was playing.”
“Oh, right. Was it any good?”
“Do you really care?” He asks.
“Well…” you look around emphatically. “I can’t say I got much else goin’ on.”
He shrugs. “He still gets the crowd goin’.” He gestures to you with the top of the bottle. “You have a good night. I’ll…” he turns and turns the bottle as he examines it. “Get through.”
He turns and marches out. The door shuts with another chime and you stare after him. Huh. Not a lot of exciting things happen here, well nothing you like to relive, but that’s something. You can brag to all your nonexistent friends that you met someone famous.
Warnings: Talks of abortion/abortion is implied, blood loss, angst, tears,
A/N: idk what else to say but here we go....
Series Masterlist
Steve stared at you. Then slowly you saw a small almost hesitant smile.
“You’re pregnant?”
You nod. “I’m so sorry.”
“Hey, what are you apologizing for?” Steve moves closer and cups your face gently. He wipes away the tears.
“I just didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“It hasn’t crossed my mind that you did mean for this to happen. It sounds scary, I know it does. But you’re not alone. I’m going to be by your side for everything.”
You pull away from him and really look at him. It hits you that you now have to tell him that you can’t have the baby and you know deep down that it’s going to break his heart.
“No Steve,” you take a deep breath. “I won’t have this baby.”
You watch as Steve takes in the information. His hands fall away from your face and he sits up straighter. You can see the panic in his eyes even though he’s trying to not give anything away.
“I’m sorry.”
“Have you made up your mind?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Please take some time to think about it.” Steve pleads with tears in his eyes. “Give us a chance to talk about it before you make up your mind.”
“Ok.” You nod. “I can do that. We can talk tomorrow.”
“I’ll let you rest.” Steve stands and steps back. “No matter what happens I’ll be here for you. For whatever you need.”
“Thanks Steve.” you murmur as he walks out of the room.
*****
Steve heads directly to the living room. His best friends are sitting together on the couch talking quietly.
“Hey,” Bucky looks up first, concern etched on his face. “Are you ok?”
Steve shakes his head, unable to form any words. Mags gets up and pushes him to the couch to sit in between them.
“Y/N, she uh, she’s pregnant but she said she can’t have the baby.” Steve tells them after he’s able to gather his thoughts.
“So she’s made up her mind?”
“Not completely. We agreed to talk tomorrow. But I have a feeling it’s not going to go well.” Steve replies before running a hand over his face.
“The situation is complicated and Y/N is scared of doing this alone. All you can do is reassure her that you’ll be there for her and the baby.” Bucky says.
“And if she doesn’t want to have the baby?”
“Then you’ll be there for her.” Mags says. “And we’ll be here for you.”
Steve nods and stands up. “I need to spend some time alone.”
“We’ll be here for you pal.”
“And don’t worry about Y/N, I’ll keep an eye on her.”
“Thanks.” Steve murmured before leaving.
It was going to be a long night. He just couldn’t sit alone in his apartment knowing the woman he loved was pregnant with his baby and scared. Steve knew he had screwed up. He should’ve walked away that night and asked you out properly when you were both sober. But he’d needed to feel you, to feel wanted. His mind is racing with the possibilities, with what he’ll say to you. Steve needs to make sure you understand how he feels about you and not just because you’re pregnant. He’s cared about you for a long time.
Before he realizes it, the night has turned to morning. Steve spent most of it in the gym taking out his excess energy on a punching bag. He decides to take a quick shower and head back up to his apartment just in time to see you knock on his door.
“How are you feeling?” Steve asks you quietly.
“Tired but mostly nauseous.”
“We can talk later, if it’s easier for you.”
You shake your head. “I’d rather do it now.”
Steve nods and opens the door to his apartment, letting you in first. You head straight to his couch and curl up, almost into yourself. Steve sits next to you and you sit in heavy silence.
“What worries you about having this baby?” He finally asks after a while.
“So many things. To start, I can’t do this by myself.”
“You won’t be alone.” Steve turns his head to look at you. “I’m just as responsible for that baby.”
“I have a career. I don’t want to stop working.”
“I don’t expect you to give that up.” Steve turns in your direction completely. He wants to reach out to you but you’ve practically created a wall around yourself. “I care about you. I have for a long time. I know this isn’t the ideal situation but I think we could make it work.”
“You’re saying that out of obligation.”
“I’m not, Honey, I promise.”
“Steve, I’m scared.” You sobbed before hiding your face in your hands.
“Hey, C’mere.”
Steve pulls you into his lap and lets you cry into his shoulder. He doesn’t push or demand anything from you. He just holds you until you calm down enough.
“I know this situation is scary.” Steve murmurs. “But I’m here for you. Talk to me.”
“I’ll just screw this baby up.” You start to pull away from Steve to stand up instead.
“How would you screw a baby up? You’re kind and so damn smart. You are a good person, any kid would be lucky to have you as a mom.”
“Steve, you don’t know anything about me. I’m not someone you want as the mother of your child. I can barely take care of myself. I can’t be responsible for someone else’s wellbeing. I can’t do this alone.”
Steve stands, taking a few steps in your direction in order to stop your pacing. “You won’t be doing this alone. I’ll be right here. I’ll take care of you and the baby.”
“You say that now but what about when you’re gone on missions? They can take days or weeks.”
“I’ll step back from missions. I’ll do whatever you need me to do to prove that I’ll be with you through all of this. Please just give us a chance. I can take care of you both. You mean so much to me.”
You shake your head. “You’re just saying that because of the baby.”
“That’s not true. I asked you out.”
“After we slept together.”
“Because I want to be with you.”
“Then why didn’t you ask before?” You cry out.
“I was too afraid you didn’t feel the same, that I’d ruin the friendship. Please, give us a chance.” Steve pleads quietly, his eyes full of desperation. “You are everything to me.”
You were starting to spiral. It had been a very emotionally filled two days. And like everyone else before, Steve made nice promises but you couldn’t just trust that he’d keep his word. All you’ve ever known is that people always let you down. Even worse, what if your family found out you were pregnant. You don’t know what they would do but that seemed to help you make up your mind.
“I’m sorry Steve,” your voice broke. “I’m not having this baby. I can’t.” You announced and then left the room, taking any hope with you.
Steve stood there in silence with a weight on his chest he wouldn’t be able to lift no matter how strong he was. It broke him and Steve fell to his knees and cried.
You had gone to your first appointment at the clinic. Everything had gone as expected but you question whether you really wanted to go through with it. You find yourself walking outside most mornings, the fresh air somewhat helping with the nausea. The few days since having the conversation with Steve had given you time to think. His words replayed constantly in your head. Steve was a man of his word, you were sure he would be there for the baby.
“Hi Duckie.” Henry waved at you from the park.
Not too far from him is Mags with Peanut in her arms and Lottie running around. You make your way over to them and take a seat.
“How are you feeling today?” She asks while keeping her eyes on Henry and Lottie.
“Nauseous.”
“And about the other thing?”
“Nauseous.”
She looks at you and gives you a sympathetic smile.
“Weren’t you scared of having kids?”
“Terrified.”
You perk up at that. “Really? But you’re a good mom.”
“Thanks. But my mother was a horrible person. I used to be scared that I’d turn into her if I had kids.”
“But you haven’t.”
“I will never be like that woman. I believe that being a bad mom is a choice but so is being a good one.” She murmurs. “Motherhood isn’t always easy and it can be exhausting but it’s your choice to be a good mother.”
Her words hit close to home. Maybe you could be better than your parents. Steve would definitely be a better father than your own. He would protect your baby with his life if he had to. You just know it.
In the distance Lottie cries out in pain.
“Damn. Can you hold Peanut for a moment? I think Charlotte scraped her knee.” Mags asks, already moving to place the baby in your arms.
You look down at the baby in your arms. Peanut looks up at you and coos. You can’t help but smile at how cute they are.
This could be you if you were in a better place. If maybe you and Steve were actually in a relationship. If you had the support you needed to raise a baby. You could love the baby you were carrying and give them everything you never had. Maybe you were just too scared to realize that you already loved this baby.
****
For days Steve had tried to talk to you. He had no choice but to accept your decision. Now all he wanted was to help you through this but you’d distanced yourself even more. All missions he’d been asked to go on in the past few days he denied just in case you needed him. But sitting idly was going to drive him insane. Mags and Bucky reassured him that everything would be alright but it didn’t feel like it. The gym equipment paid the price for his conflicting feelings over the whole situation.
Steve was in the gym again. Another dumbbell was destroyed due to his strength. He was trying to keep his composure, to not think that you had already gone through with it. Maybe going on a run would help him clear his mind since you told him you didn’t want him to go with you to the appointment. The gym door opens and Steve looks over his shoulder to find Lottie standing there.
“Steebie.”
“Hi Sweetheart. Do you need something?”
“Yeah, you.” She nods.
“What can I do?”
“Get dwessed Steebie. We gotta go shopping.”
“Charlotte, I’m not really in the mood-“ Steve’s words die on his tongue when Lottie scowls at him.
“Wet’s go. Now!”
“Ok.” Steve agrees. Maybe this is a better distraction for him than going for a run. “Do your parents know you’re here and that we’re going shopping?”
“Mhm, mama says it’s ok.”
Steve still sends a text just to make sure.
On the other side of the compound you were getting ready for your appointment with a clinic outside of the compound. You kept telling yourself it was for the best but somehow it felt like the worst decision you’d ever made. This wasn’t only going to affect you and it was killing you to hurt Steve like this. You could still picture the look on his face when you told him you’d made up your mind.
You get a sudden slash of pain in your abdomen and it makes you double over just as there’s a knock on your door.
“Y/N I know you haven’t left yet. I wanted to go with you to your appointment. I want to be there for you.” Mags says through the door.
You gasp at the sudden cramping. It was stronger than you’ve felt before. The thought crosses your mind immediately, you might lose the baby. It makes you realize what you want.
“Friday,” you say through gritted teeth. “Open the door.”
“Y/N?” You hear Mags call your name for
The living room.
“Medical emergency in Dr. Y/L/N’s bedroom.”
You hear rushed footsteps as you sit on the edge of your bed, curled into yourself.
“Tell me what’s wrong?” Mags hovers over you.
“Something’s wrong with the baby.” You cry out.
“Oh no.”
Mags starts shouting instructions at Friday. You look down to find blood seeping onto your pants.
“I can’t lose my baby. Please.”
“You won’t.” Mags reassures you.
****
There’s muffled conversation around you. With a deep breath you start to wake up. Mags is the first voice you recognize followed by Helen.
“Mags?” You groan.
“Hey, don’t get up.” Mags gently pushes you back into bed.
“What happened?” You gasp. “The baby.”
“I need you to calm down.”
“We need fuzzy socks. Theys so comfy. And we needs a blankie. And this.” Lottie holds up a little plushie. “Is so cute Steebie.”
She keeps one hand on the shopping cart as they walk down the aisles of the store. Steve can’t help but smile at her excitement but then his mind drifts to you.
This could be him and a little version of you. Steve would go bankrupt buying everything they wanted because he couldn’t resist his little one’s smile. It makes something crack deep in his chest and he has to take a deep breath and swallow down the emotions bubbling up.
“Steebie, gets the basket.” Lottie points up to a basket on a shelf too high up for her to reach.
“And why are we getting all these things, sweetheart?”
“Fo Duckie, duh!” She says as if it’s obvious. “You gibes it to Duckie cuz she’s sad. I sees it so I helps. Now we needs flow-uhs. Daddy gibes mama flow-uhs and mama gets happy.”
Steve looks down at the items in the cart. They’re all things you like. From chocolate to lotion to fuzzy socks. Lottie was right.
“Let’s go get those flowers, sweetheart.”
“I says that.” She rolls her eyes and Steve chuckles for the first time in days.
After running around all morning Lottie somehow convinced Steve that ice cream was absolutely necessary to end a shopping trip. He bought more than what was necessary but his best girl reassured him that it was all needed. They enjoy the sweet treat while arranging everything in the basket.
As he cleans chocolate from Lottie’s face, Steve’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He reads the message and ends the impromptu outing quickly.
Steve rushes to the medbay, in his hands was the basket that Lottie insisted he take with him. Mags stands the minute he walks in with a panicked look on his face.
“What’s wrong? What happened? Is Y/N ok?”
“I found her bleeding but she’s ok now. Just go in and see her.”
Steve nods as he heads in the direction Mags motioned to. The door is slightly opened and Steve can see you laying in the hospital bed. You looked so tired. Steve knocks softly before walking in and placing everything on the tray table.
“Steve…”
“Honey, what happened?” Steve asked as he sat at the edge of the bed.
“I lost a lot of blood.” You sniffled as you thought back to what happened and told Steve. He held your hand through it all.
“So what now?”
“Well Helen says that I’m on bed rest for at least two weeks and then we’ll go from there.” You start.
“Ok, two weeks it is. What else?”
“Well I’ll have another check up by then and determine whether I need to stay on bedrest for the rest of the first trimester.”
Steve sat up straight and he blinked a couple of times as he processed what you’d said.
“First trimester?” He asked cautiously.
“Yeah.” You take a deep breath. “I’m still pregnant. From what Helen said it was a subchorionic hematoma. But it didn’t hurt the baby.”
“So what does that mean now?” Steve didn’t want to get his hopes up but he felt like things were about to change again.
“When I saw all the blood all I could think about was the baby and that I couldn’t lose it. It made me realize that I want to have this baby.”
Steve’s eyes got glassy as he listened to you.
“I’m sorry for the way I reacted. How I pushed you away when all you were trying to do was reassure me and let me know you’d be by my side.”
“I understand.” Steve says as he moves to sit beside you on the hospital bed.
Neither of you say much for a few minutes as you realize how much your life is going to change.
“So-”
“You must hate me.” You sigh.
“I don’t hate you.”
“I changed my mind again. It isn’t fair to you.”
“Will you- will you be changing your mind again?”
You shake your head. “No. I want to have this baby. Our baby.”
“I don’t want you to have this baby only because of me. What about all of the things you said?”
“You said you’d be with me for everything.” You murmured while resting your head against Steve’s shoulder.
“Absolutely. I’ll take care of both of you for the rest of my life.” Steve promises. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Before I was only thinking about the bad things. A little version of us running around here though…” you smile at the thought. “It sounds pretty great.”
“This is a huge change. You said you were scared before.”
“I know.” You sniffle. “I was talking with Mags the other day and she told me that she had been scared too but that being a good mom was a choice. I’m still scared but I want to be a good mom. I want our baby. I think that scared me most of all.”
Steve sheds a few tears at the thought that he’s going to be a dad. That in a few months he’ll have a baby in his arms that was half him and half you. He places a hand over your middle. You smile and place your hand over his.
“The flowers are nice.” You say quietly.
“They’re for you. Everything is, actually.”
You get a better look and realize there’s a basket of your favorite things sitting on the tray table.
“You got that for me?”
“Yeah. Some of your favorites.”
“Including a bee plushie?” You snicker as you grab the stuffed toy.
“That was actually Charlotte’s pick. She said it was ‘so cute’.” Steve tried to imitate her voice, making you smile.
“You went shopping with Charlotte and survived?"
“Barely. I’m going to need a second job just to buy diapers and set up a college fund after all the things I bought Lottie. I just couldn’t help it.” He says with a smile.
You tilted your head back and smiled at him. “You thought about a college fund?”
“Mhm. I’ve had a lot of time to think about what could have been. Or better yet what will be.”
“I’m sorry for putting you through all of this.” You say quietly while looking down at the little bee.
“Don’t apologize anymore. I understand, trust me I do.” Steve kisses your temple.
You lean your head against his shoulder again and start rummaging through the basket. Steve tells you everything he picked and what Lottie picked, including the attitude she gave him over certain things. You laughed softly before trying to hide a yawn.
“You should rest. It’s been a tough few days. I’ll let you rest.”
“No, stay. I’m really comfortable.”
“Of course, Honey. Get some sleep.”
The jet was still hovering a few feet off the ground. That didn’t stop Steve though. He hit the button to lower the rear ramp.
“What the hell are you doing?” Sam yells as Steve heads for the exit.
“I have to be somewhere. It’s important.” Steve says over his shoulder before jumping out.
He lands effortlessly and starts running into the compound. Steve throws an ‘I’m sorry’ to everyone he almost runs into. He doesn’t break a sweat. It was an easy run for him but somehow he’s still breathless when he gets to the waiting room. He looks around and doesn’t see you.
“Shit.” Steve mutters as he heads for the nurse’s station.
“You’re back.” You said as you stepped out of the bathroom.
“Are you ok?”
You had a few tears running down your face and you were sniffling.
“Morning sickness.” You dismiss his concern. “Are you ready?”
Steve’s face lights up as he nods. You nod in the direction of one of the exam rooms. It had already been two weeks and now you were going in for your next check up. Inside there’s already a technician waiting for you.
“Good morning.” He smiles at the two of you. “Are you ready to see your baby?”
You and Steve both nod, unable to speak because of the mix of emotions. The technician smiles and tells you where to lay back and what he’ll be doing.
“Ready?”
“Ready.” You reply but reach out and take Steve’s hand.
The small screen lights up in a grainy black and white image. Steve steps closer to you, he smiles down at you as the tech starts to work.
“Alright, there we go. There’s your baby.”
Steve’s eyes immediately start to fill with tears. He can’t help the small huffed laugh that escapes his lips as he sees his baby for the first time.
“And here is the baby’s heartbeat.”
The sound is fast and rhythmic.
“Wow.” Steve whispers as he pulls your hand up and places a kiss on your knuckles.
“That's our baby.” You murmur. Still in awe of the small life you’ve created.
Steve can’t help the tears that fall freely. “Our baby.”
Summary: Your daughter is almost one, and you and Clark are excited to witness her first steps.
Dad!Clark Kent x Fem!Reader
more kent family adventures here!
even more kent family adventures here! (pt 2 of the masterlist)
Leia was a year old now. She was bright-eyed, endlessly curious, and already full of opinions. She babbled constantly, laughed easily, and loved to tug on Clark’s glasses whenever he leaned in too close. But there was one milestone she hadn’t quite hit yet.
Walking.
One morning, you and Clark decided to try again.
“Alright, sweetheart,” Clark said softly, crouched on the living room floor. He was smiling at her, patient and encouraging. Leia was standing in the middle of the carpet, her tiny fingers gripping the air as if she were reaching for balance itself.
“Come on, baby,” you coaxed, holding out your hands just a few feet away. “You can do it, Leia. Come to Mama.”
Leia blinked at you, let out a delighted squeal, and promptly dropped to her knees, crawling straight into Clark’s arms.
Clark chuckled. “Well, that’s one way to travel.”
You sighed, though the corners of your mouth tugged upward despite yourself. “She just doesn’t want to walk.”
“She’ll get there,” Clark reassured gently. “You should’ve seen me as a baby. Ma says I was too lazy to crawl. I just floated from place to place.”
You shot him a look that made him laugh. “You’re not helping.”
He moved closer, brushing a hand over your shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. She’s healthy, happy, and absolutely adored. She’ll take her first steps when she’s ready.”
You tried to believe that. You knew every baby developed at their own pace. But some nights, after Leia had gone to sleep, you’d find yourself scrolling through videos of other babies her age already walking, feeling that familiar tug of worry in your chest.
“Maybe we’re doing something wrong,” you murmured one night, lying in bed beside Clark. “Maybe we should be encouraging her differently.”
Clark turned to face you, his hand brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Hey,” he said softly. “You’re doing everything right. She’ll get there, sweetheart. I promise.”
You nodded. But still, the doubt lingered. You wanted so badly to give Leia the best of everything, to make sure she felt encouraged and capable.
A few days later, Clark had to cover a late-breaking story at the Daily Planet, leaving you and Leia home together for the afternoon. It was an ordinary day. There was the soft hum of the washing machine, the faint sound of the tv, and Leia babbling from her playmat nearby.
You stood at the sink washing dishes, humming to yourself, occasionally glancing over to make sure she wasn’t trying to climb the coffee table again. She was sitting on the rug, playing with her stackable cups, babbling cheerfully to her stuffed bunny.
Then, suddenly, she squealed that high-pitched, excited sound that always made you smile.
“Leia?” you called without turning around, still rinsing off a plate. “What’s got you so happy, baby girl?”
But then… there was another sound.
Soft. Fast.
Pitter-patter.
Pitter-patter.
You froze, heart skipping a beat. You turned around, and your breath caught.
Leia was standing on her own.
“MA!”
Her little legs wobbled, but her arms were outstretched toward you, her face lit up with the purest look of determination and joy. Her curls bounced as she took one step… then another.
“Leia!” you gasped, dropping the dish towel as you crouched down, your eyes stinging with tears. “Oh my God, baby, you’re doing it!”
She giggled, her tiny feet pattering unevenly against the floor, each step more confident than the last. When she finally reached you, she stumbled forward right into your arms, laughing breathlessly.
You scooped her up, hugging her tight, unable to stop the tears spilling down your cheeks. “You did it, Leia,” you whispered against her soft hair. “You did it all by yourself.”
Leia pulled back slightly, beaming up at you like she knew exactly how proud you were. She babbled something triumphant, her own little victory speech, before clapping her small hands together.
You laughed through your tears, heart swelling with pride and relief. “Mama’s so proud of you,” you said, kissing her forehead and cheeks over and over. “So, so proud.”
-
The afternoon light had long since faded into the soft golden hue of early evening when you heard Clark’s car pull up into the driveway. Leia had been napping after her big milestone, but now she was wide awake, sitting on your lap in the living room, babbling happily with her newfound confidence. Every few minutes, she’d push herself up from your legs and try standing again, her little feet wobbly but her spirit unstoppable.
You couldn’t stop smiling. Your heart still fluttered every time you replayed the moment in your head, remembering her determination, those tiny, uneven steps, and the way she looked so proud when she fell into your arms. You’d been thinking all afternoon about how to tell Clark. But as the sound of the car door shutting reached your ears, you decided words weren’t enough.
“Okay, sweetheart,” you whispered, kissing the top of her head. “We’re going to show Daddy something amazing, okay?”
Leia squealed, as if she knew exactly what was about to happen. You kissed her cheek and stood her gently near the door, holding her steady until she found her balance. Her small hands spread out for stability, her face determined and proud.
Her big blue eyes, Clark’s eyes, shone with excitement.
The doorknob turned.
The door creaked open and Clark stepped in, his jacket half-off, a warm smile already forming as he called out, “I’m home—”
He stopped mid-sentence.
Because right there, standing right in front of him, was Leia.
Your daughter.
On her own two feet.
Clark’s mouth fell open slightly, disbelief flickering across his face. “Baby girl?” he said softly, lowering his voice as if afraid to startle her.
Leia’s little face lit up with delight the instant she saw him. She let out a squeal, that high-pitched giggle that always made him melt, and then, without hesitation, she took one careful, wobbly step… then another.
Her little feet pattered against the hardwood, unsteady but determined, her arms stretched toward him. “Dada!”
Clark’s breath hitched. He dropped his jacket right there at the door, sinking to his knees, arms open wide.
“Come on, baby girl,” he whispered, voice trembling with emotion. “Come to Daddy.”
You stood off to the side, tears already gathering in your eyes as you watched Leia toddle forward. Her steps grew quicker, her smile wider, until she reached him and collapsed right into his chest.
Clark caught her easily, pulling her close against his heart, and for a long, precious moment, he didn’t move. He just held her tight, his chin pressed to her soft curls, his shoulders shaking.
“She walked,” he breathed, voice cracking. “She really walked.”
You stepped closer, smiling through your own tears, your hand coming to rest on his shoulder. “She did,” you said softly, your voice trembling with pride. “All by herself.”
“Oh my God,” he whispered, his voice trembling as he looked over her little head at you. “She’s walking. You’re walking!”
You nodded, tears blurring your vision, hand pressed over your heart. “She started this afternoon. I wanted you to see it too.”
Clark laughed through the tears running down his cheeks, pulling Leia back just enough to look at her face. “You didn’t want to wait for me, huh? Couldn’t wait to show Daddy how brave you are?”
Leia giggled, patting his cheeks with her tiny hands, utterly thrilled with herself.
He kissed her forehead, still holding her close, before looking back at you, and the look in his eyes nearly undid you. They were glistening, soft, and overwhelmed with love and gratitude.
He reached his free hand out for you, and you knelt beside them both, pressing a kiss to Leia’s curls before Clark’s hand found yours. You could feel him shaking from joy, from disbelief, from the sheer beauty of the moment.
“She just...she just walked right to me,” he said in a voice thick with emotion. “I can’t believe it.”
You smiled through your own tears. “She’s been practicing all day. But she saved the best walk for you.”
Clark let out a shaky laugh and leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, his other arm still cradling your daughter. Leia nestled between you both, giddy and babbling nonsense that made both of you laugh through the tears.
The three of you just stayed there by the door, Clark still kneeling, Leia resting against his chest, you brushing tears from your cheeks, wrapped in the kind of joy that made everything else fade away.
-
Leia sat on the floor of the kitchen, playing with her stacking cups while you hummed softly above the sound of the running tap. Everything was big from Leia’s point of view. The kitchen tiles were shiny and cool under her small palms, and the sound of water running in the sink filled the air like music. The sun peeked through the window, making everything warm and bright. She could see you, Mama, standing by the counter, humming softly to yourself while washing dishes.
She looked up every now and then, just to make sure you were still there. You always were. Sometimes you’d glance back at her and smile, and she’d giggle so hard and slap her little hands on the floor. You were right there, and that was all that mattered.
But then you turned a little, and for a moment, your back was to her. Leia frowned. Her tiny brows scrunched together as she tried to get your attention.
“Ma-ma,” she called softly, the way she always did when she wanted you to look at her.
No answer. Just the sound of water splashing.
Leia tilted her head. You didn’t hear her. That wasn’t right. She needed to go to you.
Her little fingers pressed into the floor as she shifted, pushing herself up to her knees. She’d been trying this new thing lately—standing. Sometimes she could do it. Sometimes she’d just fall back down. But she was determined now. She wanted you.
So she pressed her hands against the edge of the cabinet and slowly pushed up until her legs straightened. Wobbly. So wobbly. But she was standing.
Her heart, tiny and brave, thumped fast in her chest. You were still humming, still facing away. She wanted you to see her. She wanted to go to you.
So she took a small and shaky breath, and let go of the cabinet.
One step. Her foot slapped the tile softly. Then another. Her chubby little arms reached out, fingers opening and closing in the air, as if she could grab the space between her and you and pull herself forward.
She squealed and heard you ask, “What’s got you so happy, baby girl?”
The world wobbled and swayed, but she kept going.
“Ma-ma!” she called again, louder this time, voice bright and hopeful.
You turned, eyes wide, and hands frozen above the sink, just as Leia took another step. And another.
“Leia!” you called, “Oh my God, baby, you’re doing it!”
And that was all Leia needed.
She smiled, her whole face lighting up, and squealed in delight. You gasped, tears already forming, and crouched down with your arms wide open.
Leia went faster now, her little legs stumbling but never stopping, her giggles mixing with squeals of effort until she finally reached you. She toppled into your arms, and you caught her easily, hugging her so tight she could barely breathe. But she didn’t mind. She giggled and buried her face against your shoulder, feeling your tears wet her hair.
She clapped and got kisses from you. Many, many kisses.
That was all Leia wanted. You were all she ever needed.
Summary: You and Clark bring your daughter to Smallville for the weekend, and Leia is all too happy to help her grandparents around the farm.
Dad!Clark Kent x Fem!Reader
more kent family adventures here!
Smallville always felt like stepping back into the rhythm of something pure, a place where time slowed just enough to remind you what mattered. The fields stretched out like a golden ocean, and the air smelled faintly of earth and sunlight.
You and Clark had brought one-year-old Leia for a long weekend visit to the Kent farm, her first real trip since learning to walk. She was thrilled by everything: the chickens, the tractor, even the squeaky old screen door that led to the porch.
“Ma, Pa!” Clark called out as he carried Leia down the dirt path, her tiny hand clutching his flannel collar. “We brought an extra set of hands for harvest season.”
Pa Kent, wiping his hands on a rag, chuckled as he walked up to meet you. “Is that right? Well, I could use a strong worker today.” He bent down to Leia’s level, his face creasing into a warm grin. “You think you can help Grandpa on the farm, sweetheart?”
Leia’s response was a delighted babble, followed by a proud nod that made everyone laugh.
Clark adjusted her little denim overalls, a gift from Martha that made her look like a miniature farmhand, and kissed her cheek. “Guess that’s a yes,” he said softly.
Before long, you were sitting on the fence rail, watching Clark and his father work side by side. Leia, determined not to be left out, toddled after them in her tiny boots that squeaked with every step. She stumbled now and then, but each time, Clark or Pa would swoop in and set her upright again.
Then came the moment she spotted the tractor.
“Dada!” she squealed, pointing at the big red machine like it was the most magical thing in the world. “Big cah!”
Clark laughed, his heart melting. “That’s a tractor, sweetheart.”
Leia blinked up at him, unimpressed. “Trak-tor,” she repeated, then tugged insistently at his pant leg. “Up!”
Pa Kent chuckled from behind the wheel. “Well, never too young to learn, huh?”
He reached down and lifted her carefully, settling her in a big metal bucket attached to the back. It was low, steady, and safe—the slowest, gentlest ride imaginable. Clark walked alongside, keeping a watchful eye while Pa drove slowly across the field.
Leia’s face lit up, her giggles carried by the wind. Her tiny hands gripped the edge of the bucket, hair blowing wildly as she shouted gleefully, “Go, go, go!”
You couldn’t stop laughing, pulling out your phone to capture your daughter’s first tractor ride on the Kent farm.
Clark came to stand beside you, his expression soft, sunlight catching the edges of his hair. “You know,” he murmured, “I used to sit in that same bucket when I was her age.”
You smiled up at him. “Then it’s a Kent family tradition.”
He slipped an arm around you, eyes following Leia as she squealed in delight each time the tractor bumped gently over a patch of dirt. “I always hoped she’d get to see this place,” he said quietly. “The way I did. Safe, open, full of love.”
“She will,” you promised, leaning into him. “This is her home, too.”
When Pa finally stopped the tractor, Leia was still laughing, her cheeks flushed pink from the sun. Clark lifted her out and she immediately patted the metal bucket as if thanking it for the adventure.
“Good helper,” Pa teased, ruffling her hair. “Might have to put her on payroll.”
Leia beamed, proud as could be, while Clark just shook his head, chuckling. “At least she’s got the work ethic.”
-
After some time inside catching up over Ma’s fresh-baked pie and lemonade, you all returned outside to show Leia the animals. The moment she saw them, her entire face transformed into wide-eyed wonder and uncontainable excitement.
First came the chickens. Leia clung to your arm at first, unsure of the flapping wings and quick movements. But when one particularly friendly hen clucked softly and tilted its head at her, Leia giggled, her fear melting away. She reached out her tiny hand to touch its feathers, squealing when it let her.
“She’s gentle,” Ma said with a proud smile. “Got a soft heart already.”
Clark knelt beside her, his large hands guiding hers carefully. “That’s right, baby girl. Nice and soft,” he murmured. Leia looked up at him and gave him a huge, open-mouthed grin, the kind that made Clark’s entire expression melt.
Next came the cows. One leaned its massive head over the fence, and Leia gasped in awe. She reached for its nose, but when it snorted softly, she squealed and hid her face against Clark’s shoulder. Clark laughed, rubbing her back.
“It’s okay, little star,” he soothed. “She just said hello.”
Leia peeked up again, curiosity overtaking fear, and after a moment she leaned forward, touching the cow’s muzzle. The cow huffed softly, and Leia erupted into happy squeals, waving her little arms. “Hi!” she babbled, opening and closing her palm at the cow.
The last stop was the barn, where the smell of hay and the sound of soft bleating filled the air.
“Ba!” Leia shouted, pointing excitedly.
Clark laughed. “That’s right, sweetheart! Those are goats.”
She tottered toward the nearest goat, laughing with excitement. Ma chuckled. “Careful, little one! They’re friendly, but they’re a bit nosy.”
Leia giggled as the goat sniffed her fingers, then broke into a delighted shriek when its tongue flicked out to lick her hand. She clapped, completely unbothered by the slobber, and looked back at you as if to say, Did you see that?!
You laughed, kneeling beside her to wipe her hand gently. “You’re not supposed to feed them your fingers, sweetheart.”
A baby goat trotted toward Leia, curious about the new visitor. When the goat nuzzled her shoe, Leia burst into delighted laughter, clapping her hands. She reached out to pat its head, murmuring “goatie” and “soft” in that adorable toddler lilt.
Clark stood nearby, camera in hand, capturing every second.
“She loves it here,” you whispered, watching Leia chase the goat’s wobbly steps, her laughter echoing through the barn.
-
The next morning, you woke to find the spot beside you empty, Clark already up and about. From the kitchen came a familiar, gentle hum of Ma Kent’s voice, followed by Leia’s happy babbling.
When you padded into the kitchen, the sight that greeted you nearly melted your heart.
Leia was standing on a sturdy wooden stool beside Martha, wearing an oversized apron that nearly swallowed her whole. Her hair was in pigtails today, one slightly lopsided, and she was helping her grandma make breakfast.
“Okay, sweetheart,” Martha said patiently, holding a bowl of pancake batter. “We’re going to stir it gently, all right? Nice and slow.”
Leia nodded, sticking her tongue out in concentration as she gripped the wooden spoon with both hands. She stirred… once, twice...then flicked the spoon a little too hard. A small splash of batter landed on her cheek.
Clark, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee, chuckled. “Good job, kiddo. That’s half the fun, right?”
Leia blinked at him, then giggled, delighted with herself. “I cook!” she declared proudly, smacking the spoon back into the bowl with enthusiasm.
“My little chef,” you said fondly, smiling as you came up behind her to wipe a bit of batter from her face.
Martha shook her head fondly. “She’s been my little helper since sunrise. We’ve already fed the chickens and gathered the eggs. Well, I gathered them. She mostly told the chickens ‘good morning.’”
Leia puffed out her chest, grinning ear to ear. “Chickies like me,” she announced.
“I bet they do,” you said warmly.
After breakfast, Leia refused to slow down. She followed Martha everywhere: into the living room to dust, into the laundry room to fold clothes (or rather, unfold them again), and even into the garden, where she insisted on watering every flower.
Of course, she ended up watering her shoes, the dirt, and Clark’s legs, too.
“Sweetheart,” Clark laughed, “I think the plants are good now.”
Leia beamed up at him, holding the tiny watering can with both hands. “No, Daddy! They tirs-ty!”
Martha smiled from her spot by the window. “You’ve got yourself a determined one there, Clark.”
By late afternoon, Leia had helped fold towels by stacking them in a wobbly tower, helped wash dishes by splashing water everywhere, and even tried sweeping, which meant her dragging the broom twice her height across the floor, hitting Clark’s shins in the process.
But the moment that truly melted everyone came just before dinner.
Leia had found one of Martha’s old dust rags and started gently wiping the family photos on the shelf: photos of Clark as a boy, of Jonathan and Martha, even the framed picture of you and Clark at prom, and a few recent ones of all of you together.
When you knelt beside her, she pointed at one picture. It was a picture of the three of you. You were in the hospital bed, freshly postpartum, and Clark was holding newborn Leia in his arms. “Baby me,” she said softly, then looked up at you with the kind of sweetness that made your chest ache. “Mommy happy.”
You smiled, brushing her hair back. “I was. I am.”
Clark came up behind you, placing a hand on your shoulder, his gaze warm as he watched Leia toddle off to help Martha set the table, carefully carrying one fork at a time, determined and beaming with pride.
Later that evening, as everyone sat down to eat, Martha leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “Well, I have to say, I haven’t had a helper like that in a long time.”
Clark chuckled, watching Leia babble happily beside him, spooning mashed potatoes onto her plate. “She’s got an amazing work ethic, Ma.”
Across the table, Leia banged her little spoon on the plate and announced to everyone, “I help!”
“Yes, you do, sweetheart,” Clark said, smiling so wide it nearly split his face. “You’re the best little helper.”
Summary: Your daughter has to interview someone for one of her classes. Who better to interview than the Daily Planet journalist, Clark Kent?
Dad!Clark Kent x Fem!Reader
more kent family adventures here!
It was a lazy Saturday morning in the Kent household. The sunlight was spilling through the kitchen windows, the smell of pancakes was lingering in the air, and soft giggles were coming from the living room where Leia was sitting cross-legged on the rug, her notebook and pencil ready.
Clark was rinsing the dishes with you, smiling proudly as he watched his six-year-old daughter adjust her notes like a tiny journalist.
“So,” Leia began, tapping her pencil against the page like she’d seen Auntie Lois do a hundred times before. “Daddy, for my school project, I have to interview someone about their job.”
Clark smiled warmly. “And you picked me?”
Leia nodded eagerly, her hair bobbing. “Yup! You’re a reporter, and you know everything about asking questions! So now I get to ask you questions.”
Clark chuckled, pretending to straighten his tie. He put his glasses on. “Well, Ms. Kent, I’m honored to be your interviewee. Fire away.”
Leia clapped her hands, already dragging him toward the couch. “Okay! Sit down, Daddy. Mommy, can you record us? It’s for the project.”
You picked up your phone with a grin. “Of course, sweetheart.”
Before Leia could ask her first question, a cheerful babble interrupted them. Jon toddled into the living room, dragging one of his stuffed animals behind him. At two years old, his hair was an unruly mess of curls, and his face was lit up with a grin that could melt steel beams.
He climbed right into Clark’s lap without hesitation, mumbling, “Da-da!” before patting Clark’s cheek.
Leia huffed but smiled. “Jonny, I’m doing an interview. You have to be quiet, okay?”
Jon blinked at her, nodded seriously… and then immediately started blowing raspberries.
You stifled a laugh behind the camera, whispering, “He just wants to be part of it too.”
Leia gave her little brother a look of exasperated fondness. “Fine. You can answer later.”
Clark tried not to laugh. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Let’s see how long he lasts.”
Leia rolled her eyes in that dramatic way only a six-year-old could. “Okay,” she said, looking back at her notebook. “Question one! Daddy, what do you like most about being a reporter?”
Clark adjusted his glasses and smiled. “Hmm. I think what I like most is learning people’s stories. Everyone has something special to share, and it’s my job to make sure their voices are heard.”
Jon giggled and said, “Ba!” as if agreeing.
Leia pointed her pencil at him. “Jonny, you’re not the one being interviewed.”
Jon puffed out his cheeks, frowned for two seconds, and then said, “No!” loudly.
Clark laughed quietly, rubbing Jon’s back. “Maybe he wants to be a reporter too.”
Leia sighed with exaggerated patience and continued. “Question two! What’s the hardest part of your job?”
Clark thought for a moment. “Probably finding the truth when it’s buried under a lot of lies. Sometimes people don’t want to tell the whole story, so I have to keep digging.”
Jon babbled, waving his stuffed bear around. “Dig! Dig! Dig!”
Leia groaned. “Daddy, he’s doing it again.”
Clark chuckled. “He’s helping. See? He just wants to dig.”
Leia squinted at her brother, unimpressed. “He’s not helping. He’s being silly.”
Jon, catching her tone, leaned over and gave her cheek a sloppy kiss. “Sissy mad?”
That earned a reluctant giggle from Leia. “No, Jonny, I’m not mad. You’re just noisy.”
Satisfied, Jon snuggled against Clark’s chest, clutching his bear, mumbling soft nonsense while Leia flipped her notebook to the next page.
“Okay,” Leia said, trying to sound professional again. “Next question! If you weren’t a reporter, what would you be?”
Clark tilted his head, a soft smile forming. “Hmm… probably a farmer, like your grandpa. Or maybe a teacher. I’d still want to help people somehow.”
Leia’s smile turned tender. “You already do help people, Daddy.”
Clark blinked, warmth blooming in his chest at her words. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he said softly. “That means a lot.”
Jon looked up at that moment, as if sensing something important had been said. “Da!” he chirped proudly, holding up his bear.
Leia giggled. “He’s pretending to interview you too!”
Clark grinned, ruffling both of their heads. “Guess I’m popular with reporters today.”
Finally, she looked down at her notebook, humming softly. “Last question!” she declared.
Clark leaned in. “Make it a good one.”
Leia tapped her chin, pretending to think deeply, and then her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Can we go to the amusement park tomorrow?”
You burst out laughing, lowering the phone. Clark blinked in surprise before breaking into a grin. “Wait...is that part of the interview?”
“It’s the most important question!” Leia insisted, puffing her chest. “Because I want to spend more time with you.”
Clark’s expression softened completely. “Well, how could I say no to that?”
“Yay!” Leia threw her hands up, notebook flying. Jon clapped too, even though he clearly had no idea what was happening.
Clark pulled Leia into his lap, laughing as she hugged him tightly around the neck. “You’re quite the reporter,” he said. “Very persuasive.”
Leia beamed proudly. “I learned from the best!”
You stopped recording and set your phone down, walking over to join them. Jon toddled after you, arms outstretched. You scooped him up as Clark looked up at you, Leia still giggling in his lap.
“Looks like we’ve got plans tomorrow,” he said, smiling softly.
“Okay, Jonny,” Leia said, trying to mimic her teacher’s tone, “do you have any questions for Daddy?”
Jon stared up at you seriously for a few seconds, then at Clark… then said, “Snack?”
That sent you all into laughter.
Leia quickly scribbled something on her paper. “I’m writing that down. Question from my assistant reporter: Daddy, what’s your favorite snack?”
Clark was shaking with laugher, his glasses nearly sliding off. “Definitely cookies. Especially your mom’s.”
Leia grinned, satisfied, and closed her notebook. “Okay! Interview over! Thank you, Daddy. And thank you, Assistant Reporter Jon.”
Jon clapped happily. “Bye-bye!” he said, waving his bear around again.
Clark pulled both of them into a hug, heart full. “You two did great,” he murmured, kissing the tops of their heads. “Best interview I’ve ever done.”
-
A few days after Leia’s “interview with Daddy” became a class success, according to her teacher, she decided it was time for a sequel.
It began on a quiet afternoon. The golden light streamed through the curtains, spilling across the living room where toys, coloring books, and half-finished block towers decorated the floor like art pieces. You and Clark were sitting on the couch, sharing tea, when Leia came bustling in with her notebook and a determined expression.
“Mommy, Daddy,” she announced, clutching a pen, “I’m doing another interview today!”
Clark smiled over the rim of his mug. “Oh? Who’s the lucky guest this time, Miss Kent?”
Leia looked over her shoulder dramatically. “Jon.”
You couldn’t help laughing. “Really? Little Jonny?”
She nodded firmly. “Yes. He has a lot to say.”
Clark tried, and failed, to keep a straight face. “Oh, I’m sure he does.”
Leia wasted no time setting up the “studio”. She dragged one of the little chairs from the playroom to the middle of the rug and motioned for Jon to sit. Jon, ever the cooperative little ball of energy, plopped down with a proud “Yay!” and immediately started gnawing on a toy car.
Leia pulled out a toy microphone, clicked a button that made it light up and play static, and said in her best “reporter” voice, “Good afternoon, everyone! Welcome to Leia’s Interview Hour! Today we have a very special guest!”
Jon blinked up at her, clearly delighted that she was paying him this much attention. “Jonny!” he declared, pointing to himself.
“Yes,” Leia said solemnly, nodding as if she understood completely. “Jonny, also known as Jon Kent, two-years-old. He is my little brother.”
Leia looked down at her notebook. “Okay, first question: What is your favorite thing to eat?”
Jon blinked. “Waffo.”
Leia gasped theatrically. “Waffles! Excellent choice!” She turned to you both and announced, “He says waffles, Mommy. Just like me.”
Leia nodded, jotting something on her paper. “Second question: What do you like to do for fun?”
Jon lifted his toy car and made a loud “vrrrmmm!” noise, crashing it into Leia’s notebook.
“Driving cars,” Leia said immediately, scribbling. “He likes driving cars. He’s very talented.”
“Vroom!” Jon repeated proudly, crashing the toy again.
Leia didn’t miss a beat. “He says he’s going to be a race car driver when he grows up.”
Leia continued. “Question number three: What do you love the most?”
Jon looked up at her with big blue eyes, his little hands dropping the car. He seemed to think deeply for a moment, then pointed at her. “Yaya.”
Leia froze for half a second, and then broke into the biggest grin. “He said me! He loves me!” She happily wrote “ME!!!” in large, colorful letters on her notebook.
You and Clark both melted instantly. Clark leaned back, smiling with that look that always made your heart flutter. “He’s got great taste,” he said softly.
Leia preened at the compliment, looking like she could float. “Awww, I love you too, Jonny.” She leaned down and hugged him, smushing his chubby cheeks between her hands. He giggled uncontrollably, kicking his little feet.
Then Leia lifted the mic again. “Okay, last question, Mr. Jon Kent. What makes you happy?”
Jon clapped his hands, babbling something long and excited.
“Mama! Dada! Yaya! Waffo!”
Leia nodded solemnly as though he had just given a profound speech. “He says he’s happiest when he’s with his family… and eating waffles.”
You smiled at the scene before you: Leia now clapping, Jon trying to take the microphone from her, both of them laughing until they tumbled into a heap on the rug.
Leia looked up from the pile of giggling chaos. “Okay, everyone! Interview’s over!” she declared proudly. “Now we can all eat waffles!”
Jon immediately jumped to his feet. “Waffo!”
Clark squeezed your hand before getting up. “Guess that’s our cue.”
You joined him in the kitchen, hearing Leia’s excited chatter behind you, her tiny voice explaining to Jon that he’d done “so good” and that his answers were “very smart.”
A few minutes later, you all sat at the table, waffles warm and golden in front of you, the smell of syrup filling the air. Leia was still giggling, proud of her “show,” and Jon was happily covered in crumbs.
Clark leaned close, smiling as he watched them. “You know,” he said softly, “I think that was the best interview I’ve ever seen.”
You rested your hand over his. “Me too.”
Jon squealed as Leia helped him hold his fork, syrup dripping everywhere. “Waffo!” he shouted triumphantly.
🧚🏻♀️✨Bippity boppity bow chicka wow oww! You’ve been visited by the Shameless Hoe Fairy, and now (if you feel inspired) you must share a hoe thot about a CE!babe + “It looks like you may be in over your head.”
The duct tape over your mouth pulled at the skin of your lips, but you didn't stop trying to push your tongue past the sticky barrier. You only needed a small amount of give to be able to scream for help, after all.
Steve had tied you up, forced you into the trunk of his car, an evil smile on his face as he pushed the needle into your neck, and closed the lid on you,
“Sleep tight, my love, you'll be happier when you get to your new home.”
The drugs had pulled you under, but you were awake now. It must've been hours later, and the roads surrounding you seemed to be quiet, but you wouldn't let that stop you. Steve would need gas sooner or later, and when he did, you would scream for help.
The duct tape was slowly giving way, the blood in your mouth proof as the skin on your lips gave way. You rub your face on the carpeted floor of the trunk pulling it further away from your mouth. You try not to cry out as you feel the carpeted burns form, and you don’t stop in spite of the pain.
The car is slowing down.
The duct tape is almost completely pulled away, your heart races inside your chest, an almost insane amount of elation in your blood. You would scream, people would come running, and Steve would be arrested. You'd be free!
You force your breathing to slow as you feel the car come to a stop, your heart pounds in your ears as you hear Steve’s slow footsteps towards your prison in the trunk. He whistles a tune, it's off key, eerie, tears prick your eyes, images of the women he'd killed flashing through your mind-
“Boo!”
The trunk opens, Steve's smiling face looking down on you, his golden blonde hair falling into his gleeful blue eyes, and you open your mouth and scream.
Nothing happens. No running footsteps. No shouts of alarm. Just your screams for help ringing through the air, and Steve’s amused smile. Minutes pass, and finally your screams die off, and still he stares down at you,
“You feel better now?”
“Fuck you!”
Steve snorts, “Later, baby. First though, we're going to talk.” He reaches in and grabs you, forcing you to leave the prison of the trunk. You're stiff from the cramped space, and you yelp in pain as he pulls you out and to your feet, cursing him to hell and back,
“Where the fuck are we?!” You spit at Steve, hissing when he rips the falling duct tape off your face. Steve ignores your question, just pushing you towards the cabin he had taken you to,
“I should've remembered what that tongue can do, huh?” He flaps the duct tape in your face, laughs when you pull away, “Oh stop whining at me, Y/N, you should be on your fucking knees instead of pretending you give a shit about those bitches I killed.”
Your steps falter, you almost fall face first into the snow, but Steve grabs your upper arm, and steers you up the stairs and into the cabin. You know it now you're closer. It was owned by an old boss of Steve’s that he'd once taken you to for a getaway. It could be traced back to Steve of course, but not for a while, the connection tenuous at best.
It would be too late by the time any police tracked you here.
The door opens on a creak, and Steve pushes you through. It's exactly as you remember it, cosy and homely, with a large living area and fireplace. The space was open plan with a kitchen at the far end, and a large staircase leading to an upper floor where the bedroom was with an ensuite bathroom.
There was a basement as well. You could hear screaming coming from it.
Steve let you use the bathroom, he even let you shower and change. He was outside the door the whole time of course, and when you were finished he sat you down at the table and served you fresh food he had cooked. Not before tying your hands to the arm rests, your ankles to the chair legs, and your neck to the back of the chair first though. He sits close to you, pulling the heavy wooden chair across the tiled floor so that it scraped loudly in the silence. You tried to ignore him, but the scent of the food he'd cooked was incredible. Steve had always been a good cook.
Your stomach rumbled loudly, and Steve laughed again, “Come on. Eat. I didn’t bring you here to kill you, and you're not going to be any fun if there isn't some fight in you,” he holds up the fork to your face, delectable food poised on it and held up to your lips, “open your mouth, baby,” When you didn't do as you were told, Steve tutted, before swiftly holding your nose closed until your mouth dropped open to gasp a breath.
Steve shoved the fork in your mouth as soon as it opened, and you took the food on a groan - and then spat it in Steve’s face,
“I'm not eating anything you've cooked!”
“Fine. Be weak, just like your whole life, see if I care,” Steve stabbed the fork into the food and took an obnoxiously large bite, meeting your eyes, “you're too weak even now to ask what all that screaming is downstairs, aren't you?”
You look to the ceiling, ignoring Steve, but obviously, he carried on talking,
“I think you aren’t asking because you already know,”
“Screaming from the basement of a known serial killer? That's like wondering why there's mooing at a farm,” you roll your eyes at Steve’s chuckled,
“That's not what I meant and you fucking know it, baby,”
Unfortunately you did know it. That was the problem.
Steve had murdered four women, and you knew all of them. You didn't want to, would rather forget their entire existence, and the role they had played for one horrible night of your life. You'd told Steve about it after one night of drinking, and another night of terrible nightmares.
Six months after your confession, the first woman had been murdered.
Fifteen years ago.
You'd just moved to the city, starting your new job in the administration pool at a large corporate firm. You aimed to move as high as possible within the company, wanting only to build a brilliant life for yourself now you'd moved away from home. Of course you romanticised it. Dreamed of the idyllic life where you had a great job, healthy bank account, a beautiful wardrobe, a gorgeous boyfriend.
And friends.
You found the friends the fastest within your own company; Pamela, Nancy, Rose. Annie.
And Brenda.
Their friendship was easy, it was like you were all pieces of a puzzle, and you finally fit together. Days in the office were more than bearable, you lifted each other up, helped each other achieve promotions.
Then came the office Halloween party. All five of you had been so excited, but especially you. You’d just been given the promotion to head of the department, and it was being announced at the party. All of you had gone in for the job, vowing to support and celebrate whoever got the job, so when your boss raised a toast to you your smile felt like it was so bright it was blinding. So blinding in fact that you didn’t notice the edge to your friends own smiles, especially Branda’s.
Later, much later, when almost everyone had gone, and the five of you were sitting giggling drunkenly around a table, was when everything changed. Your friends weren’t happy for you like you’d assumed, in fact they never had been. You were smarter than them, rising higher and faster than they could dream, and for that, you needed to be punished.
The men all wore masks, you couldn’t tell if they were people you knew in the company, or if they were strangers that your friends had hired for the night. All you knew is that they held you down as the men did what they wanted. That they filmed everything. That they laughed. And when it finally finished, your body was slick with blood from the knives that had been used on you, as well as other bodily fluids, not all of them yours.
Brenda was the wild eyed leader, she straddled you afterwards, unhinged smile on her face and her hair forming a curtain around you, “I don’t like sharing, Y/N, and this administration pool has been mine since forever. So you’re gonna go, little girl, or I’m going to send those guys back to your apartment night after night, do you hear me?!”
Annie held up her phone, Nancy turned your head to stare at the screen. In such a short amount of time, the video that played was of you enjoying what had been done, an AI nightmare that made you look like a whore to all these men. It was enough though, so when Brenda grabbed your face to make you look at her again, you didn’t fight,
“All you have to do is leave. Nothing that’s been done will cause you permanent damage, and as long as I don’t hear anything about you for a year, I’ll delete it. If you report us though, well, this little thing is going all over the internet, and that’s your reputation ruined. So? What do you say?”
Even in the midst of your horror and pain, you find the energy to push her off you, getting to your feet without letting the tears fall, “I think you’re a vicious bitch. All of you. Why not just ask me to leave? Or go to another department?”
Brenda smiled that wild smile from the floor, and shrugged, “Well, I am a little… nutty.”
Pamela, Nancy, Rose, Annie… they all giggled. Their laughter rang in the air as you left.
You’d been too afraid to do anything, worried that Brenda would follow through on her threat, so you’d left, effective immediately. You’d found somewhere else to work, keeping to yourself and refusing to socialise. Your body had healed, the cuts were shallow. You hadn’t meant to find Steve, but he’d been there suddenly. Like a dream. For such a huge man, he’d made you feel safe, you no longer felt overwhelmed in a crowd, or terrified in enclosed spaces, and you could never feel scared in your apartment with him there.
Of course you’d told him everything. Steve was your hero, and he was capable of killing the monsters.
Steve smiled at you, his eyes tracing your face as if he could read every single micro emotion you had. You couldn’t even turn your head away from him, hide your true emotions, or pull away when he traced a finger over your cheek,
“I think you knew all along, baby. As soon as I told you what I did in the army-”
“I didn’t-”
“- your eyes lit up like it was your fucking birthday,” Steve closed his eyes, “it got me so hard, seeing how worked up you were knowing I’d been a killer for the goverment. I knew you needed me to do something for you,”
You couldn’t shake your head, you couldn’t push him away, you just stared as he held up a shiny knife you didn’t realise he’d been holding was raised to your face. The blade was cool as it traced over the skin of your cheek, down over your jaw, and further over your neck. You didn’t breathe, couldn’t call out, afraid it would cut you wide open, leaving you bare to Steve. He stopped the knife as it rested over your heart, pushing it into your skin just enough to sting. Your teeth sank into your lower lip, biting back the cry that wanted to come out… but Steve just hummed, moving the blade to your chest, and the nipple that was now hard against the fabric of your shirt,
“Naughty, naughty, baby. Getting all turned on thinking about what I did to those bitches for you?”
“N-no,” you choke it out, closing your eyes as he drags the knife down your body further, “they- you make me sick-”
“- sure I do, so sick that your cunt is weeping for me no doubt, let me just quickly double check. If you’re dry then I promise I’ll not touch you, but I think I want to make you come on my knife…”
Steve cut away the button on your jeans, lowered the zipper quickly, started tugging them down your hips hard enough to hurt, and you grunt, “Maybe you shouldn’t have tied me up, asshole!”
“Yeah, I should’ve cut away these fucking clothes first, but I wanted to talk. What can I say? You bring out the worst in me…” Steve gets your jeans down to your thighs, and stares openly at your underwear, “you turned on, baby? Admit it,”
Angry tears pool in your eyes, partly because you know he’s right - you’re wet and barely a touch would send you over the edge. Steve had that kind of effect on you, he always had. But it wasn’t just that that made you angry enough to cry. Steve reached out a hand to touch you, and you jerked away so hard that the chair scraped across the floor,
“You had sex with them before you killed them!” You yell it out, an ugly kind of jealousy boiling your blood, and you hated it. What Steve had done to them had been vile, but it was the fact that he’s had sex with them first that pissed you off the most.
He’d been tainted by those evil women.
Steve’s mouth opened in shock, before his eyes darkened, and he surged forward, grabbing your chin so you had nowhere else but to look in the furious blue green of his eyes,
“The media lied, y/n, I would never have slept with those cunts, okay? Never! You’re my girl, now and forever!” He pushes himself away from you, slamming the knife into the wooden table and pointing at you, “If you absolutely must know, even stabbing them felt like cheating. I had to get close, make them feel like I was there for them, that I was their friend. Right up until I stuck them like pigs and watched them bleed out. I did it for you!”
You can’t breathe past the emotion clogging your throat. More tears pool, and they start to fall, “Steve…”
“What they did to you, baby,” Steve puts his hands on his hips, every hard line in his body locked in an anger you could feel like a pulse against your skin, “I don’t care what the world calls me. A murderer, a monster, a serial killer, none of it matters. They hurt you, and I wanted to kill them for it. So I did.”
The screaming sounds again. Faint. Desperate. Your heart jumps in your throat.
Steve stops, his whole body relaxing, and a smile easing over his lips, “I love that sound, I think. That’s probably a weird thing to say, isn’t it?”
You listen to the screaming, and say the thing you’d been trying to avoid since you realised who was killing the women that tormented you,
“You only killed four of them. Annie, Pamela, Rose and Nancy.”
The screaming is louder now. Almost deafening, even through the floorboards.
“Yeah. I didn’t want to take that last one from you, baby…” Steve came closer, dropping to his knees in front of you, palms warm against the still exposed skin of your thighs, “you want to see her? See Brenda frightened and scared like you were?” His palms climbed higher, thumbs circling against your inner thighs, “Does that make you wet? Tell me you don’t want to sink a knife into her, baby, I dare you,”
One thumb pushed under the gusset of your panties, both you and Steve groaned in unison. You were soaked, your clit throbbing in need, so when Steve stroked his thumb over it softly, you came on a cry, your hips desperate to lift up, prolong the contact, but Steve pulls away, taking your chin in his fingers again and making you look at him,
“Admit it, baby. You wanted me to find them and kill them, and you want to kill Brenda yourself. I did it all for you, I’ll do anything for you, just tell me the truth,”
She’s screaming again. Loud and annoying. It’s grating and almost drowns out Steve’s whisper of devotion to you-
“Yes!” You spit out, a bubble of hysterical laughter bursting out of you at the admission, “Yes, I was angry because you killed them without me! I’m not a broken doll, Steve! I wanted to see them die!”
His smile is beautiful, and then he’s kissing you, all tongue and teeth, and you’re kissing him back, teeth and blood. The knife cuts away the ropes binding you to the chair, hitting the floor above Brenda on gentle thuds, but you can’t hear the bitches screams over the thumping of your heart, or over the tearing of your clothes. The table top is cold against your ass as Steve lifts you from the seat and spins you to sit on top of it. He shoves your legs wide open over his hips, and you tear his shirt away, your nails scraping bloody lines into all that golden skin,
“I want you, now,”
“I’m yours, your guardian angel, baby,”
The table shudders over the tiled floor, screeching and scraping, Steve fucks you with a violence that you feel in your soul and it clears every last thought from your head until there’s only him in you. Your scream drowns out Brenda’s, finally.
Brenda looks like a puppet with the strings cut away in the basement, long legs crumpled beneath her, arms outstretched on the wall, her hair wild around her face. You come to her in some white dress Steve had found in the closet, the knife shimmering even in the dim light. Brenda stares at you, an angry scowl on her face when she recognises you,
“I should’ve known it was all because of you, I just never thought you would have it in you, or that anyone would care enough to do it for you,” Brenda sneers at Steve standing behind you, “You must be a really good fuck with all that racket you were making, all of those guys you fucked raw that night said you weren’t so… enthusiastic.”
You were tired of hearing the bitch yap.
“This time, Brenda, it looks like you might be in over your head,” You pull off the necklace that she’s wearing, it was pretty and would look great with your dress, “Those bastards are next on our list.”
You lean forward, and sink the knife into her neck, a smile blooming across your face as her red blood turns your white dress crimson.
summary | you were the best thing that ever happened to him — and that was exactly what you wanted him to believe.
tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, rough sex, oral sex (f!receiving), two smut scenes, stalker!reader, obsessive!reader, manipulative!reader, gaslighting, psychological manipulation, soft control, emotional dependency, baby trapping, breeding kink, fluff, smut, domestic fluff, hurt/comfort (manipulative), dark romance, power dynamics, emotional possession, flipped stalker trope, strategic relationship building, marriage, parenthood, bucky barnes is whipped, found family (manufactured), groomed attachment, soft!dad bucky
a/n | me if I was in the MCU (jk)
taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
divider by @uzmacchiato
April 2024
First Meeting
Bucky wasn’t a fan of spring in the city.
Too many people. Too much noise. The air too warm for layers, but he wore them anyway — hood up, gloves on, jacket zipped — because it was easier to feel overheated than exposed.
He kept his head down as he moved through the crowd on West 47th, letting the noise of traffic drown out the chatter in his own skull. Morning rush hour meant no one looked too closely. Perfect.
Or it should have been.
He spotted you only in passing at first — standing near the edge of the sidewalk, angled toward a shop window, holding a small hand mirror. You were brushing your fingers along your cheekbone, touching up lipstick maybe. Hair catching the morning light, coffee in the other hand. The kind of ordinary picture he was used to glancing past.
Only, as he stepped closer, you turned.
Quick — almost too quick.
And then the coffee hit.
It was hot, sharp against his jacket sleeve before he even registered you stumbling back. The paper cup dropped from your fingers, liquid soaking in fast, blooming across the front of your white blouse.
“Shit—” The word came out before anything else, his hands coming up uselessly, hovering between your shoulders and your arm like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you. “I’m— I’m sorry. I wasn’t—”
You glanced down at the spreading stain, jaw tightening like you were holding something in. “I— I have a meeting,” you muttered, like you were talking to yourself more than to him. “Of course this happens now…”
Bucky winced. “Here—” He was already shrugging out of his jacket, the air hitting his sleeves like a reminder he’d regret this later. “Take this. Just to cover it up until you can—”
You shook your head immediately, taking a step back. “No. It’s fine. Accidents happen. Don’t worry about it.”
“Let me at least buy you another coffee,” he said quickly, still holding the jacket out like maybe you just hadn’t heard him. “And a shirt or something—there’s a shop right around—”
“I’m fine,” you cut in again, softer this time, almost apologetic, like you didn’t want to make him feel bad but also really needed to get away. Your voice had that rushed edge to it, but not frantic. “Seriously. I just need to go.”
Bucky glanced at your blouse again, the dark coffee already drying in jagged edges. He could practically hear Sam in his head telling him to stop letting people walk off with problems he’d caused. “I really don’t mind—”
“It’s fine,” you repeated, stepping sideways into the flow of the crowd. “Water under the bridge. Totally fine.”
You gave him one more faint smile — not dismissive, but final. Then you turned and slipped into the moving stream of pedestrians, your pace quick, almost purposeful.
He hesitated, jacket still in his hand.
For a second, he thought about following — just enough to press the jacket into your hands whether you wanted it or not. But the crowd had already swallowed you up. And it wasn’t like he could shout after you without drawing attention.
Still, he stood there for another beat, scanning the faces ahead as if you might turn back.
You didn’t.
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One Month Later
Second Meeting
Bucky wasn’t really paying attention to much of anything when he pushed his cart down the produce aisle. Just the quiet hum of the refrigeration units and the low music overhead, some ’80s pop song playing like it was trying too hard to cheer people up.
He stopped at the fruits section, scanning the shelves for plums. He didn’t even know when they’d become a habit — something about the taste, the simplicity of them, the fact it helped him remember things.
That’s when he saw a woman.
Standing by the stacked baskets of peaches and plums, head tilted as you inspected one like you were weighing the worth of it. The aisle was empty except for you, which meant there was no mistaking it.
It was you.
The woman from the street. The one he’d dumped a cup of coffee on last month.
Most people would’ve turned around right there. Pretended they needed something from the other end of the store, avoided the potential awkwardness.
But for reasons he couldn’t explain — maybe guilt, maybe curiosity — Bucky kept walking forward.
“Plums,” he said when he reached you, his voice coming out rougher than he meant.
You glanced up, brows pulling together in a faint, confused crease. “Sorry?”
Bucky cleared his throat, tried for a faint smirk that probably looked nothing like one. “They’re good this time of year.”
It sounded stupid the second it left his mouth.
Your confusion didn’t fade.
He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Uh— I’m… the guy who spilled coffee all over you. Downtown. About a month ago.”
For a beat, you just stared at him like you were searching your memory. Then your expression shifted — the small widening of your eyes, the slight downturn of your lips in recognition. “Oh… right,” you said slowly, almost hesitant.
“Yeah,” he muttered, suddenly hyper-aware of how ridiculous this was. “That was me.”
“Hi,” you said, the word soft, polite.
“Hey.”
It hung there between you for a second, both of you standing in front of the plums like neither quite knew what to do next.
Bucky cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Listen, about that coffee—”
You were still holding the plum in your hand, looking at him like you weren’t sure if he was about to apologize or confess to some bigger crime.
“I, uh…” His mouth twisted like the words physically hurt to get out. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been paying more attention. I just—”
He trailed off, realizing he was rambling to someone who probably hadn’t thought twice about it since.
You hadn’t said anything, just stood there, watching him with that polite, unreadable expression.
Bucky let out a quiet sigh, trying again. “I’m James,” he said finally, sticking to something simple.
Your mouth curved into the faintest smile, like you were both amused and maybe a little charmed by how bad he was at this. You told him your name, and it sat warm in his mind the second you said it.
“Right.” He nodded, a little too fast, and then… nothing. Just the hum of the cooler and the faint sound of some kid whining two aisles over. You both stood there, staring in this weird not-uncomfortable but definitely awkward silence.
Yet you didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. Not in the way most people in the city were — always glancing at their phones, shifting toward the exit. You stood there, weight relaxed, like you were giving him the space to figure out whatever the hell this was.
“Hey,” he said after a beat, surprising even himself. “Do you… wanna grab a cup of coffee? You know, for the one I spilled on you.”
Your brows lifted just slightly, your smile curling into something softer, almost confused, like you couldn’t quite tell if he was serious. “It’s ten p.m. on a Tuesday.”
“Decaf, then,” he said, not missing a beat.
The corner of your mouth twitched like you were trying not to laugh. “You don't look like you drink decaf.”
“Not usually,” he admitted, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “But I figured… you know. Fair’s fair.”
It came out gruffer than he intended, like an apology and an invitation wrapped into one. He could feel that familiar, awkward heat creeping into the back of his neck, but he kept his gaze on you, waiting.
You tilted your head, letting the silence stretch just enough to make it look like you were actually weighing the offer. Your eyes dropped briefly to the plums in your hand, then back to him, like maybe this was a coin toss in your mind.
Bucky stayed still, watching you — and maybe that was why it felt like a bigger deal when you finally let out a small, almost reluctant breath and said, “Okay, James.”
You said his name slowly, like you were trying it on for size. No flicker of recognition, no double take, no oh-you’re-that-guy-from-the-news. Just James.
And that… did something to him. Most people knew who he was now, or at least thought they did. You didn’t seem to care — or maybe you didn’t know — and somehow, that made your answer feel more genuine.
Bucky’s mouth pulled into the faintest smile, one corner higher than the other. “Alright then.”
────────────────────────
He ended up picking a small café a few blocks from the grocery store. One of those places with low lighting, scratched wooden tables, and the faint smell of burnt espresso that clung to the walls. It was quiet enough for conversation, but not so empty that it felt like an interrogation.
They got their coffees — his black, yours decaf — and a couple of glazed donuts because it felt like the kind of thing you were supposed to get with coffee. You took a seat by the window, the city lights outside casting a warm reflection across your face.
You were the one to break the silence. Leaning back in your chair, coffee cupped loosely in your hands, you asked, “So, James… what’s your deal?”
He blinked. “My deal?”
You nodded, casual, like you weren’t digging for anything too deep. “Yeah. You just… I dunno. Seem like you’ve got a story.”
That threw him a little. Most people either knew the story or thought they did. You didn’t seem to. And maybe that was why he stumbled over his answer. “Uh… nothing special. I keep to myself. Do my thing.”
You arched a brow, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “That’s vague as hell.”
“It’s the truth,” he said, shifting in his seat.
You just smiled knowingly, like you could see through him, but didn’t press. Instead, you glanced at the donut on your plate, tore off a piece, and popped it into your mouth. You chewed, swallowed, then said flatly, “These donuts are terrible.”
Bucky’s head jerked slightly at the bluntness, and before he could help it, a huff escaped him. It was quiet but real — the kind that crept up unexpectedly. “Guess I’ve had better,” he admitted.
“I work in a bakery,” you said simply, sipping your coffee. “So I have the authority to say that.”
“Maybe I’ll have to come by,” he said without thinking. “Try some of your desserts.”
You looked at him, eyes glinting, head tilting just a fraction. “Is that some kind of innuendo?”
“What? No—” He almost choked on his coffee, sputtering a little. “No, I was being serious. Actual bakery stuff.”
You bit back a laugh, but the way your lips twitched gave you away. “Relax, James. I’m just messing with you.”
He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Yeah, I’m starting to figure that out.”
It was strange, how easy it was to talk to you.
Bucky wasn’t great at… this. Conversations usually felt like work — too much effort to keep up, too many pauses he didn’t know how to fill. But with you, he didn’t notice the time passing.
You’d sip your coffee, tilt your head, say something that made him laugh without meaning to, and it all just… happened.
And you smiled a lot. Not the fake kind either. The real ones that crinkled the corners of your eyes, that made him wonder what you looked like when you laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe.
He caught himself staring more than once, and when he realized how long they’d been sitting there, the barista was already hovering. “Sorry, guys. We’re closing up.” Her tone was polite, but it was still the gentle shove toward the door.
Outside, the air was cool, city sounds echoing off the buildings. You both stood there for a second, neither really sure what came next.
You were the one to break it. “Well, thanks for the coffee,” you said softly, giving him that same easy smile, “I’ll see you around, James.”
You turned slightly, like you were about to go — and maybe that’s what made him do it.
“Wait—” He shifted his weight, running a hand over the back of his neck. “I mean… we should… uh…” He frowned, trying again. “Go out. Sometime. You and me.”
It came out more like an order than a question, and his jaw tensed like he was annoyed at himself for it.
You looked at him, eyebrows lifting just a little, like you were amused but not in a mean way. “Are you asking me, or telling me?”
Bucky’s mouth twitched in a half-smile. “Guess I’m not good at either.”
“Guess not,” you said — and then, without missing a beat, “Alright. When and where?”
That made him freeze for half a second, eyes narrowing like he had to replay your words in his head. “Uh—”
You just stood there, patient, still smiling like you had all the time in the world.
“Tomorrow,” he blurted. “Uh… that diner on 8th. Six o’clock?”
“Okay,” you said easily, like you hadn’t just completely hijacked the momentum of the conversation.
And just like that, you turned, walking away into the night — leaving him standing there with the ridiculous thought that he already wanted to see you again.
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The Next Day
First Date
Bucky didn’t remember agreeing to the date so much as the fact that it had just… happened.
You’d looked at him with that easy smile and said, “When and where?” — like it was nothing. And somehow, without thinking, he’d said tomorrow and six o’clock.
Now it was tomorrow. Six hours away. And he was pacing his apartment like a caged animal.
It had been decades since his last real date — and if he didn’t count that mess with that waitress last month (which he didn’t), then this was his first since 1942.
Leah had been kind. Pretty. She’d said yes when he asked her out, and for a moment he thought maybe he could do this, maybe he could be… normal. Then she’d mentioned Yori’s son, and the bottom had dropped out. That wasn’t a date. That was guilt with beer.
This though? This felt like something else. And maybe that was the problem.
Because you were just… a pretty girl. That should’ve made this easier. But it didn’t. You had a way of looking at him that knocked him off balance, like you could see right through him without making him feel exposed. You laughed easily. You spoke without hesitation. You weren’t awkward — hell, you probably didn’t even know what awkward felt like.
Meanwhile, he felt like a guy trying to speak a language he hadn’t practiced in eighty years.
He stopped pacing long enough to glance at the jacket draped over the back of his chair. Too formal? Too casual? In the forties, you wore a suit and tie. In 2024, people wore jeans to weddings. The idea of showing up underdressed made his stomach tighten — but overdressed felt just as bad.
He sat, bounced his knee. Stood up again.
Every time he thought about the way you’d smiled at him, that slow curve of your mouth, he felt something coil in his chest. It wasn’t nerves exactly — more like… anticipation.
Not that he’d admit that. To himself or anyone else.
By the time the clock ticked past five, he’d changed shirts twice, Googled “first date small talk” (and immediately slammed the laptop shut), and muttered a few possible openers under his breath. None of them sounded right.
Catching himself in the mirror, he tugged at his collar and smoothed his hair back. He looked… fine. Not good, not bad. Just fine.
He told himself it was just dinner. Just a date. Just you. But that didn’t explain why his chest was tight, or why his palms felt damp.
You were just a pretty girl. And he was just a guy trying to keep up.
At least, that’s what he thought as he grabbed his keys and stepped out into the warm May evening.
────────────────────────
Bucky had been sitting in the booth for five minutes already — too early to be casual, but late enough that he hoped it didn’t look like he’d been waiting all day.
The place wasn’t fancy, but it was clean, warm, with a faint hum of conversation that made it feel… safe. Neutral ground. He’d picked it for that reason.
The flowers sat in front of him, wrapped in brown paper — not a big bouquet, just enough to look thoughtful without overdoing it.
At least, that’s what he hoped.
He’d stood in the florist shop for ten whole minutes debating whether flowers were still something you did in 2024, or if they’d come across as… desperate.
Maybe he was desperate.
His gloved hands tapped against the table as his eyes flicked to the door every time it opened. He ran through a hundred worst-case scenarios in his head — the conversation dying after two minutes, you looking bored, him saying something that made you leave.
And underneath it all, that other thought.
The one that never quite left him.
You didn’t know who he was. Not really.
You didn’t know you were about to have dinner with someone who’d been a murderer, a weapon, a name whispered in fear for decades. You didn’t know the blood on his hands.
A part of him felt relief at that — maybe you’d just see him as a guy named James, nothing more. But the guilt hit just as fast. It wasn’t fair. You didn’t get the choice to decide if you wanted to sit across from someone like him.
His knee bounced under the table. His hand curled around the flowers again, like the rough paper could ground him.
The door opened. And everything went quiet.
You stepped in like you weren’t even aware the whole world could tilt toward you without trying. Black dress, simple but clean lines, fitting you just enough to make his chest tighten. His first thought was that he’d underdressed. His second thought was that he couldn’t look away.
Your eyes found him in the corner, and that small, slow smile broke across your face.
It wasn’t wide or showy. Just… soft. The kind of smile that made the noise in his head fade, made his shoulders lose a fraction of their tension.
For the first time all day, he wasn’t thinking about what he was going to say, or if he’d mess this up. He just knew you were walking toward him.
And that, somehow, felt like enough.
You slid into the booth across from him, the faint scent of your perfume slipping into the air between you. Up close, that black dress looked even better — understated, but it clung just enough in the right places to make his throat tighten.
His hand went to the bouquet almost on instinct, pushing it toward you like he was afraid if he didn’t do it immediately, he’d chicken out.
“Uh… these are for you,” he said, voice low, awkward, almost apologetic. “Figured it… y’know. Might be a nice thing.”
You blinked down at them, and he had no idea if you were surprised, amused, or trying to decide if you even liked flowers. That hesitation stretched for a beat too long, and his stomach tightened. Maybe this was too much. Maybe—
Then you looked up at him, smiling in that slow, deliberate way again. “Not many guys bring flowers anymore,” you said, taking the bouquet. “Guess I’ll have to forgive you for being old-fashioned.”
Something about the way you said it made him huff out a laugh — but he still shifted in his seat, the tips of his ears warming.
“Old habits,” he muttered, full on knowing you wouldn't catch the double meaning.
You brushed your fingers over the petals like you were committing the flowers to memory before setting them gently beside you on the seat. “They’re beautiful,” you added, and for a second, he felt like maybe he hadn’t already messed this up.
When the waiter came to take your orders, you didn’t look at the menu for long. Confident, decisive — nothing like him, who kept second-guessing whether the steak here was even good.
As soon as the waiter left, you leaned in just slightly, elbows resting on the table. “So, James… was this place your first choice? Or did you have, like, a list of approved restaurants for a random Wednesday night?”
He smirked — or at least tried to. “I’m not that bad.”
“You seem like the type who thinks about these things,” you teased.
If you only knew, he thought.
You twirled the straw in your water glass, glancing at him over the rim. “So… you said last time you just keep to yourself. Do your thing.”
He nodded, keeping his posture casual even though he could feel every muscle in his shoulders locked tight. “Yeah. That’s pretty much it.”
You leaned in just a little, chin resting on your palm. “Okay, but… what’s your thing? Like, what’s the long-term goals?”
Bucky blinked. “The what?”
Your lips curved and you tilted your head, almost amused. “Your goals… long-term.”
It was such a simple question, but his mind went blank. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, trying to come up with something that sounded halfway decent. “I dunno. I, uh… haven’t really thought about it.”
The corner of your mouth lifted. “So you’re just floating through life, huh?”
He frowned, but there was no edge to it. “Guess so.”
“Not the worst thing,” you said, sitting back and taking a sip of your drink. “Some people like the drift.”
He studied you for a moment. You didn’t ask it like you were judging him, or trying to dig too deep. It was just… curiosity. Pure, easy curiosity. And yet somehow it made him feel like you could see right through him.
“What about you?” he asked, deflecting.
You shrugged. “Work. Pay my bills. Try not to lose my mind in the process. I’ve got smaller goals — learn how to make a croissant that doesn’t deflate, try every cocktail on the menu at O’Malley’s, maybe get a dog one day.”
A laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it. “That’s your big plan? Pastries, alcohol, and a dog?”
“Pretty solid life, if you ask me.”
He shook his head, smiling to himself. He’d expected this to be awkward, expected to feel the way he always did around new people — like he was under a microscope, like every move was being analyzed. But with you… it was just talking.
The waiter came back with your plates, setting a steaming plate of pasta in front of you and a medium-rare steak in front of him. You thanked the waiter without breaking eye contact with Bucky, like you didn’t want the conversation to slip away.
“So no dreams of retiring on a beach? No cabin in the woods?” you asked as you picked up your fork.
He thought about it for a beat. “Cabin sounds nice.”
“There you go.” You pointed your fork at him. “Long-term goal: cabin. Look at you making progress.”
Bucky huffed a laugh and shook his head, but inside, he was already picturing it — and, to his own surprise, you were in that picture too.
The conversation didn’t slow down after that. It wasn’t forced, either — just one topic folding into the next, your questions pulling him along, your little comments sparking thoughts he didn’t even realize he had.
Every time you smiled, his chest felt like it loosened a little. Every time you laughed, it felt like something in him woke up just to listen.
And before he knew it, the plates were cleared, the check was paid, and you were both standing at the door, the cool night air rushing in.
“You, uh…” He scratched at the back of his neck. “You headed home?”
You gave him that small, easy smile that made him feel ten years younger. “Yeah.”
“Can I… walk you?” He tried to sound casual, but it came out tentative, like he wasn’t sure if it was overstepping.
You tilted your head in that way you did when you were thinking, then nodded. “Sure.”
Something about that word — the way it rolled off your tongue, unhurried and warm — made his pulse skip. He held the door for you, falling into step at your side as you stepped onto the quiet street.
The city was winding down, streetlights casting halos on the pavement. Your heels clicked softly against the sidewalk while his boots fell into a slower rhythm to match yours.
For a while, you didn’t speak, and that was fine with him. He found himself just… watching you out of the corner of his eye. The way the breeze tugged at your hair. The way you tucked your hands into your coat pockets but kept your shoulders loose, like you weren’t afraid of anything.
“You live far?” he asked finally.
“Couple blocks,” you said. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna make you walk across the city.”
He smiled at that, but didn’t say anything else, afraid he might break whatever this was — this quiet, this ease.
When you finally stopped in front of a brownstone, you turned to him, your eyes catching in the streetlight. “This is me.”
Bucky nodded, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “Right. Uh… thank you for asking me to walk you.”
That earned him a soft laugh. “Pretty sure it was your idea, James.”
He blinked, thrown for a second, then nodded again, sheepish. “Yeah… yeah, right.”
And then… nothing. His mind blanked. If this had been back in the ’30s, the polite thing would’ve been to kiss your cheek, tip his hat, say goodnight like a gentleman. But it wasn’t the ’30s anymore. People had boundaries. And he had no idea if crossing that invisible line would ruin everything.
Still, the urge was there — humming beneath his ribs, pooling low in his chest. You looked so damn pretty in that black dress, the flowers he’d given you cradled in your hands. He could smell your perfume, faint and warm, and it was killing him not to close the distance.
You caught it. The way his eyes lingered, the faint crease between his brows. That tiny flicker of indecision.
Your teeth caught your bottom lip like you were thinking about it and that was when you stepped forward — deliberate, slow, your heels clicking against the pavement.
You didn’t just close the gap — you took control of it. One hand lifted, your fingers curling lightly along the line of his jaw, your thumb brushing over the scruff on his cheek. His breath caught instantly, eyes locking on yours, the flicker of surprise almost boyish in his expression.
And then you leaned in.
The kiss was soft but unflinching, holding him there for a few long, head-spinning seconds. His brain stalled completely — no wariness, no hesitation now, just you, the faint press of your body, the taste of your lipstick, the warmth of your palm against his face.
By the time you pulled back, his lips were still parted like he hadn’t realized it was over.
“Thank you for the date,” you murmured, giving him that small, sweet smile again, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Goodnight, James.”
And just like that, you stepped past him and slipped into the building, leaving him standing there on the sidewalk — still feeling the ghost of your touch on his cheek, still trying to remember how to breathe.
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Three Days Later
Second Date
You didn’t expect him to ask you on another date so soon.
But here you were — only three days after your first date, and Bucky Barnes was already inviting you out again. Saturday evening. A picnic date in Central Park, of all things.
Not some busy lawn where people tossed frisbees or jogged past, but one of those quiet corners where the trees closed in enough to give you privacy, the sound of the city tucked far behind the green.
It was… old-fashioned. Which made sense, given who he was.
You sat across from him on a checkered blanket, a wicker basket between you — the whole thing looked like it had been pulled straight out of some black-and-white film. He’d even brought sandwiches wrapped in brown paper, a couple of glass bottles of soda, and what you were willing to bet were store-bought cookies.
And like before, you kept the conversation going. Asking him about the park, about what kind of food he liked, about what he did when he wasn’t… well, whatever it was he actually did now. He’d answer, but never with much detail — pausing often, like he was trying to figure out the right words, like he was still deciding how much of himself to give away.
That was fine. You didn’t need him to hand over his life story.
You already knew that.
It wasn’t hard to smile, nod, and throw in the right laugh at the right time. You leaned into his pauses, let the silences hang just long enough to make him want to fill them. He’d shift a little when you tilted your head at him, his eyes flicking to your mouth like he wasn’t sure if he should be looking there.
If he thought you didn’t notice, he was wrong.
And all throughout the date, between bites of sandwich and sips of soda, you couldn’t help but wonder when he’d actually confess who he really was.
You’d already known from the moment he bumped into you — hell, from before that. But you wanted to hear him say it.
So, you decided to give him a little push.
You let your gaze drift away from him mid-conversation, scanning the trees, the open green beyond.
Slowly, your brows drew together, the faintest frown pulling at your lips. You didn’t speak at first — just kept glancing around, your expression tightening like you were trying to puzzle something out.
Finally, you said it. Soft. Almost embarrassed. “James… people are starting to stare. I don’t… I don’t know why.”
The shift in him was immediate. His shoulders, relaxed a moment ago, pulled tight. His jaw clenched. His eyes darted past you, scanning the edges of the park.
You tilted your head at him, feigning confusion. “It’s fine,” you added quickly, like you were trying to brush it off, “I just… thought maybe I had something on my face or—”
“No.” His voice was quiet, but it had that weight to it, the one that made people shut up and listen. “It’s not you.”
You blinked at him, all innocence. “Then what—?”
“Maybe I should walk you home,” he cut in, already beginning to gather up the blanket and basket. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
You kept your face neutral — maybe just a little uncertain — but inside, you could feel the hook sinking deeper.
“Okay,” you murmured, and let him help you up, his hand firm but careful at your elbow.
It was sweet, how gentle he was. It was even sweeter knowing you’d planned this moment from the start.
The walk back was quiet at first. The city sounds filled the gaps between you — the low hum of traffic, a siren somewhere blocks away, the occasional rush of wind that made you hold your skirt down.
You noticed he kept glancing at you like he was trying to time something, trying to figure out the right moment.
Finally, a few blocks from your place, he let out a sigh. “So… my name isn’t just James.”
You looked at him, brows raised, a faint smile tugging your lips. “Okay…?”
“It’s James Barnes,” he said, watching your face for any flicker of recognition.
You tilted your head slightly, the smile still there. “Barnes. Got it.” Like you were just making a mental note, nothing more.
Bucky let out a slow breath, then shook his head faintly. “No. James Buchanan Barnes.”
The name landed like a weight between you. You stopped walking without meaning to, staring at him as the pieces “clicked” together.
“Oh.” Your voice was soft, your eyes a little wider now. You brought a hand up, half-covering your mouth. “Oh my god—wait. I’m… I’m an idiot.”
He frowned immediately. “What? No—”
“I knew I recognized you from somewhere,” you rushed out, shaking your head at yourself. “And here I’ve just been—God, I’m so—”
“Hey,” he cut in, his tone sharper now, trying to pull you out of it. “Don’t do that. Don’t—don’t make it a thing about you being stupid.”
You bit your lip, looking away, embarrassed. “I just… I feel like I should’ve known—”
“I liked that you didn’t,” he said, and there was an odd softness to it. “I kind of liked you not knowing who I was. It was… nice. Normal.”
You looked back at him then, letting your gaze linger, like his words had just made you see him differently.
“Normal’s good,” you said softly.
You took a couple more steps, the sound of your shoes clicking against the pavement, before glancing over at him. “So… why do things have to change?”
That stopped him in his tracks. He looked down at you — really looked — eyes scanning your face like he was searching for something underneath your words.
“You’re really okay with that?” he asked finally, voice low. “Going out with… someone like me?”
Your brow furrowed, your lips pressing into a faint, almost thoughtful purse.
“Are you?” you countered gently.
He blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“Are you okay with it?” you repeated, tilting your head a little. “Because… it seems like you’re the one who’s more hesitant about this than I am.”
He exhaled sharply, his gaze sliding away like the weight of his own history was tugging it down.
“I mean,” you continued, your voice even, not pushing but not backing away either, “I get it. Because of… yeah.” You let the word trail off, letting the unsaid things hang in the air — the things you knew he thought about himself every day.
His jaw tightened, and for a moment you swore you could almost hear the gears in his head turning. He looked back at you, his blue eyes clouded but intent.
“Yeah,” he murmured finally. “Because of… yeah.”
You studied him for a second, watching the way his jaw shifted like he was still carrying the weight of that confession.
“So…” you tilted your head, voice easy but deliberate, “what do you want me to call you? James… or Bucky?”
He didn’t answer right away. His brows drew together, really thinking about it, like the question was heavier than you meant it to be.
Finally, he exhaled, gaze settling back on you. “James,” he said quietly. “I… I like being James with you. I’m trying to get used to being Bucky Barnes again, but…” he hesitated, the corner of his mouth twitching almost sheepishly, “James feels… easier. Lighter. With you.”
A slow smile spread across your face, soft but deliberate. Without breaking eye contact, you slipped your arm through his, your hand looping into the crook of his elbow like it belonged there.
Leaning in just enough for your lips to brush against his cheek, you murmured, “Good ’cause I like being with James.”
It was quick, simple — but you felt the way his stride faltered for just a fraction of a second, his breath catching like he didn’t know what to do with the way those words landed.
────────────────────────
One Week Later
Third Date
The first date was to hook him.
The second was to soften him — to show him you were safe, someone he could trust without even realizing it. Someone who’d never push too hard, never pry… but who’d listen to every word like it mattered. You knew exactly what that would do to a man like James Barnes.
And the third? The third was to turn trust into something else entirely.
The kind of connection you couldn’t just walk away from without feeling the absence like a phantom limb.
You’d kept the night light — a small jazz club tucked in the quieter part of the city, a little whiskey, easy conversation, nothing too loud or overstimulating. You let him set the pace, let him laugh more than you talked, let him think he was the one leading.
By the time you were back at your building, he was looking at you like you were gravity itself — and you didn’t let him look for too long before you moved in.
You barely had the key out before his hand was on your hip, the other bracing against the doorframe, his breath warm against your mouth. The kiss hit fast — a low, almost desperate press of lips that made you smile into it. You could taste the whiskey on his tongue, feel the tension in the way his body pressed into yours.
Your back hit the cool metal of the door, and you let out the kind of quiet sound that made his fingers flex against your side. His mouth dragged from yours to your jaw, his stubble catching on your skin as you tilted your head, giving him space, giving him permission.
His metal hand skimmed down your waist, and you could feel the restraint in him — the way he wanted more but was holding back, trying not to push too far too fast.
You, on the other hand, had no such reservations. Your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer until there was no space left between you. You caught his mouth again, deeper this time, teeth catching his lower lip before your tongue traced against his. He made a low sound in his throat, one you filed away instantly — a tell, a weakness you could pull from later.
Then, suddenly, he broke the kiss — just enough to breathe, just enough to murmur against your mouth, “We should… probably slow this down.”
You blinked up at him, lips still parted, feeling his breath ghost over them. “Yeah… yeah,” you said, though your fingers were still hooked in his shirt like you had no plans to actually let go.
There was a beat — that awkward, suspended moment where neither of you knew what to do with all that tension — and then, completely straight-faced, you asked, “So… you got any hobbies?”
The question caught him off guard so hard you could see it in his face. His brow furrowed, mouth opening like he wasn't sure if you were joking. “Uh…” He blinked a few times, like he was flipping through a mental list that was embarrassingly short. “I like to… read?”
You nodded, like you were genuinely considering this while still catching your breath. “What have you read?”
There was a stumble in his answer, his gaze flicking briefly away as though embarrassed. “Uh… The Hobbit.”
You pulled back half an inch, your brows lifting. “The Hobbit? You read The Hobbit?”
He shifted his weight, defensive but sheepish at the same time. “…Yeah?”
And without missing a beat, you grinned and said, “That’s kinda hot.”
The corner of his mouth tugged up, almost disbelieving. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you confirmed, your voice low enough to make him swallow.
And then you were both leaning in at the same time, the kiss reigniting instantly, just as heated as before — maybe more. His hand slid up your side, the other finding the back of your neck, and you could taste the faint trace of a smile against your mouth before it turned hungry again.
You didn’t break the kiss when you pulled him through the building’s front door, not even when you started walking him backwards toward the stairs. His hand stayed locked at your hip, your mouth moving against his in hot, deliberate bursts between breaths.
The elevator ride was a blur of glances and unspoken tension — his chest rising and falling, your lips still tingling from where his teeth had grazed them. You could feel the battle in him, that rigid line between wanting and restraint.
By the time you reached your apartment, you had no trouble coaxing him inside. You guided him straight to the couch, giving him a gentle push until he sat, his legs spread slightly, hands resting awkwardly on his knees like he wasn’t sure what to do next.
You took care of that.
Climbing into his lap felt natural — slow, unthreatening, like you were still playing. You straddled him, your knees pressing into the cushions on either side, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders.
Bucky’s eyes darted to yours, and then down to your mouth. You could see it again — that hesitation, the restraint. So you leaned in, brushing your lips over his once, twice, before deepening the kiss just enough to coax him into leaning forward, his hands finally settling on your hips.
You were just getting lost in him again, the warmth of his mouth, the press of his hands, when Bucky pulled back suddenly. His breathing was uneven, his forehead resting briefly against yours before he leaned back enough to meet your eyes.
“I, uh—” He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I haven’t… done this. Not since… 1942.”
You blinked, tilting your head, the corner of your mouth tugging upward. “You mean—”
He gave a small, almost sheepish nod, his cheeks heating.
A slow grin spread across your face. “So… this’ll be like your first time again?”
“Don’t say it like that,” he muttered, but the flush in his face deepened.
You bit back a laugh, leaning forward to kiss him again — softer this time, deliberate — your hand coming up to cup the side of his face. When you pulled back just enough to whisper, your tone was almost teasing. “Don’t worry… I’ll be gentle.”
His jaw flexed, his blue eyes flicking away for a moment before coming back to yours. “I’m just… worried I won’t last.”
You gave him a small, knowing smile. “That’s fine,” you murmured, your lips brushing his as you spoke. “We have the whole night.”
And before he could answer, you kissed him again — slow, coaxing, until you felt him melt back into it.
You rolled your hips against him, slow at first, then harder, letting the friction build until you could feel the hard line of him beneath you.
“Fuck—” he groaned, low and almost pained, his head tipping back for a second before you dragged his mouth back to yours.
His metal hand slid up your back, cold even through your dress, the contrast making you shiver as his flesh hand gripped your ass, pulling you against him in a way that made you gasp. You rocked on him harder, and the sound he made — somewhere between a groan and a curse — went straight to your core.
“Jesus, doll…” he muttered against your mouth, his voice wrecked, his hips twitching upward involuntarily to meet your movements.
You grinned against his lips, rolling your hips just right, grinding down until he was cursing under his breath. “You like that, James?”
His response was a rough, desperate kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting you like he couldn’t get enough.
The rhythm between you grew messier, hotter — all friction and panting and little sounds that filled the quiet apartment. Your dress had ridden up around your hips, and his grip had turned bruising, like he was fighting not to lose control completely.
Your lips broke from his just long enough to whisper against his ear, “Take a breath, James.”
His grip loosened a fraction, and you leaned back, still straddling him, your hands sliding to the straps of your dress. His eyes followed every movement like he couldn’t look away.
You let the straps fall slowly down your shoulders, holding his gaze the whole time before sliding the dress up and over your head, then tossing it aside.
The way he looked at you — hungry, reverent, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed — made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t expect. You reached behind you, unhooked your bra, and let it fall.
Bucky’s breath caught, his jaw flexing like he was holding something back. His gaze raked over you, lingering in places that made your skin feel like it was burning, but he didn’t reach out — almost like he thought touching would break the spell.
You smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss to his mouth before murmuring, “Your turn.”
He hesitated, and you knew why. You could feel the tension in him, the way his body stiffened when your fingers brushed the hem of his shirt.
“You can,” you said softly, but with an edge of certainty that left no room for doubt. “I want to see you, James.”
For a moment, he looked like he might refuse. Then, almost reluctantly, he grabbed the back of his collar and pulled the shirt over his head.
You didn’t let your gaze flick away from the scars that marred his skin, or the gleam of metal that caught the low light of your apartment. You let your eyes take in every detail, slow and deliberate, until his breath started to quicken under your stare.
“God, you’re beautiful,” you said, and meant it in a way that made him swallow hard.
You leaned in, pressing your mouth to his neck, tasting the salt of his skin. You let your lips travel to the edge of his jaw, down to his collarbone, over a scar that looked like it had been there for decades. Your fingers traced the seam where flesh met vibranium, and you kissed it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He shuddered beneath you, and you felt some of the tightness in his body begin to melt.
“See?” you murmured against his skin. “Nothing here I can’t handle.”
His hands found your hips again, steadier now, and when you kissed him this time, he kissed you back without hesitation, pulling you closer, letting you feel every inch of him.
Your fingers slid into his hair, keeping him close, and you could feel the last traces of tension bleeding out of him. That guarded, wary edge he carried like armor was slipping — and you were the one peeling it away.
When your lips left his neck, his mouth moved lower without you even asking. His head dipped, and his lips brushed over the swell of your breast. You let out a low sound, arching into him, and that was all it took — he wrapped an arm around your waist and took your nipple into his mouth like he’d been starving for it.
“James—” your voice cracked, your nails digging into his shoulder.
He groaned against your skin, the vibration shooting straight through you, and you swore you could feel him getting harder beneath you. His tongue circled, teasing, before he sucked hard enough to make your breath hitch. His other hand came up, fingers rolling and squeezing your other nipple until you were practically squirming in his lap.
“Fuck—” you gasped, heat pooling low in your belly, “—you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, lips slick, eyes dark with something feral.
You didn’t even try to play it cool. “I need you,” you said, the words spilling out rough and desperate. “I need you in me right now or I’m gonna fucking die.”
For a split second, he froze — like the full force of your want for him had short-circuited his brain. Then his jaw set, and his hands gripped your hips tighter, almost bruising.
“…You sure?” he asked, voice low and gravelly, like it physically hurt him to wait for your answer.
“James,” you whispered, leaning in until your lips brushed his, “if you don’t fuck me right now—” you bit his lower lip, hard enough to make him groan, “—you’re gonna regret it.”
That was it. Whatever was left of his guard shattered. And you didn’t wait for permission — you didn’t need it. Not when you could feel him, hard and heavy against you, straining against the denim.
Your hands moved between you, fumbling for the button of his jeans before dragging the zipper down in one smooth, determined motion. Bucky’s breath stuttered, his hips jerking involuntarily when your fingers slipped inside, brushing over him through the thin cotton of his boxers.
“Fuck—” he hissed, his metal hand gripping the couch cushion like he was afraid to touch you too hard.
You looked him right in the eye, daring him to stop you, and then you shoved his jeans down just far enough to free him. His cock sprang out, thick and flushed, and you wrapped your hand around him, stroking once just to feel the way he twitched in your palm.
His head fell back, a low groan rumbling from his chest. “Baby—”
“Shhh,” you murmured, shifting just enough to hook your fingers into your panties and drag them aside. “I can’t wait.”
Before he could even process it, you lined him up and sank down in one slow, deliberate motion.
Bucky’s entire body jolted beneath you. His hands flew to your hips like he was going to push you away — but instead, his fingers dug in, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. His eyes were wide, mouth parted, chest heaving.
“Holy—fuck—” The word came out broken, almost like a whimper, and that alone made you clench around him.
You leaned forward, your breasts brushing his chest, your lips grazing his ear. “Told you I’d be gentle,” you whispered, rocking your hips just enough to make him groan again. “But right now? I’m gonna make you lose your mind.”
Your nails dug into his shoulders as you started to move — slow at first, letting him feel every inch of you clench around him, before you shifted your weight and began to ride him in earnest.
Bucky’s head dropped back against the couch, a ragged moan tearing from his throat. His flesh hand slid up your thigh, gripping hard, while his metal hand stayed fixed at your hip like he was terrified you’d pull away.
You set the pace — hard, fast, bouncing on him until his thighs flexed beneath you, until his hips started to jerk upward in time with yours.
The moment he began thrusting into you, the sound that left him was almost pained — years of restraint breaking all at once. “Ohhh, fuck—baby—”
You leaned in close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, your breath hot as you whispered, “That’s it, James… just like that… give it to me.”
He groaned again, a shiver running through him at the sound of his name on your lips.
“You feel so good inside me,” you breathed, grinding down between bounces so he could feel how wet you were for him. “God, you’re so deep—”
His hips snapped up harder, faster, chasing that rhythm. You rewarded him by dragging your lips along the line of his jaw, sucking at his neck until you knew you’d leave marks there — marks he’d have to think about later, maybe even hide.
“Fuck, I’m—” His voice broke, his metal hand clutching you tighter, forcing you down onto him as he drove up into you with desperate, uneven thrusts.
You kissed his ear, biting lightly before murmuring, “Don’t hold back, baby… I want it all.”
That did it — his eyes screwed shut, a choked noise spilling out as he slammed up into you like he was trying to get even deeper, every thrust shaking through both of you.
“Shit—” he hissed, forehead pressing to your collarbone like he needed the contact to ground himself. But it didn’t last.
With a sudden growl, Bucky shifted beneath you, his hands gripping your waist like you weighed nothing. Before you could react, he twisted the two of you, rolling you onto your back without ever slipping out of you.
Your gasp turned into a moan when he settled above you, caging you in with his broad shoulders, bracing himself with his metal arm against the couch. His flesh hand slid under your thigh, pushing your leg higher, deeper, until the angle made you see stars.
Then he started moving — really moving — and the couch creaked in protest under the pace. Deep, filthy thrusts that had you gasping his name, every snap of his hips forcing you further into the cushions.
“Jesus, James—” you panted, nails digging into his back.
He groaned against your neck, his breath hot and ragged. “Can’t—stop—” he managed between thrusts, like he was talking to himself as much as to you.
Your head tilted back, mouth falling open as you pulled him down for a desperate kiss, swallowing the sounds he made. You felt the tension in him, the way each movement was turning rougher, more unrestrained.
“That’s it,” you murmured against his lips, pulling his metal hand from the couch and pressing it to your throat — not enough to choke, just enough for him to feel how hard your pulse was racing. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me.”
He groaned like the words burned through him, his hips slamming into you harder, faster. His eyes locked on yours, glassy and wild, and you knew right then he was gone — lost completely in you.
Your hands clung to him, nails dragging down the scars of his back as his pace grew erratic — that telltale stumble of rhythm that told you he was teetering right on the edge.
His forehead pressed against yours, breath ragged, eyes squeezing shut like he was fighting it, trying to hold on.
“Don’t—” he started, but you cut him off, voice low and sweet against his ear.
“James… I want you to finish in me.”
He froze for a fraction of a second, hips buried deep inside you, his entire body trembling. “You— you don’t—”
“I want it,” you whispered again, cupping his jaw so he had to look at you. “I want you. All of you. Don’t hold back from me.”
Whatever control he’d been clinging to shattered.
A deep, guttural sound ripped from his chest as he slammed into you harder, desperate, chasing the inevitable. His metal hand drifted to your thigh, holding you open for him, while his flesh hand fisted the couch cushion beside your head like he was trying to keep himself from completely falling apart.
Your own release crept up fast — too fast — his thrusts hitting that perfect spot over and over until your legs were shaking around his waist.
“James—” you gasped, pulling his mouth to yours, kissing him deep as you clenched tight around him.
The sound he made against your mouth was half a groan, half your name, and then he broke. His hips stuttered, buried as deep as they could go as he spilled into you, the heat of it pushing you right over the edge with him.
You cried out into his mouth, your nails sinking into his shoulders, your entire body arching into his as the two of you came together — messy, unrestrained, yours.
When it was over, he collapsed against you, chest heaving, his face tucked into the crook of your neck like he couldn’t bear to let you go. You could feel the rapid thud of his heart, the way his breath still came hard and uneven.
Your fingers threaded lazily through his hair, still a little damp with sweat, your other hand tracing soft circles along the line of his spine. His weight was heavy on you, solid, grounding — and you didn’t push him to move.
“Hey…” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, like you were afraid to disturb whatever fragile peace had settled over him. “You alright?”
There was a long pause. You could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against yours, the subtle shift of his breath against your collarbone.
And then, without lifting his head from where it was tucked into the warm crook of your neck, he spoke — low, almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it.
“I’m more than alright,” he said. “I’m… perfect.”
The word sounded foreign on his tongue, like it had been years — decades — since he’d felt it.
You smiled, not the teasing kind you’d given him earlier, but something softer. Your hand cupped the back of his head, holding him there like you were keeping the world away from him for just a little longer.
“That’s good,” you whispered. “That’s just how I want you.”
He let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a hum, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you closer. You could feel how reluctant he was to let the moment pass, how badly he needed this — to be held, to be wanted without condition.
You didn’t press for words. You didn’t need them. Every small shift of his body against yours, every quiet breath into your skin, told you what you needed to know.
And somewhere in the quiet hum of the moment, you felt it — the shift.
The wall he kept between himself and the world? You’d just stepped inside it.
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Three Months Later
The quinjet hummed around them, the steady vibration of the engines filling the space. Sam sat across from Bucky, leaning back with that look on his face — the one that meant he was bored enough to start prying into someone else’s business.
“So,” Sam started casually, “you gonna tell me about her, or do I have to drag it outta you?”
Bucky didn’t even look up from checking the mag on his sidearm. “About who?”
Sam gave him a flat look. “Don’t play dumb with me, man. The mystery girl you’ve been seein’. The one that’s got you walking around like you’re… I dunno, not completely miserable.”
Bucky clicked the mag back in place and set the gun down. “You’re imagining things.”
Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Oh, am I? Because last time I called you, you sounded—” He put on an exaggerated, low imitation of Bucky’s voice — “‘busy.’”
Bucky’s lips twitched, but he stayed silent.
“C’mon,” Sam pressed. “What’s she like? What’s her name?”
Bucky stared at the floor for a long moment, jaw tight. “None of your business, Sam.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Translation: you really like her and you’re afraid I’ll scare her off.”
Bucky shot him a look. “No.” A pause. “…Maybe.”
That got Sam grinning. “Uh-huh. So what’s she like?”
Bucky hesitated. He could’ve brushed it off. He could’ve just said “normal” and left it at that. But Sam was his friend. His only friend, really. “She’s… different,” he admitted reluctantly. “Smart. Funny. Knows how to make me shut up without even trying.”
Sam chuckled. “Sounds like a saint.”
Bucky looked away, fingers flexing against his knee. “…I really like her.” The words felt heavier than he expected. “Like… more than I should.”
Sam tilted his head. “Yeah? That’s good, right?”
Bucky didn’t answer.
Sam leaned forward a little. “You know her well?”
Bucky’s brow furrowed. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean—where’s she from? Family? Friends? What’s she do, besides makin’ you act all—” Sam gestured vaguely at him—“less grumpy?”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Why are you asking me this?”
Sam held up a hand. “I’m just sayin’, Buck… after everything you’ve been through, maybe make sure you know who you’re lettin’ in.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “I do know.”
“Do you?” Sam’s tone wasn’t accusing, but it was steady. “Look, I’m not tryin’ to mess with you. I want you happy, man. I just don’t wanna see you blindsided.”
Bucky sat back, arms crossed, irritation creeping in. “…You done?”
Sam gave a small shrug. “Yeah. I’m done.”
But Bucky could still feel the words sticking in the back of his mind, even as the quinjet kept on toward their mission.
────────────────────────
Five months.
If someone had told Bucky Barnes back in Wakanda that he’d be here now — in a steady relationship, with someone who actually wanted him around — he’d have laughed in their face.
And yet… here you were.
Perfect. Too perfect.
You were all the things he didn’t think he could ever have — kind without being condescending, patient without pitying him, sweet in ways that didn’t feel fake. You listened when he talked. You didn’t push when he didn’t. You gave him space when he needed it, and held him close when he didn’t know he needed that, too.
And God, you were genuine. Or at least, you seemed to be.
That was the problem.
Bucky had lived long enough to know that perfect didn’t really exist. Not for him. And that little voice in the back of his head — the one that kept him alive through decades of torture and conditioning — kept whispering that nothing this good could be real.
At first, it was just little thoughts. Harmless. Easy to shove aside. But lately it was growing. Festering. Like a splinter buried too deep to pull out.
He’d watch you laughing at something stupid on TV, hair falling in your face as you leaned against him, and his chest would tighten — not from love, though he did love the moment — but from the sharp, nagging fear that there was something he wasn’t seeing.
He told himself it was paranoia. That Sam’s questions months ago had just gotten under his skin. That you’d given him no reason not to trust you.
Still…
He now noticed when you’d change the subject after certain questions. He noticed when you’d smile just a bit too easily in moments that should’ve felt vulnerable.
He noticed because he couldn’t not notice. It was wired into him to see the things other people didn’t.
And the worst part?
The more that doubt grew, the more he hated himself for having it. Because if he lost you over nothing — over his issues — Bucky knew he’d never forgive himself.
────────────────────────
It was supposed to be an easy night.
Movie, takeout, you curled up against him — the kind of thing he’d learned to look forward to.
But his head wouldn’t shut up.
You were leaning into his side, hand absently tracing the seam of his Henley, your attention on the movie — and Bucky could feel himself pulling away. Not physically, but somewhere deeper.
He hated it. Hated that he couldn’t just enjoy the damn moment.
Still, the words came out before he could stop them. “So… what was it like growing up in Chicago?”
You glanced at him, a little surprised at the question, but answered. Simple, vague. He pressed again, asking about your family, your friends, places you used to hang out.
After the third or fourth question, your brows knit together. “Why are you asking me all this?”
Bucky tried to keep his voice even. “I just realized I don’t know that much about you.”
You tilted your head, confused. “You know plenty.”
He shook his head slightly, the frustration prickling under his skin. “No, I don’t. You know everything about me — hell, the world knows everything about me — but I…” he trailed off, jaw tightening. “I know next to nothing about you.”
Your eyes narrowed a little, your nose scrunching the way it did when something rubbed you the wrong way. “The whole world doesn’t know everything about you, James. But sure, they know more about you than most. That’s not my fault.”
You shifted, pulling away from his arm and standing up, crossing your arms loosely over your chest. “Why are you acting like this?”
And that was it. The dam broke.
“Because I don’t know if I can trust something that feels this… perfect,” he snapped before he could rein it in. “Every time I ask something real, you dodge it. Every time I try to get to know you — really know you — you smile and change the subject. And maybe that works for other people, but not for me. Not after everything I’ve been through.”
You just stared at him, your expression unreadable.
Bucky raked a hand through his hair, his voice low but hard now. “If we’re gonna be together, I need to know you’re not hiding something from me. I can’t— I won’t— go through another situation where I don’t see it coming until it’s too late.”
You didn’t answer him at first.
You just stared down at the blanket bunched on the couch, jaw tight, like you were holding something in.
Bucky’s chest was already tight, heart thudding harder than he wanted it to. He waited.
And then, finally, you spoke. Your voice was quiet. Flat at first. “It was true when I said I didn’t have family in Chicago.”
Bucky’s throat bobbed. He stayed still, watching you.
You took a breath, still not looking at him. “My mom died when I was six. Home invasion.”
He blinked, the words hitting him sharper than he expected.
You swallowed, your voice dipping even lower. “Thing is… I didn’t even know she was dead at the time.”
Bucky’s stomach knotted.
“I remember brushing her hair that morning. Talking to her. Asking why she was still sleeping in the afternoon.” You let out the smallest, bitter laugh. “I fell asleep on her chest that night. The next day too.”
A shaky breath escaped you as you reached up and wiped a stray tear with the back of your hand.
“It wasn’t until the police came… three days later… because the neighbors noticed the window was broken…” Your voice cracked, and you pressed your lips together for a second before finishing. “…Three days. I spent three days with her body, thinking she was just… asleep.”
Bucky’s hands curled into fists against his knees, the weight of your words sitting like lead in his gut. He felt sick. Guilty. Ashamed for even pushing.
Finally, you lifted your head — slowly. Your eyes were glassy, rimmed red. You met his gaze, and your voice was barely above a whisper.
“Do you feel better now?”
Bucky opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“Do you feel closer to me now?” you asked, your lips pursed, like you were holding yourself together by a thread.
And all he could do was stare at you, feeling that ache in his chest grow heavier, every ounce of irritation he’d felt earlier dissolving into raw shame.
You stared at him for a long, long second. His face, his expression, his guilt — all of it. And then you scoffed. Soft, sharp, bitter.
Your gaze dropped, breaking away from him like it hurt to look. “You know what…” You shook your head, your voice low but cutting. “I think I’m gonna go home.”
Bucky’s shoulders stiffened. “What?”
“I just—” You exhaled hard through your nose, the sound almost like a laugh but with no humor in it. “I don’t wanna be here right now.”
Something in his chest lurched. It was like you’d just reached in and yanked him out of whatever fog he’d been sitting in. His whole body went tense.
“Wait, no—” He shot up from the couch so fast the blanket slid off his lap and onto the floor. “Sweetheart, please… don’t—”
You were already stepping toward the door, grabbing your bag from where it hung on the chair.
“Just—listen, okay? I didn’t mean—” He was moving around the coffee table to get to you, words tumbling over themselves, his voice rushed, almost frantic. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve pushed, I— I’m an idiot, I don’t think sometimes—”
You didn’t slow down, didn’t look at him.
“Please,” he said again, softer now but still desperate, his metal hand twitching at his side like he didn’t know if he could touch you without making it worse. “Don’t walk out like this. Not like this.”
Your fingers wrapped around the doorknob—only for it not to turn. You froze, looking up. Bucky’s metal hand was braced flat against the door, holding it shut. His knuckles were tight around the edges of the plates, his arm locked like he was physically anchoring you there.
“Please,” he said, his voice low, strained. “Don’t go.”
You didn’t look at him. Your eyes stayed fixed forward, shoulders tight. “Let go of the door, James.”
He didn’t move. “I’m sorry,” he rushed out, voice breaking at the edges. “I didn’t mean it like that. Please don’t leave like this.”
Your head tilted slightly, your breath sharp through your nose. Then, slowly, you turned to face him.
“I can understand,” you said quietly, “where all your doubt and mistrust comes from. God knows you’ve had enough reasons to feel that way.”
His eyes flickered, guilt written in every line of his face.
“But what you said to me tonight—” You shook your head. “It wasn’t fair.”
“Baby, I—”
“No.” You cut him off, your voice soft but final. “Maybe we’ve been spending too much time together. Maybe… we should take a little time apart.”
His chest rose and fell hard, panic tightening every word. “No. No, I don’t want that. We can— we can fix this. I just—”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” you said, stepping back from him and the door. “When I feel better.”
The look in his eyes nearly stopped you—but you turned away before it could.
You opened the door and stepped into the hall, leaving him standing there, still holding the doorframe like he needed the support, the silence in his apartment pressing in around him until it was deafening.
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The next morning, sunlight bled through your blinds in soft, dusty lines, warming the sheets around you. You stayed in bed longer than usual, lazily tracing your fingers over the fabric, listening to the faint hum of traffic outside.
Your phone was on the nightstand, face down. You knew it would already be buzzing.
This was part of your next move. And, maybe, just a little bit of punishment for going off script.
Your past was your past — jagged, bloody edges smoothed down by time, but still yours. Messy, ugly, yes — but more than twenty years behind you. He had no right to dig it up like that. No right to look at you like you were some puzzle he needed to solve to make you safe.
And last night, when you’d told him, I’ll call you tomorrow, you already knew you wouldn’t.
Almost like clockwork, it started.
The first text came before nine.
Morning. I’m sorry about last night.
Then another, a few minutes later.
Can we talk? Please?
By noon, there were six more, all variations of I didn’t mean it, please call me, I just need to see you.
By mid-afternoon, the messages tripled. The tone shifted — still apologetic, but heavier now, more desperate.
And then the calls began.
The first time his name lit up your screen, you let it ring until it died out. The second time, you silenced it before the first ring finished. The third, you just let it buzz in your hand, your thumb hovering over accept, knowing you wouldn’t press it.
You read every message. You didn’t respond to a single one.
By early evening, you could almost see him — pacing his apartment, jaw tight, thumb running over the edge of his phone like it was a trigger. Telling himself to stop. Telling himself to give you space. Failing miserably.
That gnawing, hollow feeling would be sinking in now. The weight in his chest. The restlessness in his hands. The way he’d keep thinking of the sound of your voice, the feel of your touch, the way your smile hooked him without effort.
The withdrawal was starting to take hold. And the best part? You didn’t need to lift a finger. He’d come to you.
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You had given him four days. Four, maybe five, before the silence became unbearable and he caved. Before he came knocking at your door like a stray, looking for warmth, for you.
But he surprised you. He lasted a week. Seven whole days without seeing you. Without hearing your voice. Without touching you.
When the knock came, it was almost quiet enough to miss. Three soft raps against the wood, tentative, like even his hand was unsure whether it should be there. You paused in your kitchen, head tilting slightly toward the sound, the smallest flicker of a smile tugging at your lips before you schooled it away.
You weren’t expecting anyone. Which meant there was only one person who could be standing on the other side of that door.
You took your time crossing the room, letting your bare feet make soft thuds against the hardwood, your expression carefully shifting into something neutral. Concerned, maybe. Curious. Certainly not expectant.
The lock clicked, and you opened the door slowly. And there he was.
God, he looked miserable. Pale, like the color had been drained out of him. Dark, heavy bags carved into the skin beneath his eyes, shadowing them, making the blue seem even more raw. His hair was a little disheveled, his jaw unshaven, like he’d been too busy — or too restless — to care.
For a moment, he just stood there, his broad shoulders rising and falling as if the walk to your place had been exhausting. His eyes moved over you like he was memorizing you all over again, as though a week apart had been months.
When he finally spoke, his voice was soft — hoarse, like he’d been swallowing too many words before they could escape.
“Can I come in… please?”
The “please” was quiet, almost fragile, carrying the weight of the days you’d kept yourself from him. The kind of please that made you want to pull him inside and fix every inch of him.
But you didn’t move right away. You let the moment stretch — just long enough for him to shift uneasily on his feet, his hand tightening around the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder, his gaze darting from your eyes to the floor and back.
You pursed your lips, your hand still resting lightly on the edge of the door, like you were actually considering telling him no.
Your eyes held his for a long moment. He didn’t look away. He looked like a man ready to take whatever you decided to give him — even if that meant shutting the door in his face.
You let the pause drag just long enough for his shoulders to sink, for his jaw to tighten in that quiet, bracing way that told you he was preparing for rejection.
Then you shifted. Your head tilted slightly, and your lips softened into the faintest, unreadable smile. Without a word, you stepped back, swinging the door open wider.
He moved past you immediately, the tension in his frame palpable — like stepping over your threshold was the first deep breath he’d taken in a week. You caught the faint scent of his cologne as he brushed past, that worn, familiar mix of cedar and soap and something faintly metallic.
He stopped just inside your living room, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides. He didn’t sit. Didn’t touch anything. Just stood there, taking you in like he wasn’t sure where to start.
You closed the door quietly behind him, leaning against it for a second, letting him feel your eyes on his back.
“Are you okay?” you asked, your voice soft but even.
He turned halfway toward you, his mouth opening like he wanted to say no, but what came out instead was, “I… couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
Your brows rose slightly, but you didn’t move closer. You stayed where you were, making him bridge the space.
And of course, he did. Slowly, he crossed the room toward you — every step careful, like he was afraid to spook you. His gaze searched your face, looking for some sign, some opening.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally, his voice low and thick. “For what I said. For… all of it. I just—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I messed up. I know I did.”
You let your silence hang in the air between you, your expression unreadable, forcing him to keep going.
“I just… I don’t wanna lose you,” he admitted, and that raw edge in his voice almost made you smile. Almost.
You didn’t answer right away.
You just stood there, your arms loosely crossed, studying him like you were trying to decide if the man in front of you was worth the trouble. Your silence stretched long enough that he shifted his weight, his shoulders tensing like he was bracing for you to tell him to leave.
“You really hurt me, James,” you said at last, your voice quiet but heavy. No anger. Just disappointment. You watched the way his jaw tightened at the sound of his name, the way his eyes dropped for half a second before finding yours again.
“I know,” he said immediately, almost desperately. “And I hate myself for it. I was—” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “—stupid. I was scared, and I… I let it get in my head.”
You tilted your head, letting your gaze run over him — the pale face, the dark circles under his eyes, the slight slump in his frame. “And what happens next time you get scared?” you asked softly. “Do I get accused again?”
He flinched. It was subtle, but you caught it.
“I’m not gonna make that mistake again,” he said, his voice firm in that way that meant he was trying to convince himself as much as you. “I swear, sweetheart, I’ll do better. I just… I need you to give me that chance.”
You let your lips press together in a thin line, then slowly exhaled, glancing toward the floor like you were weighing his words. “I don’t know, James,” you murmured. “I don’t know if I can trust that yet.”
The panic that flickered in his eyes was quick, but it was there. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Please. Just—don’t shut me out. I can’t…” He stopped himself, swallowing whatever words were about to come out, but the meaning was clear.
You let the silence hang between you again, long enough for him to start fidgeting with his gloves. Then, finally, you gave a small sigh, softening your expression just enough.
“Alright,” you said quietly, as though you’d just made a reluctant decision. “One more chance.”
His relief was almost palpable — his shoulders loosening, his exhale shaky.
You gave him a faint, almost weary smile, then stepped aside toward the couch, letting him follow you deeper into your space. He trailed after you like a man starved, grateful just to be let close again — exactly where you wanted him.
Then, with a slow exhale, you stepped toward him. He straightened a little as you closed the space between you, his hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare.
“James,” you said quietly, your eyes locked on his, “you hurt me.”
“I know,” he murmured. “I know, and I’m sorry.”
You studied him for a beat longer… then finally lifted your hand to his jaw, your thumb brushing over the rough edge of his stubble. He leaned into your touch like it was the first bit of warmth he’d felt in days.
And then you kissed him.
Not forgiving, not yet — but slow and deep enough to make his knees go weak. You felt the way his breath caught against your lips, how his hands finally came up to your waist, pulling you in like he was afraid you’d vanish again.
He melted into you, completely. His shoulders dropped, his tension bleeding out as his mouth moved against yours with quiet desperation. It wasn’t just a kiss to him — it was an anchor, proof you were still here.
You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against his lips, “Please don't make me regret this.”
“I won’t,” he breathed, already leaning back in for more.
This time, the kiss turned hungrier. You tugged at his shirt, pulling it over his head, your fingers splaying over the warm muscle of his chest. His breath hitched when you pressed your body against his, and when you guided him backward toward your bedroom, he didn’t resist for a second.
By the time you pushed him down onto your bed and straddled his lap, his hands were everywhere — his flesh hand gripping your thigh, his metal one sliding up your spine like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to hold you closer or never let you go again.
“God, I missed you,” he murmured against your mouth, the words almost a groan.
You smiled faintly, brushing your lips along his jaw. “Show me,” you whispered.
And he did — with a kiss that turned into something far rougher, far more desperate. The kind of sex that blurred the lines between apology and need, that left him gasping your name like a prayer.
By the time it was over, he was sprawled against you, damp with sweat, his face buried in your neck, muttering quiet promises you knew he’d keep — because now, after this, he’d be even more afraid to lose you.
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Six Months Later
May 2025
You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the rich red fabric over your hips, letting your gaze linger on your reflection. The dress clung perfectly — a slow curve from shoulder to waist, from waist to the flare just above your ankles. Your lipstick matched it exactly, and you’d taken extra care with your makeup, the soft glow on your skin catching the warm light of the room.
You tilted your head slightly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, checking the angle again. Every detail was deliberate. Every choice calculated.
You didn’t hear him at first — not until the familiar weight of his hands slid around your waist from behind, his chest fitting flush to your back like it had always belonged there.
“Mm,” Bucky’s voice was low, already warm with something heavier than words. His head dipped, the scrape of faint stubble brushing against your neck as his lips found the spot just below your ear. He kissed once, slow, then again — lingering, like he needed the taste of you before anything else tonight.
You felt his breath as he murmured, “We could skip dinner.” Another kiss. “Stay in instead.”
The faint scent of his cologne mixed with the heat of him pressed against you, his nose grazing along your jaw as if he was memorizing it. His hands splayed wider over your stomach, pulling you closer, and you caught his reflection in the mirror — eyes half-lidded, locked entirely on you.
“It’s our anniversary,” you reminded softly, though your voice didn’t carry much protest.
“Exactly,” he murmured, lips brushing against your skin again. “I want you to myself tonight.”
You turned slowly in his arms, the soft fabric of your dress brushing against his shirt as you faced him. His hands didn’t leave your waist, thumbs stroking absent circles over the curve of your hips.
You smiled, slow and knowing, letting your hands slide up from his shoulders, fingers curling into the hair at the back of his head. You felt the way his breath deepened under your touch, his body leaning into you like it was instinct.
“Dinner first,” you murmured, your tone soft but edged with promise. Your nails scraped lightly against his scalp, just enough to make him shiver. “And then…” You tilted your head, brushing your lips against the corner of his mouth without giving him the kiss he was angling for, “…you can have me for as long as you want.”
His eyes darkened immediately, the muscles in his jaw flexing as if he was weighing whether to argue. His hands slid lower on your waist, pulling you that fraction of an inch closer until your bodies were flush, the heat of him pressing through your dress.
“You’re killing me,” he muttered, his voice a low rasp. His mouth found your neck again, one slow, hot kiss just under your ear.
“That’s the idea,” you teased, still stroking the back of his head, guiding him without force, letting him think he was the one choosing to stop.
For a moment, he just breathed you in, his lips lingering against your skin like he was storing it away for later. Then, with a quiet groan, he finally leaned back enough to look at you — frustration and hunger warring in his eyes.
“You’d better eat fast,” he warned, but his grip didn’t loosen, his thumbs still brushing over your hips like he needed the contact to keep steady.
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The restaurant glowed in warm, golden light, the kind that softened everything it touched — the gleam of the silverware, the deep reds of the wine in your glass, the way James’ eyes caught the low light like they were lit from within.
A year.
It felt strange, thinking back to that first coffee after the grocery store — how awkward he’d been, how carefully you’d drawn him out. Every step, every move since then, deliberate on your part. And yet, sitting across from him now, you knew it wasn’t all calculation.
You’d worked for this. Planned for it. But somewhere along the way, it had stopped being just strategy.
Because you did love him.
You just needed him to love you more.
Your lips curved softly as you looked at him, letting your gaze linger in a way that you knew would make his pulse skip. He was watching you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing, his elbows resting loosely on the table, wine glass untouched in front of him.
It was still startling sometimes — the intensity in his eyes when he looked at you. Like he was memorizing you, every time. Like he was afraid if he blinked, you’d be gone.
“You’re quiet,” you said, your voice light, teasing just enough.
“Just… taking you in,” he replied, and there was no hesitation, no attempt to disguise it.
You tilted your head, letting a slow smile bloom across your face. “After a year, you’d think you’d have me memorized by now.”
“I do,” he said without missing a beat. “But I still like looking.”
The corner of your mouth lifted, a warmth settling in your chest that you didn’t have to fake. You reached across the table, your fingers brushing over his hand, the contact grounding him. You could feel the subtle shift in his posture, the way his shoulders eased as soon as you touched him.
The waiter came and went, dropping off plates you barely noticed. The whole time, his attention never strayed from you. It was the kind of focus you’d nurtured, protected — and now, it was yours entirely.
And as you sipped your wine, your thumb idly stroking over the back of his hand, you thought about how far you’d brought him from that guarded, skeptical man you’d met.
He’d come to love you exactly as much as you’d wanted. Now you just had to make sure he never stopped.
And now… now you just needed to secure it.
Preferably with the ring you’d seen carefully hidden in his drawer — the one where he kept his dog tags and those other small, weathered pieces of his life he couldn’t let go of. You’d found it weeks ago, tucked inside a worn leather pouch. Platinum band, simple but heavy. Not new. Not flashy. The kind of thing James would choose for forever.
You hadn’t let on that you knew. You’d just been waiting for the moment.
So when he ordered the soufflé for you—“her favorite,” he told the waiter—you sat up straighter, gaze fixed on the dessert menu as though you weren’t paying attention, feigning complete ignorance.
By the time the warm, delicate dish was set in front of you, you’d already pictured it. The glint of the band as your fork broke the surface. His hand reaching across the table, his voice low and a little nervous. The quiet satisfaction of knowing you’d planned every step to this moment.
You took your first bite, light and airy, the sweet steam curling up toward your face. Your heart was steady—your smile soft, practiced—as your fork dipped again, searching.
And then… nothing. Just chocolate. Just a normal soufflé.
You blinked once, twice, forcing your expression to stay exactly the same. You made yourself hum softly in appreciation, licking a smear of chocolate from your spoon as though you hadn’t expected anything else.
James was smiling at you, leaning back in his chair with that relaxed warmth you’d learned to draw out of him. Completely unaware of the tiny shift in your chest, the cool note under the sugar on your tongue.
“Good?” he asked.
You smiled, perfect and easy. “Perfect.”
And you let the conversation move on, your face never betraying the faint, careful recalibration already happening in the back of your mind.
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You weren’t even a full step into the apartment before he was on you — hands gripping, mouth crashing into yours like he’d been holding himself back all through dinner and was done pretending now.
His lips were hot, desperate, devouring yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. You felt your back hit the wall, the cool plaster stark against the heat of his body pressed flush to yours. His metal hand braced beside your head, caging you in, while his flesh hand roamed — down your waist, over your hip, gripping hard like he needed to feel every curve at once.
You gasped into his mouth when his thigh pushed between yours, the friction already enough to send sparks straight through your core. He swallowed the sound greedily, his tongue sliding against yours, his kiss rough and claiming.
“God, this dress…” he growled against your lips, his fingers dragging the hem up your thigh without hesitation. “Been thinkin’ about gettin’ you out of it all night.”
You arched into him, grinding against the thigh wedged between yours, your hands threading into his hair and tugging hard enough to make him groan. He bit your bottom lip in return, one hand cupping your ass and pulling you harder into him until you could feel exactly how hard he was through his pants.
“Bucky—” you breathed, but it came out more like a moan when his mouth trailed hot, wet kisses down your jaw to your neck. His teeth scraped over your pulse before his tongue soothed the sting, his breath coming rough and fast against your skin.
Your dress was bunched high now, his fingers already finding the edge of your panties, dragging along the lace just to feel you shiver.
“Tell me you want me,” he rasped against your throat, his voice low and filthy, more command than request. “Say it.”
“I want you,” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. “I want you now.”
That was all it took. His mouth crashed back to yours, kissing you hard as his hand slipped under the lace, fingers teasing you until your knees nearly buckled.
When you broke the kiss suddenly, your palms pressing against his chest to push him back just enough to catch his confused, darkened stare.
“Wait here,” you breathed, lips still swollen from his mouth. “I have a surprise for you.”
His brows knit, suspicion and curiosity mixing in his expression. “What kind of surprise?”
You just smirked, stepping out of his reach and smoothing your dress back down over your hips as you started toward the bedroom.
“Hey—” he started, pushing off the wall to follow you, but you turned, holding up a hand.
“Nope,” you said firmly, your tone light but edged with finality. “You can’t come in.”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed, a half-smile tugging at his lips despite the heat still written all over his face. “Why not?”
“Because,” you said simply, already stepping inside, “it’ll ruin the surprise.”
And before he could take another step, you closed the door and turned the lock with a decisive click.
On the other side, you heard him let out a low, frustrated groan, the sound deep in his chest. “You’re killin’ me, baby,” he muttered through the wood.
You just smiled to yourself, leaning back against the door for a second before moving toward the closet, already planning exactly how you’d make him wait — and exactly how you’d reward him for it.
So you took your time with the zipper, letting the red dress pool at your feet before stepping out of it and draping it neatly over the chair. The silk lingerie you’d chosen for tonight was new — deep black, sheer in just the right places, the lace framing your curves in a way you knew would undo him the second he saw you.
You ran your palms slowly over your hips, adjusting the straps, smoothing the garter into place. The mirror caught the way the fabric clung to your skin, the way your hair fell loose over your shoulders. You looked like a secret — one meant to be unwrapped slowly, savored, and remembered.
And all the while, you let him wait outside the door, pacing, restless, already half-gone with anticipation.
If Bucky was too scared to take the next step — to slide that ring from his drawer onto your finger — then you’d take the step for both of you.
Marriage was fine. Marriage was symbolic. But it wasn’t permanent. What would keep you and James together forever was obvious.
A baby.
Your reflection smiled back at you, slow and knowing. You’d stopped taking your birth control a week ago, carefully tracking your cycle. Tonight fell just before ovulation — the point when your body was primed, when the odds were stacked in your favor.
You adjusted the bra’s clasp and smoothed your hands down your stomach, picturing his expression when you stepped out there. The way he’d grip you, lose himself in you, be far too lost to think about anything but the moment.
And afterward… well. By then, the future would already be in motion.
You reached for the door, letting the anticipation hang for just another heartbeat before unlocking it. The lock clicked, and you turned the handle slowly, letting the door creak open just enough for the light from the bedroom to spill into the hall.
Bucky was right there. He’d been pacing — you could tell by the restless way his weight shifted from one foot to the other, the faint flex of his jaw.
And then his eyes landed on you.
The change was instant.
Every ounce of tension in him coiled tighter, his pupils blowing wide, his gaze dragging over every inch of you with sharp, hungry precision. You saw the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the muscle in his jaw ticking like he was holding himself back by the thinnest thread.
“Jesus Christ…” he muttered, almost under his breath — not reverent, not even surprised, but like the sight of you had just punched the air out of his lungs.
You leaned lightly against the doorframe, letting the strap of your bra slide just enough against your shoulder to make his eyes follow the movement. “You like?” you asked, voice slow, sultry.
His answer wasn’t words.
In two steps, he was on you, his hands already at your waist, pulling you into him hard enough that your back hit the doorframe. His mouth crashed onto yours, hot and rough, teeth catching your lower lip before his tongue swept in, claiming you with an almost desperate urgency.
You felt the hard line of him through his pants, pressed firmly against your stomach, and the way his hands roamed like he couldn’t decide what part of you to touch first. His metal hand gripped your ass with possessive force, while his flesh one dragged up your side, fingers brushing the edge of your bra, curling like he was about to tear it off.
He broke the kiss just enough to breathe against your mouth, his voice ragged, almost animal. “You’re fuckin’ killin’ me.”
Then his lips were back on you, trailing down your jaw to your throat, biting just enough to make you gasp before sucking hard enough to mark you. You could feel his restraint fraying — every touch growing rougher, more urgent, the kind of need that burned through thought entirely.
The door to the bedroom was still open behind you, and he was already walking you backward through it without breaking from your mouth.
You barely had time to register the way his arms shifted before he bent, gripping you under your thighs.
“Bucky—!” you gasped, the sudden lift catching you off guard, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
He carried you like you weighed nothing, his mouth never slowing — moving from your neck to your collarbone, kissing, biting, sucking with the kind of hunger that had your back arching into him.
You laughed breathlessly, the sound breaking into a moan when his head dipped lower, his mouth closing over your nipple through the thin lace. His teeth caught the peak, his tongue flicking against it, the heat of his mouth soaking through the fabric until it was damp.
“Fuck—James—” you panted, gripping at his hair, your nails scraping against his scalp.
He growled low against you, the sound vibrating into your skin, and then you were being dropped onto the bed — not carelessly, but with the controlled force of someone who needed you exactly where he wanted you.
You bounced once against the mattress, the lingerie strap sliding further down your shoulder, before he was over you, caging you in with his arms. His hair had fallen loose from where you’d been gripping it, his breath rough and fast, eyes fixed on you like prey he was about to devour.
He didn’t wait for permission.
His hands were already roaming, pulling at straps, pushing lace aside, his mouth finding every inch of newly exposed skin like he’d been starved for it. The kiss he dragged back to your mouth was hot, messy, almost uncoordinated in its urgency, and you felt his hips pressing hard into yours, grinding as though the friction alone might undo him.
“Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ night,” he rasped against your lips, his voice almost shaking from how badly he wanted it.
His mouth left yours suddenly, his breathing heavy, eyes blown wide and fixed low like he’d just made a decision he couldn’t come back from.
“Lay back,” he growled, already moving down your body.
You barely had time to register it before his hands hooked behind your knees, spreading them wide. The cool drag of his metal fingers along your inner thighs made you shiver, while his flesh hand gripped firmly, holding you exactly where he wanted you.
Then he was kneeling between your legs, lowering himself until his broad shoulders pressed against your thighs. He dragged you closer in one rough pull, your ass right to the edge of the bed, before hiking your legs up and over his shoulders.
The lace of your panties didn’t last long — he pushed them aside with a flick of his thumb, the air hitting you for a second before his mouth was on you.
You gasped sharply, your fingers fisting in the sheets as his tongue slid through your folds, slow at first, then firmer, more deliberate. He groaned low when he tasted you, the vibration making your hips twitch.
“Fuck, baby…” he muttered against you, already diving back in like a man starved, his tongue circling your clit before sucking it into his mouth with filthy precision.
Your back arched, a breathless moan spilling out as your hands flew to his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan again — and the sound went straight through you. His grip on your thighs tightened, keeping you open, keeping you his.
Every movement was hungry, urgent, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. He alternated between deep, slow licks and fast, sharp flicks of his tongue, never giving you a chance to settle, keeping you right at that dangerous edge.
“James—” you gasped, your thighs trembling against his shoulders.
He pulled back just enough to look up at you from between your legs, his mouth glistening, eyes dark and wild. “Not stoppin’ ‘til you fall apart for me.”
And then his mouth was back on you, more relentless than before, his need to taste you completely taking over.
He didn’t let up — not even a little.
Every stroke of his tongue was purposeful, calculated in that chaotic, desperate way only Bucky could manage — half control, half raw instinct. His flesh hand gripped your thigh hard, fingers digging in, while his metal hand pressed flat against your hip, holding you down when you tried to buck up into him.
The room was filled with the wet, obscene sounds of him eating you out, the low hum of his groans vibrating against your most sensitive spot. You could feel every flick, every pull of his mouth, like it was designed to unravel you completely.
“Fuck, James—” Your voice was breaking now, your grip in his hair tightening until your knuckles ached.
He only groaned in response, the sound deep and rough, like the taste of you was driving him half mad. His tongue changed pace — slow circles, then sudden, precise flicks — keeping you from finding any kind of rhythm, keeping you teetering.
Your breathing quickened, legs twitching against his shoulders, your thighs trying to close on instinct, but his hands were unyielding. He knew exactly where you were, exactly how close.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured against you, his lips brushing your soaked skin before sucking your clit back into his mouth. “Come for me.”
That command — the sheer gravel of his voice — tipped you over.
It hit you hard, your body arching off the bed, a sharp cry leaving your lips as the orgasm rolled through you. Your thighs clenched around his head, your fingers pulling hard at his hair as you rode the waves, every nerve ending singing with him between your legs.
But Bucky didn’t stop. He kept working you through it, licking and sucking until you were trembling, breathless, your hips twitching at the overstimulation. Only when you whimpered his name in that needy, almost pleading tone did he finally lift his head.
His mouth was glistening, his lips red and swollen, his eyes so dark they were nearly black.
“Not done with you yet,” he rasped, crawling up your body without breaking eye contact.
You barely had time to breathe before his mouth was on yours — hot, messy, and deep — and you tasted yourself on his tongue. His hands were already pushing your knees wider, lining himself up without ceremony, his cock heavy and hard against your entrance.
“Gonna fuck you with your taste still on my mouth,” he growled into the kiss, and then he was sliding into you, deep and slow at first, groaning low as your walls clenched around him.
The stretch had you gasping, still sensitive from his mouth, your nails raking down his back as he pressed all the way in, his hips flush to yours.
“Fuck… you feel perfect,” he panted, his forehead dropping to yours for a moment — before pulling back and thrusting into you again, harder this time, setting a pace that told you he was about to fuck you until neither of you could breathe.
The first few thrusts were deep and heavy, knocking the air from your lungs, the kind that made your body jolt and your nails sink deeper into his skin. Bucky’s breath was already ragged, his mouth hovering over yours, stealing your gasps with every push.
Then something in him snapped.
His pace shifted — no more measured control, just raw, driving force. He fucked into you like his body was working on instinct alone, hips slamming into yours hard enough to make the bed creak beneath you. The sounds between you were filthy — wet, sharp, every thrust punctuated by the slap of skin and the low, guttural groans tearing from his chest.
“James—” you moaned, your voice cracking as his cock hit that perfect spot over and over, each thrust deeper than the last.
“Can’t… fuckin’ stop,” he ground out, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you’d be marked in the morning. His metal hand slid up to hold your thigh high, opening you up even wider so he could drive into you with everything he had.
Your back arched, breasts brushing against his chest, and he ducked his head to mouth at your throat — biting, sucking, marking you like he needed the world to see who you belonged to. Every movement screamed possession, his body claiming yours in the most primal way.
The way he was fucking you — it was the definition of breeding, even if he didn’t know it. Every thrust was deep, purposeful, like he was trying to get as far inside you as possible, to make sure you’d feel him long after he was gone.
And you let him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him in, pulling him closer until there wasn’t a single inch of space left between you. “Don’t stop,” you gasped in his ear, your voice low and urgent. “I want it all, James. Every drop.”
That broke what little restraint he had left.
He growled — an actual, raw sound from deep in his chest — and slammed into you faster, harder, the bed frame thudding against the wall in rhythm with his thrusts. His head was buried in your neck, his breath hot and frantic, his hips driving like he was chasing something buried deep inside you.
You could feel him getting closer — the tension in his thighs, the way his thrusts grew rougher, more erratic. His teeth scraped your skin as he gasped, “Fuck—gonna—”
“Yes,” you cut in, your nails dragging down his back. “Inside me. I want it inside me.”
That was it.
With a guttural curse, his hips slammed into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you. The heat flooded you in thick pulses, and he stayed there, grinding into you through it, his breath breaking, every muscle locked as if his body refused to pull away.
You tightened your legs around him, keeping him there, your hand stroking through his hair while you whispered soft, breathless praise into his ear — feeding the moment, cementing it.
By the time his weight finally slumped over you, his cock still buried deep, you could feel his heartbeat pounding against your chest.
And you knew. If this worked—if tonight went exactly as you’d planned—he'd be yours forever.
────────────────────────
One Month Later
It had been exactly a month since that night.
The night you’d set everything into motion.
Now you sat on the closed lid of the toilet, elbows on your knees, staring down at the small plastic stick in your hands.
Two pink lines.
Clear as day.
The satisfaction that curled low in your stomach was warm, steady — not giddy, not frantic. This was what you’d planned for. What you’d worked toward. You let yourself sit in it for a moment longer, letting that small, satisfied smile pull at your lips.
Now came the real work — finding the perfect way to tell him.
And James? He was right where you’d left him. Sitting on the couch, watching some old movie, waiting for you without any idea how much his life was about to change.
You rose slowly, placing the test gently on the edge of the sink for a moment as you composed yourself. The smile softened, the corners of your mouth pulling down just slightly. You practiced the look in the mirror — worried, almost sad, like you weren’t sure what to think.
Perfect.
When you finally opened the bathroom door, you moved slowly, your bare feet making soft sounds on the floor. Bucky glanced over from the couch immediately — and the moment his eyes caught your face, you saw it. His posture changed, that quiet alertness switching on like a flicker of electricity.
“What’s wrong, baby?” His voice was low, careful, already tinged with concern.
You stopped just a few feet from the couch, chewing your lip like you didn’t quite know how to start. Then, without a word, you held the test out toward him.
He frowned slightly, reaching for it — and then froze when he saw.
For a long moment, he didn’t speak.
His eyes stayed on the little stick in his hand, his brows furrowing like the two pink lines were in a language he couldn’t quite read.
Then it hit him.
His gaze flicked up to you — wide, uncertain — then back to the test again. His fingers tightened slightly around it, his jaw working like he was trying to form words and finding none.
“I… I thought…” he finally managed, his voice rough, unsteady. “I thought we were keeping it safe.”
You blinked at him, letting your eyes go wide, your bottom lip trembling just enough. “We were,” you said quietly, almost like you were trying to convince yourself. “I mean… I thought we were.”
His hand went through his hair, dragging hard, the motion jerky and restless. “I—” He stopped, his breath catching. “I just… I don’t understand. This wasn’t—”
He cut himself off again, and you let the silence stretch, watching him wrestle with the storm behind his eyes. His chest rose and fell faster, his grip on the test loosening until it rested in his palm like it was fragile.
You stepped closer, your arms wrapping lightly around yourself, shoulders curling inward as though you were smaller somehow. “James…” Your voice was so soft it was almost a whisper. “What are we gonna do?”
His head lifted at that, his eyes searching your face — and finding what you wanted him to see. The uncertainty. The fear. The quiet plea for him to take control, to protect you.
“I—” He swallowed hard, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t know yet. I just… I need to think. But we’ll figure it out. We’ll… we’ll figure it out.”
He reached for you then, pulling you down onto the couch beside him, his arm curling protectively around you even as his mind clearly spun. You let yourself lean into him, your cheek against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.
Inside, you were calm. Because he’d just said we’ll figure it out. That was all you needed to hear.
────────────────────────
Two Months Later
The morning light spilled across your bedroom, soft and golden, catching on the band of platinum wrapped snug around your left hand.
You turned it slowly, admiring the way it glittered in the mirror.
Simple. Heavy. Perfect.
Your eyes shifted lower, to the faint swell beneath your tank — the tiniest curve of your belly, only just beginning to show. Three months.
You ran your palm over it absently, your reflection looking back at you with a knowing smile.
It had been a month since James proposed.
You could still see the scene perfectly when you closed your eyes.
He’d cooked for you that night — your favorite meal. You remembered the smell of garlic and herbs filling the air, the low hum of old music coming from the speaker, the way he kept glancing over at you when he thought you weren’t looking.
At the time, you’d thought he was just a little more fidgety than usual. Later, you’d realize he’d been working up the nerve.
After dinner, he’d reached into his pocket—slow, careful—and set a small box on the table between you.
“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” he’d said, voice just shy of steady, blue eyes fixed on yours.
You’d blinked, keeping your tone careful, hesitant. “James… are you sure this isn’t just because of…?” You’d glanced down toward your stomach without finishing the sentence.
His face had shifted instantly, that stubborn line setting into his jaw. “No,” he’d said firmly. “This isn’t about obligation. I love you. I don’t want to be with anyone else. And I’m in this for the long game, sweetheart. Always have been.”
You’d let the silence linger just long enough for him to reach across the table, his hand covering yours, his thumb brushing your ring finger like it already belonged there.
“Say yes,” he’d murmured. “Please.”
And, of course, you had.
Now, standing in front of the mirror, the ring catching the light and the small curve of your belly just beneath it, you couldn’t help the small, satisfied smile that spread across your face.
Everything was falling right into place.
────────────────────────
Eleven Months Later
July 2026
The door shut behind him with a dull click, the sound of the lock sliding into place almost drowned out by the faint hum of music drifting from the kitchen. Something warm and rich was in the air — garlic, maybe rosemary — and for the first time all day, Bucky felt his shoulders start to loosen.
He let out a slow breath, setting his briefcase down and dropping his keys onto the entryway table. They landed with a soft clink against the wood, right beside the silver picture frame that had been there since the move.
His gaze found it immediately, like it always did.
You, in your wedding dress, smiling down at the tiny bundle in your arms — your daughter, barely two months old, swaddled in ivory silk to match you. She was sleeping in the picture, her face soft and serene, her little fists tucked against her chest.
And there he was beside you, in the fancy tux he’d married you in, looking straight ahead at the camera. But even in the photo, it was obvious — his eyes weren’t on the lens.
They were on you.
Like they always were.
The tiredness in his bones eased just a little as he stood there, taking it in for a few seconds longer before he made himself move, the smell of dinner pulling him down the hall toward the kitchen.
From the doorway, he could see you — hair pulled back, one of his old t-shirts hanging loose over your frame, swaying your hips gently to the rhythm of whatever old song was playing as you stirred something on the stove.
You didn’t even hear him come in—not until his arms slid around your waist from behind, the heat of his body pressing into your back. You startled just slightly, then relaxed immediately into the familiar weight of him.
“Something smells good,” Bucky murmured against your neck, his voice low and rough from the day.
A smile tugged at your lips as you tilted your head, giving him room when his mouth brushed your skin in a slow, lingering kiss. You turned in his arms, hands resting on his chest as you leaned up to give him a proper kiss — warm, unhurried, the kind that felt like a homecoming all on its own.
“I’m making beef stew and roasted vegetables,” you said when you pulled back, watching the faint flicker of relief cross his features. “Your favorite. Should be ready in a few minutes.”
His shoulders seemed to ease instantly, the tension melting from him as his thumb traced the edge of your hip.
“So you can go get undressed,” you added with a little smile, “and greet a special someone.”
That got the faintest, tired laugh out of him. “Yeah?”
You nodded toward the living room, where the faint sound of a baby’s cooing could just be heard over the music. “She’s been waiting for you.”
His face softened instantly, his lips curving into the kind of smile that was only for her—and for you. Without another word, he kissed your forehead and slipped out of the kitchen, already tugging at his tie as he headed toward the sound.
Bucky rounded the corner into the living room, the exhaustion of his day already fading as his eyes landed on the little playmat spread out across the floor.
There she was.
Shelly — four months old, dressed in a soft pink onesie, kicking her legs and swatting at the dangling toys above her with all the chaotic energy of someone discovering the world one grab at a time.
“Hey… Seashell,” he said softly, and the moment she heard his voice, her head turned toward him like it was instinct. Her little face lit up, her mouth curling into that wide, gummy smile that made his chest ache in the best way.
“Oh, there’s my princess. My pretty girl,” he murmured as he crouched down beside her, his voice low and warm just for her.
Her legs kicked faster, arms flailing as if she could launch herself into him by sheer willpower.
“You waitin’ for me, huh?” he asked, leaning in to press a kiss to one chubby cheek, then the other, then back again, his scruff making her squeal and squirm in delight.
She answered him with a long string of babbles — high and excited, her tiny hands reaching for his face like she had something very important to tell him.
“Oh yeah? You talkin’ to me, Shell?” he grinned, catching one of her hands gently in his and pretending to listen with the gravity of a serious conversation. “Uh-huh. No kidding. That so?”
Her blue eyes — his blue eyes — locked on him, bright and full of life, while every other feature was you. And he loved that. Loved that she was the perfect blend of both of you, but in all the ways that mattered, she was entirely her own little person.
“You’ve been keepin’ your ma company while I’ve been gone?” he asked, pressing another kiss to her cheek just because he couldn’t help himself. “Good girl.”
She rewarded him with another loud squeal, her tiny fingers curling around his thumb like she never wanted to let go.
From the kitchen doorway, you watched them for a moment — Bucky still crouched on the playmat, talking to Shelly like she was giving him a detailed report, his big hands so gentle as he scooped her up and pressed her close.
By the time you set the table, she was tucked in her highchair, the soft click of the tray locking into place as Bucky adjusted it. She babbled happily, smacking her palms against the surface while he set a small bowl of mashed sweet potato in front of her.
“Alright, Seashell,” he murmured, scooping up a little on the tiny spoon. “Open wide.”
She did, but halfway through the bite, her blue eyes flicked toward you. When she saw you setting down the stew, her legs started kicking again, and she let out a happy squeal.
Bucky grinned, glancing over his shoulder at you. “See? She’s a mama’s girl,” he teased.
“Only because I feed her the good stuff,” you shot back, sliding into your seat.
Dinner was easy. Domestic. Bucky took a bite of his stew, then scooped up another spoonful for Shelly, making exaggerated faces until she giggled and leaned forward to take it. He kept his left hand on the table, fingers brushing yours every so often as if he couldn’t stop reaching for you.
You caught him stealing glances between bites — that same soft, almost disbelieving look like he still couldn’t believe this was his life. His wife. His daughter. The warmth of this apartment.
Shelly babbled between spoonfuls, her little voice filling the air with nonsense words that Bucky responded to like she was telling the best story he’d ever heard.
“Oh yeah? You don’t say,” he told her seriously before looking at you. “She’s tellin’ me all about her day.”
“Sounds like she’s got a lot to say,” you said, smiling.
“She gets it from you,” he teased, but the way his eyes lingered on you for a second longer told you exactly where his heart was.
It was easy. Simple. Exactly the picture you’d worked for — and now, it was your reality.
You watched him from across the table, the way his big hands looked almost comically careful as he held that tiny spoon, coaxing Shelly into another bite. He talked to her the whole time, his voice low and soft, filled with a patience that seemed endless when it came to her.
“Good girl,” he murmured when she swallowed, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek before scooping up the next spoonful. She giggled, kicking her little feet, babbling something that made him grin like she just told the best joke in the world.
And your heart… God, your heart felt so full you almost didn't know what to do with it.
Every step. Every careful choice. Every word, every moment, every move you made — it was all for this.
James Buchanan Barnes, sitting at your table in your home, feeding your daughter with that kind of quiet devotion that didn't need to be spoken to be felt. Completely, entirely yours.
And Shelly… your perfect little girl, with his eyes and your smile, the living proof of everything you worked for.
You didn't feel smug. You didn't feel victorious. Not right now. What you felt is love. Pure, unfiltered, bone-deep love for the man across from you and the baby between you.
And as you watched them together, Shelly reaching for him with those tiny hands while he laughed and kissed her again, you felt it — a burst of true happiness so strong it stole your breath for a second.
Your husband. Your daughter. Your family.
Exactly as you planned. Exactly where they belong.
Forever yours.
a/n — I had to cut a bunch of gaslighting scenes, as well as reader's backstory scene. and a fluff scene where bucky talks about the wedding and baby ☹️. and I still had a whole thunderbolts arc, and more manipulation where she includes Shelly in it, sigh.
a series of encounters that could have happened between Civil War and Infinity War
Steve doesn't regret going against the The Sokovia Accords. He never would have signed them, he had to be there for Bucky, and together they had to stop Zemo. He doesn't regret anything, but he's not happy that he and some of his closest friends are on the run from 117 116 of the governments of the world. It eats at him. That festering wound leaves a Nomad who's not the Steve he used to be.
And it's this exiled Nomad Steve Rogers you cross paths with.
Content Warnings: [check individual parts for their respective warnings] SOFT DARK STORY, explicit smut, rough sex, emotionally damaged Steve, lonely reader
SERIES:
↠ July 3, 2017: When He First Got Me (Steve POV)
↠ July 4, 2017: You Should've Seen Him
↠ September 28, 2017: Pull the String
↠ September 28, 2017, around midnight: Put Me Back on My Shelf
↠ January 2, 2018: Danger in the Heat of my Touch
↠ February 10, 2018: Just Say When
↠ March 10, 2018: It Fit Too Right
↠ March 21, 2018: Puzzle Pieces in the Dead of Night
↠ April 30, 2018: I Felt More When We Played Pretend
↠ May 21, 2018: For Keeps This Time
↠ June 1-3, 2018: Should've Known it was a Matter of Time
↠ June 8, 2018: He's Gonna Miss Me (Steve POV)
↠ November 30, 2023: Stole My Tortured Heart
↠ more coming soon
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