warnings: +18 MDNI explicit sexual content, unprotected p in v, bucky barnes can be a jerk sometimes. dom/sub dynamics, oral sex (f and m receiving), dirty talk, emotional sabotage, situationship, angst with a happy ending, strong language. english is not my first language so sorry in advance for any spelling/grammar mistake.⋆
word count: 19.7k
── ⋆⋅☆cronological order⋅⋆ ──
prequel one more encore!
summary: When a bachelorette weekend lands you front row at a sold-out show in Austin, you catch the attention of your favorite rockstar: Bucky Barnes—and one reckless night turns into something neither of you planned for.
room for three
summary: two weeks into tour, Bucky suggests to invite Steve to join you in bed—just like they've done with other girls before. It's supposed to prove that you're nothing special. The problem is, Bucky might be lying to himself.
headliner problems
summary: You and Bucky keep keep things casual, until one night, one question, and one wrong answer sends everything spiraling.
+more tbaᯓ★
scared i'll never sleep again
summary: On tour, Bucky Barnes has everything: sold-out shows, screaming fans, the adrenaline of being untouchable… and you, the one who made a cramped tour bus feel like home. He was clear from the start—no relationships. No labels. But somewhere between city lights and hotel nights, those lines begin to blur. You become more than convenient, more than temporary. And he becomes too much of a coward to admit what you are to him.
✦Read on a03! - Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist✦
✦pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader✦
✦summary: You fall in deep, deep love with Bucky Barnes. But you keep it far, far down. Everyone thinks he feels something back, but you don't believe them. Until something shifts. And Bucky might feel just as much as you.✦
✦warnings/tags: assistant!reader, friends to lovers, falling in love, anxiety, light angst, fluff, pining, shameless smut, love confessions, (hair pulling kink, praise kink, trying to keep quiet, oral f!receiving, p in v sex, softdom!bucky), no use of y/n✦ ✦author's note: rewatched thunderbolts last week. very normal about post-credit scene bucky hair. enjoy!.✦
You have a bad habit.
You don’t fall in love halfway. You don’t feel halfway. There’s no middle ground, between smiling at someone and wondering if they feel the flutter of your heartbeat, and staring at them until you’ve memorized them. Until you can close your eyes in bed, and fantasize like a movie is playing on the ceiling.
It’s a little obsessive. It’s the only way you’ve known how to be. And nothing is ever acted on. No lines are ever crossed. You don’t steal things, or stalk.
You just fall in quiet, one-sided love. Never speak of it, in case you’re wrong. Flirt, but poorly. Try to make them notice you, without stepping out of line. Most of these obsessive little crushes slowly wither down, the less time you spend with the person. Once you graduate, or change jobs, or one of you moves. Sometimes you try to hold onto it. Just so you have someone to think about.
But it fades. And you keep going, because it never really mattered in the first place. Not one of your little fantasies has ever come true. You never did—and never would have—done anything to act upon it. More than anything, your love was just for you.
And you’re good, at separating it from real life. The guy in college—with a lazy smile and body that probably might be too big for his brain—might have gotten help on his homework, and you might have chosen a class just because he was in it. But you also did well in the class. And you’d needed to take it anyways. Same at your first job, which you applied because he was.
You got it. He didn’t.
And you’re not so pathetic that when he told you, you stepped down. It was a good job. With connections.
Connections that you built, while dreaming about the new guy. His neat, tailored business suits and smug expression that did something to your gut. He’d teased you, and you’d teased back. You got lunch together, even though you hated the Mediterranean place he brought. you to. There was a better one on fifth street, but you never told him. In case it made him dislike you.
At the holiday party, he’d brought a shiny girlfriend, wearing diamonds and gold and looking at you like you were something she’d like to carve up. You’d smiled at her, even as your heart split in half.
You spoke to him every day.
He’d never mentioned a girlfriend.
He hadn’t stop teasing you after that, but you’d stopped indulging him. You didn’t leap up to get his reports any more. You turned down a few lunches, just for your own sanity. Because you knew he’d be able to suck you right back in, if you weren’t careful.
After that was the guy at your coffee shop. Your age. White-toothed smile and the most expensive watch you’ve ever seen. He attached sit with you, and listen, and laugh. You’d giggle, and paint a picture about how he was secretly in love with you, coming to this coffee shop every day. Just thinking about you after he left, right up until he saw you again.
Like that wasn’t exactly what you were doing.
Like he didn’t give you his number—you hadn’t even asked—then vanished without a trace.
You needed to get a better type. Fall for someone who didn’t treat you like you were something second-hand and easy, even if you were.
The dream was to be held up like a diamond, even if you knew you were barely more than a particularly shiny beach rock.
No more douchebags, is what you told your heart.
It had hummed. Settled for a while, until you started job searching again. Clicked on executive assistant, further detail upon interview. The listing had been odd, and secretive. But it had payed six fucking figures, so it could be a scam to steal your kidney and you’d take the gamble.
It hadn’t been a kidney scam.
It had been worse.
Valentina had hired you on the spot. Told you that you were the first candidate who didn’t seem like a complete buffoon.
“Thank you?” You’d said, smoothing out your skirt, and she’d smiled.
“You are welcome. I mean, everyone else?” She’d laughed. “They would have gotten eaten alive, by the buffoon brigade. You’re a lion. Lions? That’s what I need. They eat buffoons for breakfast.”
That didn’t seem true. But correcting Valentina hadn’t seemed like a good idea, so you’d smiled and laughed politely, then asked when she wanted you to start.
Quickly. You’d gotten thrown into the deep end. Valentina had hustled you through the system, almost dragged you through the tower, then shouted into the comms that every one of them needed to be in the control room, or she’d be cutting off the wifi for a week.
You’d shifted on your feet next to her, as they’d all shuffled in with varying degrees of scowling. Yelena had looked you up and down, then sighed dramatically.
“Another one? Valentina, we have told you, we do not need a babysitter-“
“She isn’t a babysitter. She’s an assistant. If none of you acted like children, it wouldn’t feel like babysitting.”
Yelena had rolled her eyes, and the man next to her—John Walker, in his little beret that you weren’t allowed to laugh at—had examined you, standing at a tall attention like he was trying to either intimidate you, or about to do a very strange mating dance.
“Has she served?” He’d asked. “You. New girl. What’s your military history? Your hands look soft, have they ever even held a gun-“
“She’s an assistant, Walker.” Another woman—pretty, long hair, nice accent, Ghost—had drawled. “If we do our job, she’ll never need to hold a gun.”
“You never know, she needs to be able to defend herself in this line of work-“
“I will teach doe-girl to fight!” The large, older man had shouted, and the rest of them had cringed at the noise. “She will be most formidable assistant in America! Crush all others under iron fist, from training of-“
“Don’t say Red Guardian.” Yelena had sighed. “We have talked about this, Alexei. Do not refer to yourself like that in front of civilians.”
Alexei had frowned, and looked to the quiet, blonde kid in the corner. He’d shrugged, and given Alexei and apologetic smile.
“It can be a little unnerving. Most people don’t, um- Do that.”
“But we are not most people, Bob. And I am Red Guardian. She should know.” Alexei had nodded to you. “She will receive best training in West-“
“Yeah.” Walker had jumped in. “Because I’ll train her.”
Alexei had frowned. “I called first, Walker.”
“Well,” Walker had shrugged. “I have more experience. And I won’t shout at her.”
Yelena had snorted, and Walker had shot her glare.
“What-“
“You will not shout at her.” Yelena had laughed. “That is funny. You yelled at the toaster, two days ago.”
“It was broken. As long as she isn’t broken, we’ll be fine-“
“You will not be fine,” Alexei had snapped. “Because I am training her!”
“No, you aren’t. Drop it-“
“I will not drop it. It was my idea. Mine. You do not steal it-“
“Everyone. Shut up.”
From the back of the room, with barely a raised voice, Bucky had cut Alexei off. Shot John a warning look, when he’d opened his mouth. And they’d all listened.
He’d been sitting on a chair, almost hidden behind the noise of the rest of them. Your eyes had found him for a moment, when he came in, but he’d just looked tired. Bored. Staring into space, as Valentina introduced you.
You’d seen him on the news before. His hair had been both shorter, and longer.
He was too handsome, either way. With strong features, tanned skin, and bright eyes that seemed to drive right into you. You’d be lying, if you said your gaze hadn’t lingered on the TV whenever he showed up.
In person, it was catastrophically worse. There was a gravity to him, that almost pulled your heart out of your chest. His voice was deep and smooth, those blinding eyes fixed on yours as he spoke. It almost made you lightheaded.
“Nobody’s training her.” He’d muttered, still looking at you. “Ava’s right. If we do our jobs, we won’t have to.”
That had been the end of the conversation. For all the in-fighting that seemed to happen, for the almost sibling-like rivalry they all seemed to be locked into, Bucky spoke and they listened. Valentina had moves on, to what they were and weren’t allowed to ask of you.
Bucky had kept looking at you. You know, because you’d been watching him in your periphery, forcing yourself not to lose track of why you were here. To work.
But his eyes had dragged over your body. Assessing for a threat, you’d guessed. Trying to see if you’re made of something strong enough to handle this.
So you’d relaxed and tipped your chin up.
Bucky had sighed softly, and gone back into staring at nothing. You’d risked one last glance, before you’d followed Valentina out of the room.
He hadn’t been looking at you. His head had been tipped back, eyes closed and mouth in a thin line. Even the column of his throat had looked strong, and hands had been clasped together between his knees, and fuck, his thighs were thick-
No.
You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t do that. Not here.
So you’d tried to fight it.
You really had.
The first few months were so rough, it hadn’t given you the chance to be distracted, to tumble down into Bucky’s gravity. The New Avengers quickly became less like celebrities and mythical figures, and more like petulant children, angry they were being given a new nanny. Yelena kept giving you harder and harder tasks, like she was trying to test exactly what would make you break. Alexei made you listen to fifty different—yet somehow identical—stories about Russia and the glory days, asking you questions after to test if you’d been paying attention. Walker had a habit of shouting orders at you, and trying to test your survival instincts. Ava made passing, frank comments about how you carried yourself, and kept trying to guess everything about your history. She’d nod to herself when she got something right. Like she was putting together a puzzle, and just found another piece.
Bob tried to play nice, offering apologetic comments about the rest of them, but also never really asked you for anything either.
Bucky ignored you. So that made it easier, to not feel anything. You barely saw him at all.
Then things started to shift. You didn’t break. You’ve been through far worse than this, and for what Valentina’s paying you—more money than you’ve seen in your life—one of them could try to fucking shoot you and you wouldn’t quit.
The change happens, when Yelena asks you to drive to fucking Chicago, to get a cake from a bakery she found online.
“No jet.” She’d said. “Bad for the environment. Drive.”
Walker had grinned. They were trying to, at least, get rid of you for a few days. Maybe finally make you snap, and quit.
But you don’t break. You find the bakery, realize it’s a chain, and head out without a complaint. Get the exact cake, from the place in Brooklyn, and drive back. It takes about an hour.
Yelena had frowned, when you came back.
“I said no jet-“
“I drove.” You’d shrugged, dropping the cake on the counter. “You can check the receipt. It’s exactly what you wanted.”
“No, I wanted it from Chicago-“
“They make these in factories, Yelena.” You’d said coolly. “I promise you, it’s the same in Brooklyn that it would be in Chicago, or LA, or the middle of butt fuck nowhere. Enjoy your cake.”
Yelena’s eyes had narrowed, as you walked away. Right past Bucky, who’d tracked your movements with an expression you’d been too tired to analyze.
Bucky had found you, that evening. Stood across from you, as you ate your dinner at the counter. He’d cleared his throat, and you’d looked up with a sigh.
“Barnes, I’m off the clock-“
“We both know you’re never off the clock.” He’d said pointedly, and you’d swallowed.
He’d been staring at you. His eyes were so blue, his lips pink and full, his body almost taking up your vision, even from a few feet away. Focus.
“Well, I-“ You’d flushed, and looked down to your soup. “Can I please finish dinner, first? I just- I haven’t eaten, but then I can help you-“
“No, I don’t want your-“ He’d paused, then frowned. “You haven’t eaten?”
You’d nodded. His frown had deepened.
“It’s almost 10pm.”
“I know.”
“And… You haven’t eaten.”
You’d sighed, turning the spoon in your fingers. “It’s been… Busy.”
Bucky had grunted, a strange, firm expression on his face. “They’ve been working you.”
“It’s my job.”
“Hm.” His tongue had flicked over his lips. “You haven’t quit. They usually quit.”
“What can I say.” You’d shrugged. “I’m good with children.”
Bucky’s lips had twitched. He’d chuckled, and shaken his head.
“I’ll talk to them.”
He’d walked away. Leaving you alone with your soup, trying to figure out what had just happened. He’d been here. Talking to you. You don’t think he’d said your name, but he’d looked at you. Like you were important. Like you could be important to him.
Then things had started to change. Suddenly. So suddenly, it was like a switch had been flipped. None of them looked at you like you were a parasite or vermin, intruding upon their space. Like you were just an unwelcome limb of Valentina, and it would be nice if they could chop you off.
There were no more insane demands. No snide comments, or strangely veiled, crazy tests. Everything changed so drastically, that for a second it felt like you weren’t doing your job at all. They didn’t ask anything of you, for almost a month.
Bucky said something to them. And whatever it was, they’ve stopped trying to drive you out. You force yourself not to think about why. What could make him do that for you. If he did it for you—just you—or because he was tired of handling them all by himself.
If you think about it. You’re thinking about him. His soft looking hair, and that small smile, and the way his arms had flexed when he’d braced them on the counter. His voice, when he’d said your name. How he’d said your name. How it sounded right.
Don’t think about it. You’re not doing this again.
You have other things to focus on, anyway. Just enough to distract you from doing anything more than flushing, whenever you pass Bucky in the halls. Because now that you weren’t treading water, trying desperately not to drown, you could actually do your job.
Their schedules stop being thrown together around midnight, now that you have the time to organize them. You reach out to all the contacts that have been sitting in the folder Valentina provided you, scheduling building maintenance, public appearances, and everything else that had taken the back burner. You even get all of them doctors, and update their personal profiles. Alexei’s emergency contact is still Mother Russia. It takes an hour to convince him to change it, but he listens with a grumbling sigh.
And you start to learn their habits, as well. Yelena liked honey in her tea. There was a specific mug she used, but rarely cleaned, so you did it for her. Walker liked to watch the news, but pretend he wasn’t watching the news, so no one made fun of him. You stared printing out stories and setting them front of his door, with the sections you’d noticed he’d linger on highlighted. Ava had trouble sleeping—most of them did—so you started making her tea as well, keeping it bitter and passing it to her without a word after dinner.
Alexei stopped with the stories, but you’re pretty sure he’s ingrained them into your brain.
He’s telling a story in the common area, none of them paying attention, and you look up from your laptop. You’ve been planning out their schedules, locked into timing and color-coding and staggering Bucky and Ava’s around talking the press, because they’re bad at it. Just a few words of Alexei’s story breached your thoughts, tugging up a memory of the same story from before.
“This is the one where you save the Prime Minister, right? And prevent another world war?”
Alexei grins at you, chest puffed out, and claps his hands together. “Yes! Finally, someone who appreciates my heroing-“
“Heroism.” Ava mutters, but she’s looking at you strangely.
But they all are. Yelena, Walker, even Bob. They’re looking at you. Not like before, or the past few months.
Like they’re actually seeing you. And they don’t mind it.
You swallow, face heating. Glance over to Bucky.
He’s reading in the corner. Hasn’t looked up since he sat down.
But there’s that small smile on his face. The same one from the kitchen.
And you’re gone.
You’re in love again. And this might be the worst one yet.
He’s different. You say that about all of them, but this time it’s true. Bucky’s quiet. Less boastful, even with the face of a god, and a strong, broad body that almost radiates heat. There’s no humbleness, but rather just… A lack of thought. He doesn’t blink, when he picks up the whole couch because you dropped your pen. There’s no smugness, or suppression of it, when they’re on a mission and he takes out twenty men with his bare hands. No boasting, when they’re all debriefing, and Yelena announces that Bucky climbed the elevator shaft and outran the truck.
Bucky just sighs. Like it’s not something worth pointing out.
And you flush, losing track of your notes as you imagine him grabbing your waist and throwing you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. His hands on your bare hips, fingers digging into your skin as he flips you over. His muscles rippling around you, as you just hug him. Slow dance in the kitchen, his handsome face inches from yours, his tongue flicking over his lips, everything in you consumed by his gaze and presence-
Someone says your name. You cough, and look anywhere but Bucky. “Yes?”
“You okay, bumblebee?” Yelena frowns at you, and you smile.
“Yeah! I- I’m good.” Your thighs press together. You can feel his gaze. “What’s up.”
Yelena gives you a strange look, but keeps going.
Bucky’s still looking at you.
He looks at you a lot. Or really, not all that much, but more than he looks at other people. Which has to mean something.
You turn it into something. Every time he talks to you, even about work, your head spins with he’d never ask anyone else to go over his mission report.
It’s no one else’s job. You decide not to focus on that part. He’s talking to you.
You smile at the ceiling that night, grinding into your sheet and picturing Bucky’s face as he’d asked you. If he’d been nervous. Hopeful. A little less bored than usual, because was talking to you. If he’d brushed your hand on purpose, as he handed you the papers.
How his fingers had felt. Thick and calloused. Warm.
Your hand wanders between your thighs, as you picture them toying with the line of your panties. Sliding between your pussy lips. Dragging circles around your clit, and-
You muffle your cry of his name, into your pillow.
In the morning, when you make him his coffee, his face is oddly red.
“Did you sleep okay?” You ask, worry worming in your heart.
Bucky coughs, and nods. “Yeah- Uh- Good. Slept good.” He pauses. “You?”
“Also good.” You mumble, trying to focus on his bicep. It doesn’t help. Your mind wanders to it wrapped around your neck. Tight but gentle, as your back is pressed to his chest and his hand slaps against your cunt-
“Good.” Bucky says, and you blink at him, flushing. “It’s- good. That you- Slept good.” He coughs. “I’m gonna go- Do stuff.”
He walks away before you can say anything else. Leaving you stranded in the kitchen, trying to combat the ache between your thighs without doing anything fucking insane.
Work. You have work to do.
And for everything you’ve put into the rest of the team, you’ve been putting more into Bucky. You try to reign yourself in, keep it just enough that it doesn’t seen like special treatment, but you’re not good at loving halfway. You don’t make anyone else coffee in the morning. Don’t drive all the way to Queens for anyone else, for the good farmers market that has the plums and honeycombs he likes. You have everyone’s preferences and schedule memorized, but you don’t just find yourself in the gym when Walker’s there. Don’t turn on Yelena’s k-pop, when she’s in the library.
Don’t cling to Ava, when you’re at crowded press events.
“That’s a lot of people.” You mumble, looking out to the crowd.
Bucky chuckles. The sound rolls through you, even without a touch. “Yeah. Guess it is.”
“Do you- Want some water-“
“I’m fine, doll.” He gives you a firm look. “You should breathe.”
You nod weakly. That seems like a good idea.
It’s only after they’re all on the stage, that you realize he called you doll.
And his hand lingers on your lower back, when he opens the door for you.
He probably didn’t even think about it. You spend the whole event bouncing on your toes, fingers reaching back to trace your spine where he’d touched you. Trying to think of how you can get him to call you doll again.
Trying to figure out if that meant anything. It doesn’t really matter if it did.
It still makes it into your dreams that night, where Bucky walks you back against a wall. Crashes his mouth over yours, mutters that you’re his, his pretty, smart doll, then falls to his knees and presses his face between your thighs.
You wake up, underwear ruined and face heated. Bucky stares at you, while you eat breakfast. During the meeting. After.
Sometimes, it helps to remember that you’re technically his employee. You’re not supposed to even really be friends.
But it doesn’t help how, since things changed, they’ve all been treating you like they’re one of them. Yelena takes you to her favorite knife shop, and teaches you how to throw. Ava lets you watch cartoons with her, as long as you swear not to tell anyone else. Alexei makes you dinner of great Russia, and Bob talks to you about his books. Even Walker is nicer and nicer. He orders cookies, from some place on the west coast. No one else is allowed to touch them, because they have a sad sentimental value.
He gives you one, though. Without barely a word. Just shoves it into your hand.
“Thank you.” He grunts. “For getting these. And- Giving me the day off.”
You nod, and you’d forgotten you even did that. He’d just been getting quieter and quieter, which was unnerving. You’d figured he deserved a break.
“His partner died, this time two years ago.”
You look up, and find Bucky in the doorway, arms folded over his chest. “John?”
Bucky’s jaw ticks, but he nods. “Yeah. John.”
“Oh. I didn’t-“ You swallow, looking down to your cookie. “That’s sad.”
“Yep.” Bucky grunts. “You gave him the day off.”
“He… Looked like he needed it.”
“That’s sweet of you.” Bucky mutters, and you shrug.
“I guess.” You break your cookie in half, and hold it up. “Do you want some of my cookie?”
Bucky stares at you. Stiffens. His throat bobs, and he shakes his head.
“I’m alright. Thanks, doll.”
He walks away again, and you flush. Maybe you offended him. Or crossed the invisible line you’ve been so careful about. You just want him to like you, and you think he does—even if it’s not how you want—but it’s Bucky, and you don’t think you’re ever going to be able to tell.
Sometimes, you lie awake at night and try to measure it. Run through the day, picking apart every word and action, stringing them up for examination. Bucky would clear anyone’s plate, because he’s a gentleman, and he’s done it before for Bob. He wouldn’t just sit next to anyone during movie night. Wouldn’t let anyone borrow one of his books, except maybe Bob. He would grab anyone an apple from the kitchen if they asked—gentleman—but he’d probably grumble about it. He hadn’t grumbled when you’d asked.
He’d brought you water, too. Muttered that you haven’t been drinking enough. He wouldn’t have noticed that about anyone else.
He wouldn’t have stayed up with anyone else, either. Waited until you murmured you were going to bed, to do the same.
He hadn’t walked you to bed. He had said good night, and touched your shoulder. He wouldn’t do that with anyone else.
Expect Bob. He’s said goodnight to Bob, before. Clapped his shoulder.
Maybe Bucky’s in love with Bob.
You need to go to bed.
It only keeps growing, though. The love you have for him. And Bucky is different, because you’re only blooming around him. There are no anxious butterflies. Just comfort at his presence. A glowing feeling in your chest, whenever he gives you attention.
He trusts you. That’s something else no one else gets. He eats with you—he never eats with anyone—and turns his back on you when he’s grabbing a book in the library.
It’s not a cold shoulder.
You’ve never seen him turn his back on anyone else.
“Have you seen the Lord of the Rings movies?” You ask, and he frowns.
“I don’t like most movies, now. They got… A lotta colors.”
You giggle. “Colors? You don’t like colors?”
He rolls his eyes. “Just ain’t used to them, movies shouldn’t be tryin’ to blind me, they should be telling a story.”
“Okay. You should watch Lord of the Rings.”
Bucky sighs. “I just said-“
“I know.” You shrug. “And I think you’ll still like it.”
He pauses. Watch you carefully, then glances down to the book in his hands.
“You gonna watch it with me?” He mutters, and you flush.
Nod, before you can think better of it. “Yeah. Sure.”
Bucky grins at you.
He doesn’t grin at anyone else.
Doesn’t stay up until midnight, with anyone else. Doesn’t share food, or let anyone else bring him a drink. When you fall asleep, in the middle of the movie, you wake up on the couch with a blanket wrapped around you, and Bucky reading in the other chair.
“Did you,” you yawn, squinting at him through your sleep. “Did you like it?”
“The movie?”
You hum, and his lips twitch.
“Yeah. Loved it.” He clears his throat, and looks back to his book. “We should do the second one. Next week.”
You beam. “Okay.”
And Yelena notices first. You’re making a sandwich, and she grabs her mug out of the cabinet. Stares at you, head tilted slightly.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She shrugs, walking over to the tea kettle. “Bucky Barnes is in love with you.”
You cough. Drop your knife in shock, and it nicks your finger. You yelp in pain, wrapping the cut in a towel, and gape at her.
“No- That’s- You’re- What-“
“He is in love with you.” She shrugs. “There are band aids. In top cabinet-“
“I know, I put them there- What do you mean, Bucky’s-“
“He makes puppy face. Like-“ Yelena pouts her lips, making her eyes big and sad, and that looks nothing like Bucky. “He adores you. All mission, it is about you. He got you old book, in Scotland. It is disgusting.”
You shake your head, thoughts racing too fast to filter. “No, it’s- He’s- I never got a book- And Bucky isn’t-“
He shouts your name. Stomps into the kitchen with a scowl, grabs your hand, and pulls the cloth back to reveal the cut.
“Jesus, doll, how did you-“ He glares at Yelena. “The hell did you do to her?”
“Nothing. Not everything is an evil plot, Bucky Barnes.”
His jaw twitches, and he looks back to you. “Are you-“
“I’m okay.” You try to sound collected. Soothing. Your voice is too breathy, because he’s so close. He smells like pine trees and rain. “We were just talking, and I- I dropped my knife.”
“Hm.” He grunts, scanning over your features. “You need to be more careful.”
You nod weakly. “Oh- Okay.”
Yelena sighs dramatically. Mutters something under her breath that even Bucky doesn’t seem to hear.
Bucky picks you up and sits you on the counter. He’s examining your finger like it’s going to turn into a bullet wound.
You ignore Yelena’s pointed look. You’re too lost in Bucky anyway.
Touching you. Taking care of you.
You stare at the band aid, hours later. You’re supposed to be working. All you can think about is how delicately he’d touched you. How he’d stood between your legs, then finished your sandwich so you wouldn’t have to work. You sigh dreamily, like a lovesick schoolgirl.
Bob notices next.
Bucky smiles at you, before they go off on a mission. You smile back, so wide your cheeks hurt. The door closes behind them, and you bounce on your face with a stupid, giddy expression.
Bob clears his throat next to you.
“Did- Yelena talk to you?”
You shake your head. “About what?”
“Bucky.”
You flush. “I- I don’t know- She- That’s- Why would she need to talk to me about Bucky?”
“No reason.” Bob says quickly. “Just… His feelings. And- Being careful with them?”
That doesn’t make any sense. You frown at Bob, and he sighs.
“I’d never seen Bucky smile before.” He mutters, almost apologetically. “It’s good! But- I don’t know. We just wanted to tell you? So that it doesn’t,” he turns a little red under your stare. “Go back to being grumpy Bucky? But also, there’s no pressure, even if Ava thinks you like him back-“
“Ava thinks what?!”
Your shriek echoes off the walls, and Bob flinches.
“Nothing?”
“Bob-“
“Okay, we’ve just- We’ve all noticed how close you and Bucky are, and it’s nice, and I love love! Love is cool! Can you please stop looking at me like you’re about to- Um- Explode?”
“No, I’m not-“ You take a deep breath. It’s fine. It’s all fine, as long as Bucky doesn’t know. “What do you mean, we’ve all noticed?”
“Um… That we’ve all noticed?”
“Oh.” You wrap your arms around your stomach. “Okay.”
And Bob’s not exaggerating. They all seem to have something to say about you and Bucky. You gently pry them, one at a time. Ava’s blunter that Yelena, grumbling that she’s never seen something so pathetically adorable as Bucky, trailing after you like a puppy. Alexei goes on a long ramble about Bucky smile like new dawn, when he looks at you. John just rolls his eyes, and grumbles that you can’t not see it. It’s obvious.
Is it?
You don’t think so.
They all seem to be seeing what they want. You and Bucky are friends.
You’re in love with him, but that doesn’t mean he’s in love with you. You’d know. You’ve dedicated a whole year, to pretending he’s in love with you in your dreams. To devoting time and effort, just to try and get him to love you back. Spent meetings daydreaming about his touch, and whole dinners and plane rides just staring at his lips. You’d notice, if he actually loved you back. You would.
Yelena mutters that she’s never seen Bucky as awkward, as he is around you. You just don’t think he talks to her all that much.
You don’t tell Bucky, what they’ve been saying. You don’t let it change anything, because that’s the rule. You love him, obsessively and silently. Write his name on your heart, and never show him. Nothing happens. Nothing changes. No moves are ever made, because that crosses the line from pining into weirdo.
Everyone can look at you, all smug and knowing, as much as they want. Nothing’s going to change. You’re sure of it, because you spend all your time with Bucky, and he doesn’t stare at your lips. Doesn’t accidentally-on-purpose touch you. He just accidentally touches you. Stares at your face, because Bucky stares. That’s how he is.
Then, something shifts.
You can’t pinpoint it. Can’t give it a name. It’s just another move night. You end up a little closer to Bucky than you need to be, but without any strength to pull away. His arm wraps around the back of the couch—around you—with his thumb brushing your shoulders. You shiver, but don’t speak. He’s done that before. You don’t think he knows, what it does to you. That he’s even doing it at all.
The movie ends, after midnight. Everyone else had long gone to bed, leaving just you and Bucky.
“That was good.” You mumble, and he hums.
“Yeah. One of the better ones.”
You giggle. “Oh, the highest form of compliment.”
Bucky grunts. “Only for you, doll.”
“What an honor. I feel so important-“
“Yeah, alright. Don’t get smug.”
“I have never been smug.”
“Yes, you have. And you,” he pokes your side, and you squeal. “Get mouthy.”
“I do- No-“ You whack his hand, scrambling back as he tries to poke you again. You chuck a pillow at his head, and he grabs one of your ankles.
You kick him, right in the nose, and he drops your foot with a grunt.
“Bucky- Fuck-“ You scramble forwards, grabbing his face between your hands. “I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to-“
He mutters your name. “‘m fine-“
“I know, just-“ Your thumb traces the slope of his nose, and you rise a little higher on your knees. You’re trying to see if anything is broken, if he needs any more attention-
Bucky grunts your name, and grabs your wrist. “Doll. ‘m okay.”
You look down at him.
He’s looking back.
Your breath catches, and you whisper, “Hi.”
Bucky’s lips twitch, eyes shining up at you. “Hello.”
There’s something in his gaze.
Something adoring.
And there it is.
The change.
Or no change at all. Maybe you’re just seeing him look, for the first time. You swallow, your fingers tugging at the blanket. Bucky’s eyes drop to your lips, then fly back up.
His tongue flicks out.
Heat floods between your legs.
And Bucky groans.
“What?” You whisper, and he shakes his head.
“Nothin’. Nothin’ that you-“ He sighs. “Don’t worry about it, doll.”
“Bucky-“
His voice drops. “Don’t.”
You press your lips in a tight line. Scan over his face, trying to find the answer written on his features.
The air is wired, as the silence continues. The heat of Bucky’s body, it sinks into your skin. His gaze still drives into you.
You lean a little further forward, as his gravity grabs you by the throat. You’re over him, now, and his hands fly to your waist. Bucky’s nostrils flare, but he doesn’t lean away.
And if this is what everyone sees, when he looks at you, there aren’t many looks you can take out of it. Bucky’s eyes are gleams, in the dark. His fingers are curling into your sides, sending sparks through your body.
“It’s late.” He mutters, and you nod.
“It is.” You breathe. “We should go to bed.”
“Yeah. We should.”
He doesn’t move. You don’t either.
“What was wrong?” You whisper, and his eyes flash. You can almost see him thinking. Trying to weigh if it’s worth telling you. If you’re worth being told, and the heat it’s going to make you explode if something doesn’t happen soon-
“I can smell it.” He rasps. “When you… Feel things.”
Your mouth falls open, and you try to lean away from him. You need to run away. Flee the state. Flee the country. Flee the fucking planet. “Bucky- I- I’m sorry-“
“Don’t.” He holds you firmly, almost. “I’m not tellin’ you cause I- I’m expecting anything-“
“Bucky-“
“But it’s… maddening.” Something wild flashes over his features. “I have lost my mind, night after night, lost sleep, lost appetite because there is only one thing I want to-“
He cuts himself off with a groan, and you realize you’ve leaned so far over him, your leg is pressing into his crotch.
Where he’s harder than a rock.
And when you’ve dreamed of this, it’s been grand. He chases after you in the rain, gets on his knees, and gives a long, romantic speech about everything he loves about you. How he’s tried to fight it, but he can’t, and he just needed to tell you. Once. Because if he never said it, he wouldn’t have been able to forgive himself.
But this. The silence, as something passes between you.
It’s better.
It’s yours.
“Yelena thinks you’re in love with me.” You say, because he’s crossed the line first, and now there’s no going back.
Bucky’s jaw clenches. “Yelena…” He says slowly. “Has made a career out of watching people. And… Predicting how they will behave.”
“Oh.”
Bucky hums, his thumb drawing small circles on your wrist. “You call my name. In your sleep.”
“I- I do.” You say, so softly you almost can’t hear yourself. “I think of you all the time.”
Bucky nods slowly, looking back to your lips. His tongue does the move again. You shiver, leaning down until you’re pressed to his chest.
Your noses bump. Bucky looks back up you, raising his brows.
You nod. Ghost your lips over his.
Bucky grabs the back of your neck, and drags you down into a rough, deep kiss. His lips demanding but soft over yours, his arm wrapping around your lower back and dragging you close. His hips jerk up, as he pins you against him. You gasp, grabbing his shoulders to keep yourself upright. Your nails drag down the broad panes of his chest, and you fist at his shirt. Pull him closer with a moan, letting him press his tongue between your lips.
You melt over Bucky’s body, the kiss becoming sloppy and wet. He tastes sweet from the soda and candy, with something a little more salty and purely Bucky beneath it. His metal hand slides up under your shirt, up your spine, and you arch into the touch.
Moving you clothed pussy right over were he’s straining in his jeans. You start to grind down, chasing any friction, grabbing Bucky’s face and trying to pull him closer. He dips his face down, sucking a sensitive spot on your neck. You yank his hair, trying to drag him back up into you.
Bucky moans. Openly moans against your skin, slamming his hips up into you. You yelp, yanking again, and another, deeper moan rolls through his body. It vibrates in your chest, and you throw back your head, trying to gasp for air as he keeps rutting up into you. His warm hand grabs the back of your neck, forcing your gaze back down. You watch him under you, looking up with open hunger and adoration.
Watch his metal hand play with the band of your panties, cold fingers sending electric shivers through your body. You nod weakly. He smirks, and shoves his hand down.
Your mouth falls open, as cold fingers find your clit. Tease is, with feather-light brushes, making you shake in Bucky’s arms. He’s pinned you against him, so your breasts are pressing into his face and his cock is resting right against your entrance through the cloth. He’s just watches you, chest heaving as you unravel so quickly. From just his teasing.
“Bu- Bucky-“ You bite down a moan, trying to writhe into more friction. “More, please more-“
He hums. Spanks your clit, sending a sharp rush through your body. You almost scream, and Bucky pulls you back down into a bruising kiss. Swallowing the sound.
“Gotta keep quiet.” He grunts against your lips. “I’ll give you anythin’, babydoll, just keep quiet f’ me.”
You nod, biting on his lower lip as he spanks your clit again. He chuckles, and you press further into him.
“You gonna be good?”
“Yes.” You breathe. “I need it, Bucky- I- I’ll-“
“Say it.” He grunts, pressing his thumb down harshly over your swollen nerves. “Say it for me, pretty girl, c’mon-“
“Good. I’ll be good,” tears are already starting to prick your eyes. “Bucky, please, I’ll be good-“
He kisses you again. This time is sweeter. You whine happily, and only realize he’s moving you onto your back when you’re fully settled in the cushions.
“I know you will be.” He mutters, kissing you again. “Keep quiet.”
You expect him to shove his fingers into you. Make you cum on his hand.
But Bucky is a man of determination. Of taking things slow.
He pulls your shirt over your head, then kisses his way down your body, lazy and smug. There isn’t a place his lips don’t find, that his fingers don’t caress. You try to buck your hips up, into him. His pins you back down, open mouth kissing your breasts. Swirling his tongue around your nipple, then going lower.
And lower.
He drags down your shorts, sucking on your inner thigh. You wrap your legs around him, trying to pull his mouth were you want it, but he drags them back apart. Nips at the little bruise he’d formed, then kisses a little to the side. Further. Over the hood of your clit, then to your other inner thigh.
You yank his hair again, desperate.
He grunts, and that might have been a mistake. Slow flies out the window.
Bucky slams his face into your pussy, moaning against you and devouring you with such force you can feel it everywhere. Your hips fly up, but he holds you down. Keeps your legs spread, for his ministrations. His tongue works up and down your swollen lips, pressing flat on your clit before, making out with your dripping cunt. Your eyes roll back, your free hand scratching at the sheet.
He starts to kitten lick your clit, and you almost fly off the couch. Your hand flies to your mouth, muffling your moan, and Bucky hums.
Open mouth kisses your clit, and starts to work it faster. His beard rubs on your thighs, his tongue twisting into your pussy, and you think he’s trying to make you break.
You breathe fast into your hand, grinding weakly to meet his mouth. You’re close. So close. You whimper his name into your hand, yanking on his hair so he keeps moaning against you, and-
Bucky stops. You scream, because you were right on the fucking edge and he stopped, why the fuck did he stop-
“I said be quiet.” He mutters, crawling back over your body. “You’re lucky you look so pretty, all fuckin’ wrecked. Otherwise might have to teach you somethin’.”
Your eyes flutter, pussy clenching around nothing at the thought of Bucky teaching you something. His kisses you softly, though, and every hazy thought is chased from your head as you feel him.
Dragging up and down your pussy lips. Coating himself in your arousal, the tip catching on your aching entrance.
“Don’t have protection,” he grunts, and you shake your head.
“I- I’m on the pill. You- Please-“ You spread your legs wide, and he groans.
“Doll, don’t just say that-“
“Want it.” You whisper, batting your lashes up at his tight face. “Want you to fill me up, James, please.”
You don’t know what makes you say it. You’ve never called him that before, and it just slipped past your lips.
Bucky lets out a sharp breath, licking his lips. His voice becomes hoarse.
“Say that again.”
You swallow. “Please. James, please-“
Bucky crashes down, kissing you into the cushions as he slides in with one, smooth thrust. You almost scream again, and he keeps kissing you. You think his goal is to make you so breathless you can’t make any sound.
It’s working.
“Oh- Fuck.” He whispers against your lips. “So damn tight, doll, you’re so- God-“
You clench around him, and he moans again.
“Move.” You gasp into his mouth. He’s pressing right against your deepest, most sensitive spot without moving. You’re going to go insane. “Bucky, move-“
“Ah.” He kisses your neck, rutting into you. You bite down a squeak, as Bucky growls against your skin. “Try again.”
“James.” You breathe. “Move.”
He hums. “Hm. Relax for me, doll, you’re squeezin’ too-“
You go limp quickly, and Bucky blinks down at you. Chuckles, and kisses the corner of your mouth.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Quiet.”
Then he starts to move.
And this he doesn’t waste time on. There are two, slow, experimental thrusts. Then he nods to himself, rolls his hips, and starts to fuck you. Rough and proper, slamming up into your cervix with his balls slapping against your ass. You try to cover your mouth again, as the pleasure overwhelms you. Bucky grabs your wrist and drags it over your head, fucking you faster. Your fingers tangle together, and you squeeze him tight for dear life as he pounds into you like a man possessed.
You couldn’t scream if you tried. You so lost in the daze of his cock, splitting you open, that all you can do is breathe. Soft pleas, and calls of his name. Bucky presses his brow to yours, and fucks you harder. His breath is hot over your lips, and he spits into your open mouth.
That drags an open moan out of you, and your eyes meet his.
No one’s ever looked at you like that. With such hunger and adoration.
You flutter around him, tears springing into your eyes from the perfect pain.
Bucky leans down and kisses you, so gentle for how he’s splitting you in half, thoroughly wrecking your pussy for anyone else.
His free hand, the metal one, snakes between your bodies and finds your clit. Rubs it in fast, tight circles that keep time with his increasingly sloppy thrusts. The temperature difference makes your body seize up in shock and delight.
Your orgasm slams into you, knocking any remaining air out of your lungs. Bucky moans again, fucking you through it, lewd and wet sounds filling the room.
He kisses you as his cock slams home, and you feel him paint your pussy white. You cling to his neck, tugging his hair, and his hips jerk as he mindlessly fucks it back into you.
Slowly, your breathing both settles, even as Bucky remains deep inside of you. His face presses into your neck, and he takes deep, ragged breaths. You stare, glossy eyed and dazed at the ceiling. You’re going to need to hire five separate cleaning teams, for the room. Block it off until it’s been bleached and everything’s been replaced. You can’t risk someone turning over a cushion, and finding it… stained.
You giggle, a little shocked and still floating in the pleasure. Bucky rises up over you, brushes the hair that’s stuck to your brow, and mutters your name.
“You are…” He shakes his head, voice rough and quiet. “So beautiful.”
You flush, but smile at him. “You too-“
“No. I- That’s not what I’m sayin’.” He takes a deep, ragged breath. “You’re gorgeous. ‘Course you’re gorgeous. Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen-“
“And you’ve seen a lot.” You giggle. Bucky rolls his eyes.
“Yes. I have. And-“ He grabs your chin, tipping it up. Forcing you and your dizzy smile to meet his gaze. “Nothin’ comes close to you, babydoll. Nothin’. Not like this,” he ruts against you, and you squeal. “Or like this.”
He drags your hand up, and places it over his heart. You stare up at him with wide eyes. Bucky squeezes your hand, offering you a small grin.
“You got me,” he mutters his name. “Had me since you walked in, lookin’ like the best, sweetest kinda trouble in the world.”
You swallow, everything but Bucky turning to a blur.
“Do I…” He takes a heavy breath. Leans down until your brows are pressed together. “Have you?”
You smile.
Nobody has ever had you, so thoroughly. Where you say it, aloud. Where you feel it, outside of your chest and in the air all around you.
“Yeah.” You whisper. “You got me, Bucky. You got me.”
✦End note: When will i find love like this. plz tell me.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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summary | bucky barnes, heir to the barnes empire, could have anything money could buy and yet, the only thing he’s ever truly wanted is the housemaid who ruined him before he was even a man
tags | (18+) MDNI, EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, pervert!bucky, cocky rich boy x seductive maid, domme!reader, bratty sub!bucky, but also dom!bucky too, voyeurism vibes, masturbation (m), panty sniffing, bucky is down bad and he’s not hiding it, body worship, oral fixation, oral sex (f receiving), face sitting, groping, tits in his mouth like a pacifier, mirror kink, unprotected sex, possessive sex, marking / bruising / scratching, clothes ripping, rough & desperate fucking, filthy dialogue, creampie, overstimulation
a/n | this fic is brought to you by: ovulation, unresolved maid fantasies, and the belief that if i was hired at a mansion by rich people, i too could emotionally and sexually destroy their rich son.
bucky is a filthy little pervert and i can't seem to stop writing him that way 🥀 lowkey he's giving carter baizen
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
divider by @uzmacchiato
Bucky nodded when his mother said something about mergers.
Or was it marriages?
Honestly, it didn’t matter.
Whatever words were dripping out of Winifred Barnes’ diamond-laced mouth — they barely made it past his collar.
He sat at the long oak table like he had a thousand times before, suit pressed, knife gliding through a steak he couldn’t taste, pretending to listen while his mind tuned into something else entirely.
Someone else.
You.
You were at the far end of the room, back turned, wiping down the sideboard with slow, steady strokes that made his jaw twitch.
Still here. Still working. Still fucking flawless.
His eyes dragged over your silhouette — the familiar curve of your waist, the flash of your thigh when you shifted, that damned uniform that hadn’t changed in years. Tight black fabric, lace trim. Still fitted. Still teasing.
His fork hit his plate too loud.
He swallowed hard, jaw tight, and stabbed another bite of steak just to keep from letting out a sigh.
Jesus Christ.
It had been six years.
Six goddamn years of lectures and internships and painfully average girls who moaned too loud and came too fast.
Six years of keeping his hands busy when they weren’t writing papers — busy with his cock, fist tight, eyes closed, whispering your name into a dark dorm room pillow like a fucking pervert.
And now? You were right there.
Same smirk.
Same sway in your hips.
But god, you looked even better.
His father cleared his throat.
Older. Softer in the thighs. Sharper in the eyes.
Like someone who knew exactly what they did to boys like him.
“James, are you listening?”
He blinked.
“Sure.”
Winifred clicked her tongue. “Honestly, James. You could at least pretend to listen when your father and I are trying to talk about your future.”
He looked up, fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Sorry. I was distracted.”
George folded his hands. “We were saying — we’ve arranged a dinner. This weekend. The Sinclairs are bringing Bonnie by.”
“Who?”
“Bonnie Sinclair,” his mother repeated, with the kind of smile she wore when she was proud of her own scheming. “You remember her — the family owns the vineyards out in Napa. Lovely girl.”
His brow furrowed. “No.”
“No, you don’t remember her?”
“No, I’m not going to dinner.”
His father sighed. “James—”
“What, you want to sell me off to the highest bidder now? Come on. It’s not the 1800s. Arranged marriages are dead, and so is your fantasy of me falling in love with some bottle blonde wearing pearls and a trust fund.”
“James—”
He dropped his knife a little harder than necessary. “Why don’t you try setting Becca up with some rich prick when she’s home next break? See how she likes it.”
Winifred’s smile slipped.
“This is different,” she snapped. “You’re the heir. You have responsibilities—”
“To what? To your image? Or your fucking legacy?” he muttered.
They kept talking. Rambling about dynasties and preserving the Barnes name and how beneficial the Sinclairs could be for future ventures, but Bucky had already tuned them out again.
His eyes flicked to the far corner of the room.
Empty.
You were gone.
He let out a quiet sigh, leaned back in his chair, head tilted toward the ceiling like it might save him from the pressure creeping up his spine.
Great. Fucking great.
First night back in this godforsaken mansion, and not only were they trying to auction him off like a prized racehorse, but now you’d moved on to some other wing of the house.
And the worst part?
He didn’t even get a proper look at your ass yet.
Later That Night
He waited until after dinner. Until his parents retired to their wing, until the halls were dim and quiet and full of shadows.
Then he wandered.
Not with purpose — no, that’d be pathetic. It was casual. A stroll. Just stretching his legs. Familiarizing himself with home again.
Except his legs kept stretching toward all the usual spots you used to be in.
The reading room. The conservatory. The hallway by the west guest suite with the floor-to-ceiling mirrors.
Nothing.
Not even the click of your heels.
He passed the kitchen. Slowed. Even stepped in and leaned against the counter for a minute—under the pretense of grabbing water—But the space was empty. Not a single trace of you.
He scratched the back of his neck, lips twitching.
"Right. Because the woman he used to fuck during summer break is just gonna materialize out of nowhere now that I’ve got a degree and a new haircut."
Eventually he stopped at the foot of the servant stairwell. The one that led to the staff quarters.
He stared at it like it might open on its own.
No.
He wasn’t going to climb that staircase again.
Not after what happened the last time — back when he was eighteen and naive enough to think you’d want him to stay the night.
And you? Laughing into your pillow.
He could still remember the creak of the floorboard, the way he scrambled half-naked out the window when someone came down the hall.
Heart racing. Dick leaking. Your cum drying on his thighs.
Fuck no.
Not again.
He made it back to his bedroom around midnight. Jaw tight. Cock aching. Stripped his shirt off, threw it across the room. Sat on the edge of the bed like a fucking failure.
The worst part? He was hard. Like achingly hard.
The ache between his legs had turned into a full-throb punishment, buzzing just beneath his skin like static. He rubbed a hand over his face, then across his jaw, restless, annoyed, half-hating himself — until his eyes flicked to the armoire.
His old one. From before school.
The tall, cherrywood thing with the drawer he used to keep locked. With the key still hidden in the false-bottom of his cufflink box.
His pulse jumped. He sat up slowly, legs wide on the edge of the bed, and reached for the key.
The drawer slid open with a familiar click — and there it was.
The shrine.
Soft silk and lace folded neatly like it was holy. Panties. Bras. A few sheer thigh-highs. A wrinkled black ribbon he once slid from your hair while you weren’t looking. And beneath it all, tucked like a secret: a napkin with your lipstick stain from that time you took a sip of his champagne at his nineteenth birthday.
Fuck.
He swallowed, throat thick.
God, he used to be such a little fucking perv.
But he didn’t stop himself.
Didn’t hesitate.
And yeah.
His fingers reached out and traced the edge of a deep burgundy lace panty — the kind that cut high on your hips, left little to the imagination.
He brought it to his nose.
The scent was faint — barely there — but it was you. Soft. Clean. Sweet. Like something he should never have touched.
His eyes fluttered shut. His other hand slid towards the waistband of his boxers.
He hissed through his teeth as his cock sprang free — thick, flushed, already leaking like it had been waiting all fucking day for this.
His hand wrapped around it, tight, just the way he remembered you liked it. The lace pressed to his nose, breathing in the ghost of you. His hips lifted off the bed.
”Fuck, fuck—”
He could see it now.
It was late spring. House empty. You in that tight little skirt and red lipstick, whispering into his ear, “You’re hard again?”
He nodded, breathless, embarrassed.
“Poor baby.”
You pulled him behind the west wing stacks, shoved his back to the shelf. Sank to your knees, tugged his pants down like he was a fucking treat and sucked his dick like he owed you his life.
“You’re so loud, Jamie,” you’d teased. “You want someone to catch us?”
Except he kept whining. Kept moaning your name. Kept trying to say how good it felt, how much he missed your mouth.
So you snatched the panties off your own body — and balled them up tight.
“Open.”
And when he did, wide-eyed and obedient, you shoved them into his mouth, fingers pressing against his lips like a silencer.
“Bite down and be quiet, Jamie.”
He ended up cumming thirty seconds later.
Meanwhile Bucky’s back hit the headboard, abs flexing, muscles jerking. His hand pumped faster. His breath stuttered.
Your voice was in his head. Your tits in his face. Your fucking panties were in his hand and goddammit, he was so close—
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
He groaned low into the fabric, the lace catching his breath, your name tangled between his teeth as his hips jerked up into his fist.
And when he came? It was hot and thick and messy — all over his knuckles, spilling past his hand, some of it catching on the lace he still hadn't let go of.
His breathing was heavy as he stared at the ceiling. Then he let out a bitter, strangled laugh.
“Jesus Christ…”
No relief. No peace. Just sweat, regret, and the scent of you still burning his fucking lungs.
The sun was too bright. The air too crisp. And Bonnie Sinclair’s laugh grated on his last fucking nerve.
“Oh my god, is that a peacock? Do you have actual peacocks?”
Bucky didn’t even glance toward the bird strutting across the lawn. He kept walking — hands in his pockets, jaw tight, sunglasses shielding his dead, uninterested eyes.
“Yeah. They scream a lot. Make sure to watch your toes.”
She giggled. He didn’t.
His parents and hers were tucked away on the back veranda, sipping champagne and pretending this was 1890. Bonnie’s dad already talking about business mergers and dowries, probably. And Bonnie?
Bonnie was doing her best to make an impression.
She was pretty, sure. In the way white tablecloths are pretty. Elegant, polite, and utterly forgettable.
Her voice was all breathy vowels and praise for things she didn’t understand —
He smiled politely. “Everyone’s tall next to you.”
“Wow, the roses here are divine.”
“Is that real gold in the fountain?”
“You’re so tall, James.”
She kept trying to loop her arm through his. Kept brushing against him like it meant something.
And all the while, his brain wasn’t even in the conversation.
Bonnie turned to him suddenly. “So… do you have a girlfriend?”
He blinked. “What?”
“You know. A girlfriend. Or like — someone you’re seeing?”
He looked her up and down. The pearls. The flats. The nude lipstick. Then glanced past her, toward the open french doors of the estate. Hoping—praying—he’d catch even a glimpse of you.
“No,” he said finally, lips twitching. “Nothing serious.”
He told himself he’d try.
Be polite. Be gracious. Be the gentleman his mother raised him to be — or at least pretend to be, for the sake of appearances. This was part of the game, after all.
Bonnie was smiling up at him, eyes wide with polite curiosity, and he forced himself to meet her gaze — just for a moment.
“Those earrings,” he said, nodding toward the small gold hoops with tiny garnet drops nestled against her jawline. “Where’d you get them?”
She lit up like he’d handed her a fucking rose.
“Oh! These? I got them in Milan last summer — there’s this boutique, just off the Galleria. Tiny place, but everything’s handmade. Vintage inspired.”
He nodded slowly, processing. Not because he cared, but because maybe… just maybe… it was something you’d like. A little box from Italy. A pair of delicate gold hoops with a velvet ribbon. He could picture it now — you wearing them, hair up, throat bare, his mouth on your collarbone.
He’d have to find the place. Or have someone find it for him. Add it to the mental list. Right beneath that vintage perfume you used to wear and that lace garter you once claimed was “just for fun.”
“That’s nice,” he said absently, offering a faint smile. “They suit you.”
It was the best he could do.
Because everything about this felt wrong.
The way she walked beside him, too close. The way she kept trying to slip her hand into the crook of his arm, like this was a first date and not a fucking business meeting arranged by bored billionaires.
They turned the corner near the east garden. Hydrangeas blooming wild against the stone wall.
And just as Bonnie began to speak again—something about polo lessons—Bucky’s eyes drifted.
Toward the veranda. The doors were open. And there you were.
Just inside. Bent ever so slightly as you adjusted a vase on a side table.
Hair swept up. A few tendrils falling into your face. Black uniform hugging your hips like it was designed to torment him personally.
You didn’t look up. Didn’t glance his way. Just straightened, turned, and disappeared down the hall like you hadn’t just punched him in the balls with one fucking glance.
He stopped walking for a second. Bonnie didn’t notice — just kept talking.
“…and Daddy’s trying to get them to expand distribution but the French are always so stubborn about—”
His fingers twitched in his pocket. His jaw ticked.
There you were. In the same house. So close. So far.
And he was here.
By the time they were seated, Bucky was already regretting his entire bloodline.
Playing escort to a girl he couldn’t even remember the last name of without prompting.
The dining room was glowing with gold-trimmed candlelight, glasses clinking, servers moving with quiet grace, and that oppressive scent of roasted duck hanging heavy in the air. His parents were in their usual seats, perfectly postured, wearing the expressions of people who genuinely enjoyed this sort of thing—parading tradition like it was holy.
Bonnie sat beside him, close enough that he could smell her perfume. Something floral. Too sweet. Forgettable.
The Sinclairs were all smiles and white teeth, praising the wine, the estate, the family history carved into the walls. His father lapped it up, nodding, chuckling, dropping little hints about future partnerships, as if this dinner wasn’t just a formality but a deal waiting to be signed.
Bucky stabbed his fork into the duck breast. It bled red beneath the glaze, and he imagined dragging the tine through his own thigh just to get out of the conversation.
He wasn't listening—again. Not really. Just catching words here and there. Napa. Legacy. Matrimony. “Bonnie’s such a well-rounded young lady.”
Sure. Round. Like the sound his head would make if it hit the polished marble floor.
He sipped his wine and glanced across the table at Bonnie, who was smiling at his mother, playing her part like she’d memorized the script. Her hands were folded just right, posture perfect, voice low and sugary. It was like watching someone try to audition for a role they didn’t even want—but were born to play.
Bucky’s jaw flexed. He shifted in his seat.
I’d rather be kicked in the dick by a horse.
He made another pass at the duck, chewing like it might keep him sane. His foot tapped beneath the table, his spine buzzing with something feral.
And then it hit him.
You hadn’t shown up all day.
Not in the halls. Not during lunch. Not even in the shadows of the estate where he used to find you quietly arranging flowers, humming to yourself, pretending not to notice how hard he stared.
You were gone.
And now he was stuck in this fucking chair, nodding along while some vineyard heiress described her favorite breed of horse.
He swirled the wine in his glass with too much force, splashing a little over the rim. Winifred gave him a sharp look. He ignored it.
Maybe if I fake a seizure I can leave early.
Another laugh from Bonnie. Another smug glance from his father. Another fucking sip of a vintage red that didn’t even taste like anything.
He was miserable. Genuinely, exquisitely, violently miserable.
“James, darling,” Winifred cooed, dabbing at the corner of her lips with a linen napkin, “Bonnie was just telling us about her experience at the Sotheby’s summer program. Isn’t that fascinating?”
Bonnie smiled sweetly, clearly oblivious to the sarcasm. “It was such a whirlwind. Between the gallery showings and the auction previews, I barely had time to sleep. But it was worth it — I mean, who wouldn’t want to spend their summer surrounded by Picassos and vintage Cartier?”
He looked up from his plate, forcing a smile that didn’t even reach the bottom row of his teeth.
“Oh. Yeah. Super fascinating.”
I’d rather be surrounded by bees.
“That’s impressive,” he offered blandly, draining the rest of his wine in one go. “You sell any?”
She giggled. “God, no. I was just assisting. But I did get to try on a necklace that was once worn by Princess Grace. Isn’t that insane?”
His mother leaned in, breathless. “I’ve always said you had the neck for that kind of elegance.”
Jesus Christ, just say you want to be related already.
He set his glass down, motioned subtly for more wine. The server filled it like clockwork. He resisted the urge to ask for the bottle.
George chimed in, his voice booming with false enthusiasm. “We were just telling the Sinclairs that once you’re settled, maybe it’s time to start thinking about property. Your mother and I have been looking at the old Whitmore estate. Plenty of room, good bones. Perfect for a growing family.”
And a burial plot, if I snap and murder everyone at this table.
Bucky smiled, sharp and tight. “Already planning the wedding? Do I at least get to pick the tux color?”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Winifred said with a wave of her hand. “We’re just discussing possibilities.”
Bonnie laughed again — high-pitched and unbothered. “Well, for the record, I think you’d look dashing in navy.”
His eyes flicked to her. Then back to his plate. Then, instinctively, across the room — to where you should be. Hovering near the wall. Pouring wine. Wiping down glassware with that soft, smug little smirk on your lips. But nothing.
Empty.
He clenched his jaw, fork pressing so hard into the duck he felt it slice through porcelain.
God, you’re missing all the fun.
“James,” his mother tried again, with the same desperate pleasantness she always used when things weren’t going her way. “Why don’t you tell Bonnie about your time at Columbia? You made such wonderful connections.”
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Yeah,” he said. “Great school. Lots of connections.”
Then he took another sip of wine, leaned back in his chair, and added, “Didn’t learn a damn thing that matters.”
The mansion was silent by nine.
The Sinclairs had retreated to the guest wing, his parents to their rooms, no doubt already tucked into their separate, sterile sheets, dreaming of mergers and grandchildren.
He rounded the corner into one of the eastern wings, the one with the tall windows and antique mirrors, and that’s when he saw you.
Bucky wandered the halls like a man possessed.
No real direction. No plan. Just the familiar weight of the house around him, the echo of his own footsteps over polished marble, and the burn of restless energy licking down his spine like he was still that horny teenager sneaking around past curfew.
You hadn’t noticed him. You were too busy — bent over the edge of the display cabinet beneath the mirror, polishing the surface with slow, methodical strokes.
And his mouth went dry.
Your skirt was higher than it should’ve been. Not obscene. Not intentional. But just high enough to reveal the cut of your ass, soft curves hugged tight by black lace and the smooth line of your garters strapped to your stockings.
His fingers twitched. His breath caught.
Every cell in his body locked onto you like a lion scenting fresh prey — hungry, low, and damn near feral.
The fabric of his slacks grew tight.
You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.
He moved without thinking. Quiet. Controlled. Every footstep calculated like it might crack the floor.
The shadows helped. So did the velvet hush of the hallway.
You just kept working. Oblivious. Bent. Soft. Beautiful. Like a goddamn offering.
His eyes dragged up the back of your thighs, to the hem of that cruel little skirt, the faint indent of your waist beneath the apron ties, the shape of your hips. His throat burned.
Another step. Closer.
He was behind you now. Not touching. Not breathing too loud. Just standing there. Watching. Letting the moment devour him whole.
It wasn’t even seductive. It was just you, working like you didn’t know he was right there, like your scent hadn’t been haunting him for six goddamn years.
His restraint snapped with the sound of your hum.
That soft, casual melody you used to hum back when you’d fuck him in between folding linens and straightening bookshelves.
He didn’t remember crossing the distance. One second he was standing in the dark like a stalker, the next he was pressed against you — flush, hips grinding into the curve of your ass, one hand gripping your waist, the other sliding around your front, flat against your stomach, pulling you back into him.
Your gasp wasn’t surprised.
Just amused.
“Mr. Barnes,” you said sweetly, all innocent and breathy, like your ass wasn’t already rolling back into his hips. “How inappropriate.”
His nose dragged along your throat, lips brushing the space just beneath your ear as he breathed you in like a drug. Like it would settle the fire in his chest instead of pour gasoline on it.
“You smell the same,” he rasped, voice low and breathless against your skin. “Fuck. You smell even better.”
Your laugh was barely a breath. “Mr. Barnes. That’s hardly appropriate either.”
His hips ground against you. Once. Slow. Hard.
You felt it—thick, hot, straining against the front of his pants. And that’s when his mouth found your ear.
“I’ve missed you. You've been… hiding from me.”
You let out a soft sigh, your hand coming to rest gently over his on your stomach, not trying to push him away. Not even trying to move.
Just holding him there.
Playing with him.
“I was just working,” you said. “Nothing more.”
His hips snapped against yours. Hard.
Once. Twice. Not enough friction, not through the layers, but the pressure was dizzying. His cock was thick and stiff between you, already trapped tight against the zipper of his slacks, rutting into the dip of your ass like he’d fucking die if he didn’t get more.
“Bullshit.”
He nipped at your neck, jaw tense. “You knew I’d find you. You wanted this.”
You laughed, soft and quiet.
“You always were so easy to rile up, Mr. Barnes.”
He groaned — low, sharp — and thrust again, hands gripping you tighter, like he could shove himself into your skin if he just held you hard enough.
“I’m not a boy anymore.”
His hand slid up, cupping your breast through your uniform, fingers slow and possessive, like he’d earned the right. Like this body was already his.
“Tell me no,” he breathed, lips trailing lower, grazing your jaw. “Say stop, and I will. But if you don’t—”
His voice caught.
“If you don’t, I’m gonna fuck you right here. Against this mirror. With my parents down the hall.”
You could feel his cock pulsing through his pants.
Your breath hitched.
But your smile was sift. Delicate.
“Then I suppose you’d better make it quick.”
You didn’t even have time to blink.
The second those words left your mouth — that soft, dangerous permission — he was dropping to his knees behind you like it was instinct. Like his body knew its place, and it was there, right between your thighs, beneath your ass, forehead pressed to the skin he used to dream about.
You heard his breath first.
Hot. Shaky. Desperate.
Then his hands.
One on each thigh, palms sliding up, thumbs grazing the hem of your garters, fingertips digging in like he was trying to convince himself you were real. And when he reached the top of your stockings — right where lace met skin — he groaned.
Low and thick, from somewhere deep in his chest.
“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “I missed this. I missed you.”
He hooked his fingers under your panties — black, sheer, soaked through — and dragged them down.
Slow. Worshipful. Watching every inch of exposed skin like it was divine scripture.
You heard the fabric stretch, then fall. And then he flipped your skirt up. Fisted it in one hand to keep it out of the way as he stared.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispered. “Look at this fucking ass.”
And then he was kissing it.
Not gently. Not sweetly. Mouth open, tongue hot, lips moving from one cheek to the other like he was tasting fruit from the garden of Eden.
He bit you. Hard. Right at the curve.
You gasped, hand flying to the edge of the cabinet for balance.
“Mr. Barnes—”
His groan vibrated against your skin. You felt his nose nudge between your cheeks, burrowing deep, inhaling like a man who’d spent years starved.
“Say it again,” he begged. “Say it while I eat your fucking pussy.”
You bit your lip.
But your smile was soft. Wicked. Satisfied. Triumphant.
He didn’t wait for a cue. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even ask.
The moment his nose brushed between your cheeks and caught the heady, slick scent of your pussy, something inside him just snapped.
His hands gripped your thighs, fingertips digging into the soft flesh as he buried his face between your legs.
Tongue first.
Hot. Wet. Greedy.
He licked up your slit — slow and shaking — from your dripping entrance to your clit, like he was trying to get his first taste all over again.
You whimpered, the sound slipping out before you could stop it, hips shifting forward as your body jolted at the contact.
And god, he moaned.
A deep, guttural sound, like your pussy had just punched the air out of his lungs.
“Fuck,” he whispered, nose nudging your clit, “you taste better than I remember…”
You smirked down at him, still bracing yourself on the cabinet.
“You haven't tasted me in years, James.”
He groaned. The name made his cock jump.
“Then I’m going to make up for lost time.”
And he did.
He groaned again, hips grinding into nothing, like he needed the friction just from the taste of you.
His mouth moved in slow, obscene circles.
His tongue flattened and dragged over your clit, then flicked at it, fast and precise like he’d studied how to ruin you. Like he wanted to undo you with his mouth alone.
“Fucking soaked,” he muttered between licks. “You’re fucking soaked for me.”
Your fingers reached back, fisting in his hair, nails grazing his scalp.
“Always for you, James,” you breathed, voice syrup-thick with pleasure. “Even when you were just a boy sneaking glances at me from the study.”
He whimpered.
Whimpered.
And started eating you harder.
Lips sealed around your clit now, tongue moving in tight, punishing motions. He was groaning into your pussy, hungry, sloppy, like he was trying to drown in it.
You rocked against his face, biting your lip so hard it nearly bled, eyes fluttering shut as his nose bumped just right—
“Fuck, James—”
He grunted. Pulled you closer. Pressed his face deeper between your thighs.
He didn’t slow down.
Didn’t hold back. Didn’t give a single fuck that he was on his knees, face buried in your pussy, drool dripping down his chin like a man who’d gone rabid.
His moans were getting louder.
Obscene.
Lips slick, nose pressed to your clit as he lapped at you with messy, wild strokes. No rhythm. No elegance. Just pure, desperate need.
You gasped as he buried his tongue inside you, sloppy and deep, curling it up like he was trying to fuck you with his mouth. His nose bumped your clit again and again, and your thighs twitched around his head as you tried to hold still.
But he wouldn’t let you.
His grip tightened on your thighs, fingers digging into your flesh like he needed bruises there to prove this happened. Like he wanted you to feel it tomorrow.
“You’re shaking,” he groaned, eyes fluttering open to look up at you. “You gonna cum on my face, sweetheart?”
You didn’t answer. So he gave your clit one long, deliberate suck. Your knees buckled.
And he grinned. “Yeah. You are.”
He doubled down.
Slurping. Flicking. Tongue dragging, nose bumping, hips fucking into the floor now as he tried to relieve the pressure in his own pants.
He was literally rubbing his cock against the goddamn wood, panting like an animal, soaked from your wetness and his own spit.
“Been dreaming of this,” he mumbled, mouth still full. “Fucking dreaming—every night—couldn’t touch anyone without thinking of this pussy—”
You moaned loud, fingers twisting in his hair.
He sucked harder, sloppier, the sounds now wet and filthy and shameless.
Slurp. Moan. Flick. Kiss. Gasp.
He didn’t care anymore.
“Cum for me,” he begged, eyes wide and shining, lips raw from use. “Please, baby—please, fuck, let me taste it—need it so bad.”
You felt it before you heard it. The shift in the air. The stillness.
And then—
A gasp.
Soft. Feminine. Shocked.
Bucky didn’t notice. He was still groaning into your pussy like he was possessed, tongue flicking furiously, nose pressed deep, muttering curses into your folds between slurps.
But your eyes flicked up.
The mirror in front of you told the whole story.
There she was.
Bonnie Sinclair.
Frozen in the doorway of the hallway, one hand still holding the edge of the gilded frame, lips parted in disbelief.
It must’ve been a hell of a sight.
The golden boy of the Barnes family — the man she was being courted to entertain — on his knees, half-dressed, face soaked in the maid’s cunt, hips grinding into the hardwood like a desperate animal.
Your hands were braced on the cabinet. Skirt flipped up. Thighs glistening.
Your eyes met hers in the mirror.
Her face twisted — horror, confusion, betrayal — and her gaze flicked down, like maybe, just maybe, she’d misunderstood.
But no.
There was no mistaking the wet, obscene sucking sounds filling the corridor. No mistaking the man moaning your name into your cunt like it was his last prayer.
And what did you do? You fucking smiled.
Not a polite one. Not a guilty one. No, this was something slow. Sinful. Salacious.
The kind of smile that said,
Her jaw clenched. Her hand flew to her mouth.
Yes, sweetheart. He’s mine.
You’ll never make him moan like this.
And he wouldn’t want you even if you tried.
But she didn’t scream. Didn’t call out. She just turned — face red, almost trembling — and walked away.
Fast. Almost stumbling.
You glanced behind, down at Bucky, still mindless between your thighs, sucking like a man starved, eyes shut tight, oblivious.
You bit your lip.
And grinned.
“Good boy, James,” you purred, hand in his hair. “You just made me so very proud.”
Your thighs were trembling now.
You’d kept yourself together—barely—when Bonnie stood frozen in that doorway, eyes wide, jaw slack, the betrayal and disbelief dripping off her like perfume.
And now you were losing it.
Because James—your James—was eating you out like it was the only thing keeping him alive. His face was slick, lips raw, tongue moving in tight, focused flicks over your clit like he knew your body better than you did.
And he still didn’t know.
Still hadn’t heard her.
Still hadn’t noticed that another woman had just witnessed him on all fours, worshipping you, grinding against the fucking floor while you held him by the hair and cooed praise into the air like he was your good little pet.
It made it hotter. Darker. More depraved.
“Don’t stop,” you whispered, breath catching. “Don’t you fucking stop, James.”
He moaned in response—high-pitched, shameless—and pulled your thighs tighter around his face.
His tongue flattened, then circled, lips sucking at your clit until your knees buckled and your vision blurred at the edges.
You looked down.
Saw him panting into your cunt, nose buried, eyes fluttering open just enough to meet yours—and fuck, he looked wrecked. Like if you pulled away now, he’d chase you across the house on all fours until you let him finish the job.
Your hands gripped the cabinet tighter.
Your hips rolled against his mouth, rhythm messy, hungry, and he matched it, moaning louder, licking faster, tongue dragging up and down your slit with a messy, wet rhythm that made you shake.
The orgasm hit you like a fucking tidal wave.
It built slow—coiling tight in your gut—until it snapped, crashing over you with a force that made your mouth drop open in a silent cry before a moan tore from your throat so loud it echoed down the hall.
“Oh, fuck—James—yes—don’t stop—”
He didn’t.
He kept sucking, licking, groaning as you came on his tongue, legs trembling, pussy throbbing against his mouth while he drank it all in like nectar.
He moaned into you. Like he was the one cumming.
Your body was shaking. Your thighs clenched around his head. Your hands braced on the wood, knuckles white, as the aftershocks dragged out with every little flick of his tongue.
He was up before you even caught your breath.
You felt the shift in the air first—his mouth leaving your cunt with one last wet kiss, then the sudden heat of him rising, body crowding behind yours again.
Then—his hands.
Big, strong, trembling.
One came to your hip, yanking you backward like he was claiming his prize. The other? Flat on the small of your back, pushing you forward until your stomach met the edge of the cabinet.
You gasped, still dazed, and then—his mouth.
Wet. Open. Hungry.
He pressed it to the back of your neck, dragging sloppy kisses along your skin, leaving a trail of your slick and his spit across your throat.
“Couldn’t stop,” he groaned against your neck. “Couldn’t fucking stop—need you—need to fuck you—please—”
And then he started grinding.
Hard.
Hips snapping forward in frantic, filthy thrusts, cock still trapped in his pants, but pressed thick and throbbing against your ass through the fabric.
Rutting.
Like a dog in heat.
“Fuck—fuck, baby—I’ve been thinking about this for years—”
You felt the wet patch on his slacks where he’d been grinding the floor. Now he was grinding you just the same—harder, rougher, like the orgasm you gave him with your cunt on his mouth only made him worse.
His voice was broken, panting against your skin.
He pressed his face into your shoulder like he was ashamed of how badly he needed this—and did it anyway.
“You smell so good—feels so good—need to feel you around me—inside you—fuck, I’ll beg, please—”
Each thrust dragged a low, pitiful sound out of his throat, hips rutting faster, hands gripping your waist like he didn’t trust himself to stay upright.
Your breath hitched as you felt him reach down between you—quick, urgent hands yanking his waistband low enough for his cock to spring free.
You didn’t even look.
You felt it.
Hot. Heavy. Slapping against your ass as he adjusted his grip and angled himself lower.
No words. No hesitation.
And then—
He slammed into you.
One brutal, blinding thrust. Your body jolted forward with the force of it, chest slamming into the edge of the cabinet as your mouth fell open in a stunned gasp.
“Fuck—James—”
But he didn’t slow.
Didn’t say a word.
Just grabbed your hips tighter, pulled you back into him, and kept fucking.
Fast. Rough. Unforgiving.
He was everywhere—grunting behind you, cock pistoning inside you with a rhythm that was animalistic, primal, like he was trying to fuck the memory of every other man out of you.
“You think I came back the same?” he growled against your neck, voice sharp and ragged. “You think I’m still that dumb fucking kid? That little boy you teased and left aching?”
You cried out as he slammed into you again, cock dragging along your walls so deep it made your stomach twist.
“No,” he snarled. “Not anymore.”
His hand wrapped in your hair, yanking your head back, forcing you to meet your own reflection in the mirror as he kept pounding into you like a man unhinged.
“Look at you,” he hissed. “Bent over for me. Taking me. Letting me fuck you like this.”
He gave you a particularly rough thrust that made you choke on a moan.
“You’re mine. You hear me? Fucking mine.”
Your moans turned guttural, needy, echoing off the cabinet and glass. He was everywhere—his hands, his cock, his mouth, his heat—slamming into you like he was trying to brand his name on your spine.
The room was filled with the sound of it.
Skin on skin. Wet, filthy slaps. His breath in your ear. Your moans. Your pussy soaking him, clenching around him with every thrust, dragging him deeper, harder.
And Bucky was lost.
Fucking you like he’d never stop. Like this was what he was born to do. What he’d been made for.
You barely had time to moan before he pulled out—sudden, fast, leaving your cunt pulsing around the absence of him.
You gasped, still dizzy from the pounding, but he wasn’t done.
“Up,” he growled.
And in the next breath, he had you.
Flipped. Lifted.
Your back hit the polished cabinet top with a dull thud, legs spread, heels still dangling off your ankles as Bucky hoisted you up like you weighed nothing.
You opened your mouth to speak—
But he slammed back into you.
Deep. Hard. Unrelenting.
The breath was ripped from your lungs, your body arching as he planted both hands on the wood behind you and drove himself home.
Now you were face to face. Now you could see it—his eyes.
Dark. Dilated. Fucking unhinged.
Sweat clung to his jawline, his chest heaving, hair sticking to his forehead as he rammed into you like he couldn’t get deep enough.
“Mine,” he panted. “Say it.”
Your head tipped back, a moan clawing out of your throat.
“Fucking say it.”
You grabbed his face. Hard. Pulled him in and kissed him like you were trying to suck the soul out of him.
Tongue tangling, mouths open, teeth scraping—filthy, desperate, uncoordinated. You moaned into his mouth, and he groaned like it physically hurt him to feel you kiss him like that.
His hips didn’t stop. They kept pounding, slamming into you with enough force to rattle the cabinet beneath you.
You sucked on his tongue, hand gripping the back of his neck, legs wrapping around his waist like you were trying to trap him there.
“Yours,” you hissed against his mouth. “Yours, James.”
He whimpered.
You felt it—the stutter in his hips. The little break in his rhythm.
He was close.
“Again,” he begged, voice cracked.
“I’m yours,” you said again, slower, dirtier, nipping at his bottom lip. “You waited for me. Grew up for me. All this time, you’ve just wanted to fuck your maid—”
He snarled, slamming into you again so hard the cabinet creaked.
You bit his lip. He moaned into your mouth.
The kiss was so deep, so dirty, you felt like you were breathing through each other.
But then. He broke it.
Abrupt, messy, like he couldn’t take it anymore.
“Fuck—can’t—need to see you—now—”
And then… rip.
Your eyes widened as he grabbed the front of your uniform, fingers curling into the fabric, and yanked.
The sound of buttons flying off echoed down the empty hall, bouncing across the marble like little beads of surrender.
Your uniform fell open.
Exposed. Raw. Offered.
Your bra barely held you, straps sliding off your shoulders, lace thin and damp from sweat.
Bucky didn’t waste a second.
He shoved the cups down roughly, hands shaking as he dragged them under your tits, eyes locked like he was seeing them for the first time.
“Holy fuck,” he breathed.
And then—his mouth.
Hot and open, tongue dragging across your nipple before he sucked it in, lips sealing around it with a deep, desperate moan.
You arched into him, head falling back with a gasp.
“James—”
His other hand wasn’t idle—it came up to your other breast, fingers tweaking and rolling your nipple until you were squirming on the cabinet, cunt clenching around him with every wet, messy pull of his mouth.
He groaned into your skin, teeth grazing the sensitive bud before flicking it with his tongue, suckling, pulling it deeper like he was trying to drink from you.
“These tits,” he growled, mouth moving to the other one, tongue swirling. “These fucking tits—used to jerk off just thinking about them—”
You whimpered, thighs tightening around his waist.
He was still fucking into you, deep and slow now, like he wanted to feel everything. His cock dragged along your walls, thick and pulsing, as he suckled greedily at your breast, spit and sweat slicking your skin.
“So full for me,” he whispered, looking up through his lashes, eyes wild. “You ever let anyone else suck ’em like this?”
You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.
Because he already knew.
He was still sucking on your tit when your nails raked down his covered back. You were so close it hurt.
Your pussy was a dripping mess around him, slick clinging to his cock with every brutal thrust. The cabinet rocked beneath you. The sound of your skin slapping together echoed down the marble hallway like something animalistic.
“James—fuck—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—”
His mouth left your nipple with a lewd pop, breath hot and frantic as he looked at you. Eyes dark. Hair soaked. Jaw tight.
“Not gonna—fuck—not gonna stop—you feel too good—”
His hips snapped forward harder now, the slap of him against your thighs violent, punishing.
And then his hand found your throat.
Not choking. Just holding. Fingers pressing lightly against the sides, tilting your chin up to make you look at him.
“You’re gonna cum on my cock,” he panted, voice raw. “And then I’m gonna fill you up. You fucking hear me?”
You moaned, nails digging into his shoulders.
“You gonna take it like a good girl?” he growled. “Gonna let me fuck you full?”
That was it.
Your body went rigid— Toes curling. Eyes rolling back.
Your orgasm hit like a fucking explosion.
“James—oh fuck—I’m cumming—”
Your cunt clenched down on him so tight he almost collapsed.
“Shit—shit—fuck—” he choked, thrusts stuttering.
You didn’t stop him. You couldn’t. You wrapped your arms around his neck, held him tight, and rode it out as he fucked you through it.
And then—
He followed you.
With a snarl, his hips slammed forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and you felt it—
Hot. Flooding.
Spurt after spurt of cum, thick and heavy, filling you so deep it was leaking out before he even pulled back.
“Fuck—baby—fuck—I’m cumming—”
His forehead pressed to yours, breath mixing, his body twitching through the aftershocks as he spilled every last drop inside you.
His breath was still ragged.
But his thrusts had slowed, reduced to slow, shallow rocks—almost like he didn’t want to leave you. Didn’t want that connection to break.
And then he nuzzled. Right into the crook of your neck. Like a cat. Like a boy.
“James,” you teased, your voice soft, breathless. “You gonna fall asleep in my cunt?”
He hummed, lips pressed to your throat.
“Wouldn’t be a bad way to fall asleep.”
You laughed, hand lazily stroking the back of his head as his mouth pressed sweet, worshipful kisses to your neck, then your collarbone, then the tops of your breasts—each one slower than the last.
Soft. Clingy. Desperate.
He sighed again, breath hot against your skin.
“Fuck… missed this,” he murmured. “Missed you. Missed this body. This mouth. This pussy—”
“Careful, James,” you said with a smirk, brushing hair from his sweaty forehead. “You sound in love.”
His head lifted. His lips, still wet, curled.
“Maybe I am.”
And then he dipped back down, tongue teasing over your nipple before placing a slow, warm kiss right between your breasts.
He sighed against your chest again, nose brushing the skin above your heart.
“Two fucking days,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and rough. “Been home for two days and you didn’t even look at me.”
His tone was too casual. Too careful.
“Why were you hiding from me?”
You turned your head—just slightly.
Just enough to avoid his kiss.
And your voice, when it came, was silken and sharp, laced with a bitterness you hadn’t bothered to hide.
“Didn’t want to interrupt,” you muttered. “You seemed busy… with Miss Sinclair.”
He stilled.
Just for a moment.
That petty venom sat heavy in the air. And you knew it would hit him.
It did.
He huffed—a soft, frustrated exhale against your chest—and his hands tightened on your waist as he shifted up, dragging his mouth over your skin like he could wipe the accusation away.
He kissed your breast again. Then your collarbone. Then the curve of your throat.
Your jaw. And finally—your mouth.
It was messy.
Open.
Tongue slow and insistent, tasting the remnants of your slick still on his lips, the warmth of your body still wrapped around him.
“Don’t,” he whispered into your mouth.
He kissed you again. “Don’t do that.”
His hands cupped your face now, thumbs stroking your cheeks.
“You think a girl like her could take me from you?”
His voice was so sure.
So firm.
And when he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searched yours like they needed to prove it.
He nudged his nose against yours.
A soft breath fell between you.
“There’s no one else. There’s never been anyone else.”
You let him kiss you.
Let him pour every ounce of devotion, desperation, and utter obsession into that slow, lingering press of his lips.
But when he pulled back — breathless, eyes glazed over, lips swollen — your smirk had already returned.
That slow, seductive little curve.
The one that made his heart race and his cock twitch, even now, when he was still buried inside you—thick and twitching, your bodies sticking together with sweat and cum.
You leaned up, fingers curling in the back of his hair again, and kissed him.
Not soft. Not sweet. Teasing.
You nipped his bottom lip just enough to make him groan, then pulled back just far enough to look him in the eyes.
“Always so sentimental,” you murmured, eyes half-lidded. “Still such a romantic underneath that rich boy act.”
He blinked, still breathless, dazed—like he didn’t know whether to be offended or turned on.
“You know I fucking hate when you do that,” he muttered, lips brushing yours.
“Do what?” you asked, voice syrupy sweet, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Say the truth?”
You laughed softly, licking into another kiss — this one dirtier, wetter, your tongue teasing his, pulling him back in just long enough to leave him dizzy.
“You love it.”
He just looked at you—flushed, panting, completely ruined—and whispered, “You know I do.”
His hips twitched. Still buried in your cunt. Still pulsing.
And hardening again.
Headcanons 🖤🤍
— pre fic: he met you when he came home for summer break from boarding school. a nerdy loser at a rich private school. he was eighteen, you were twenty-two
— you were the first woman to ever make him ache. and every glance, every moan in the dark, every moment his cock twitched at the sound of your heels? it was just another thread tying him to you.
— when you took his virginity, he wasn't confident, he wasn't experienced. but he was completely yours.
— he was overwhelmed. whimpering. he came too fast, and looked devastated about it — until you cupped his jaw and reassured him
— post fic: you don’t trap him because you’re desperate. you trap him because you’re bored.
— you’ve had his money. his tongue. his obsession. now? you want his name, his babies, his entire goddamn future.
— and the wildest part? he wants it too. he thinks the idea of you carrying his child is sacred. Like he’s being chosen.
— he proposes with some ridiculous 5-carat heirloom ring from the family vault. then throws a tantrum when you call it “a bit much.”
— his parents stop fighting after the third grandchild.
— by the fifth, they just send you jewelry and call you “darling.”
Maid!reader inspired by my queen who deserved better: moira o’hara
Summary: Desperate to outrun a secret that could cost you your life, you seek refuge in a small mountain town. Its deep forests and small cabins make it the perfect place to hide, but the travel website hadn’t mentioned anything about the quiet, burly lumberjack that wouldn’t leave your thoughts. No one had warned Bucky about you either.
Warnings: Beefy!bucky, angst, references to death/crime, injury, toxicity, eventual smut (minors dni, marked **), a bit of slow burn!!
summary: based on this request — as bucky’s best friend, you had the honor of being subjected to his constant teasing and charms, none of which you thought were truthful. it all comes to a head when he starts distancing himself from you after a night out.
warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, piv, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, pull out game is very strong, praise, pet names (sweetheart, baby, doll, pretty girl, handsome), alcohol consumption, language, bucky big flirt in this fic, reader is a little dramatic, jealous bucky, you and bucky have an? argument?, no use of y/n
word count: 11.6k
a/n: YIPPPEEE my first request finished <3 (everyone disregard that it took me like two weeks to finish this i got stuck at the argument scene and didn't know how to progress bc i didnt wanna make bucky an asshole)
masterlist
Distance is not something that you know when it comes to Bucky. In fact, your first meeting with him was him pretending to be your boyfriend.
You had a particularly rough day at work. You weren’t with your friends or anyone else– you just wanted to spend a night alone at the bar near your apartment before going home for the night. However, men in New York just didn’t enjoy giving you a chance of peace.
You leaned away from the man that was giving you advances that you didn’t want, trying to deny drinks that you were sure he had tampered with. You gave dry responses to the man that you don’t even remember anymore, but you supposed you have to thank him.
A scent of cedarwood and clean soap filled your nostrils as a warm arm gently slipped over your shoulders. A body was beside yours, standing protectively. Someone that you didn’t know.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, giving you a small smile. His words were spoken loud, as if he was giving a performance. “Thanks for waiting for me. Who’s your friend?”
You blinked at him, momentarily thrown off. Then, you saw the look in his eyes. He was giving you an out. In a matter of a few seconds, you weighed your options. It was either this man with dangerously striking blue eyes that smelled good, or the drunkard that smelled like throw up and shit. So, you leaned into this stranger’s embrace, gave him a pretty smile, and hummed.
“Didn’t wait for too long, baby,” you sighed. “Missed you.”
You didn’t even answer the question about your “friend,” and the two of you just ignored him until he took the hint, and walked away. Except the hint was your savior glaring at him with murderous intent in his eyes. You didn’t know it at the time, but Bucky was fully capable of committing those kinds of crimes for you.
When the drunkard was far enough away, his arm slid off your shoulders, his hand moving down your back, but not low enough to make you uncomfortable.
“Can I buy you a drink?” you asked him, grateful. “You kinda saved me back there, handsome.”
He laughed at your words. “I was going to ask you if you wanted a drink since you just went through something traumatizing, pretty girl.”
“I’ll pay for yours, you pay for mine?” you offered.
“Deal,” he grinned.
The two of you introduced yourselves to each other not too long afterwards, toasted, and found out that you were both alone that night. Bucky spent the rest of the night by your side at the bar, the two of you just chatting.
It was the start of a friendship that you weren’t looking for, but welcomed easily with open arms. Bucky was easy to talk to, easy to get along with, and he was comfortable for you to be around.
Around the beginning of your friendship, you noticed he would sometimes come to hang out with you with a busted lip or a cut on his face. You were sure there was another injury somewhere under the layers of clothes he was wearing, too. When you finally asked– when you finally felt ready to ask, he was honest with you when he told you what he did for work. At first, you thought he was shitting with you. Then, he told you to look up his name online.
“You’re ancient,” you said, your eyes falling on the birthdate of the man titled as Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th Infantry Unit in World War II. Then, the name of the Winter Soldier came next on the articles you were reading.
“Yes, because every man wants a beautiful woman to call them old, sweetheart,” he said, rolling his eyes at you.
“You look good for being over a century old though, handsome,” you grinned.
“I’m like, ninety-something. Don’t age me up.”
Bucky showed you his metal arm that night. He took off the gloves he wore, and took off the jacket that seemed to be glued to his body. You inspected the dark metal in awe– asked if you could touch it.
He was patient with you. Answered all of your questions. You learned that he could feel sensations on the prosthetic– that his friends in Wakanda made sure of it. He told you it was made of vibranium, which was the same material made of Captain America’s shield– his best friend.
You learned a lot about Bucky that night. That night, you became more than just his friend. You became someone important to him. He didn’t know it, but he was already important to you before the confessions of his past.
He asked you if you were scared of him. If you wanted him to leave.
“Where would you go if you left?” you asked, frowning at him. “We’re supposed to watch those shitty reality shows tonight. Are you going to leave me to watch them by myself?”
You’ve never felt more relieved to see that smile come back to his face, to watch the tension leave his shoulders. Bucky shifted on the couch, assuming the same position that you two always did.
Distance was not something that you two were familiar with from the start of your friendship together. Whenever you waited for him at your meeting spots, he would come up behind you like some sort of ghost. You started to get used to it– being randomly held by him.
“Sweetheart,” he would greet you, an arm slipping over your shoulders. “Missed me?”
“Take a lap, Sarge,” you’d tell him, shoving his arm off of you only to loop your arm through his. “Who would miss your face around here?”
“Ouch,” he chuckled, shaking his head at you. “And here I thought– I believed you when you said I was handsome.”
“Oh, you are,” you hummed, tugging him along to get in line for the aquarium– Bucky’s choice for your hangout that day. “I’m trying to keep you humble.”
Most of your time would be spent hanging out in your apartment. The two of you would talk about anything and everything. Well– you were talking. Bucky was listening to you.
“Sounds a little stressful,” he said, patting his lap once you were finished with your long winded tirade about how your girl friends were horrible on night outs, and you weren’t looking forward to next Saturday night.
“Very,” you agreed, and dropped your head on his thigh, just as he was indicating for you to do.
You closed your eyes, sighing deeply as he started to card his hands through your hair, gently massaging your scalp. To comfort you, maybe. You were certain that he had no idea how to navigate the struggles of a friend group of five women– your four friends– that were trying to get laid, while you were desperately trying to make sure none of them ended up kidnapped or dead by the end of the night.
“You gonna find someone to spend the night with on Saturday, too?” he murmured to you, and you opened your eyes.
You raised an eyebrow at him, and smiled teasingly. “Why? You want me to include you in the same girl talk debrief that the other girls get on Sunday mornings?”
“Gross,” he scoffed, clasping his entire hand over your face, making your entire body jolt with surprise.
“You’re the one that asked,” you huffed. You grabbed his wrist, pulling it away from your face and raising it up in the air. Bucky let you, his limb being pliant under your touch as he allowed you to flail it around like it was made of nothing at all. You watched as his fingers moved like noodles in the air, mildly amused for a few moments. “I’d tell you if you’re really interested, y’know.”
“I’m just asking so I know where you’ll be, doll. You’re stressin’ about your friends, so let me stress about you,” he said, his voice going softer for just a moment.
You stopped thrashing his hand around the air, and looked at him. He was looking down at you, eyes never leaving your face. There was something unreadable in his gaze that made you pause. Your lips parted, closed, then you gave him a smile.
“I’ll text you if I go home with someone, handsome. I don’t think I will, but I’ll let you know if I do,” you promised him, dropping his hand to your stomach.
Bucky hummed, a little noncommittally as he patted your abdomen a few times before resting completely. His other hand continued to run through your hair, sending shivers down your spine.
“I’m sure it won’t be difficult for you if you do decide for it,” Bucky said. “Guys flirt with you all the time.”
“That was one time, and I was alone at the worst bar on the street, Buck. It wasn’t even flirting. That was harassment,” you corrected him, raising an eyebrow.
Bucky shrugged. “You’re a little oblivious when people flirt with you, pretty girl.”
The rest of the night was spent arguing over the fact that you were not oblivious towards men flirting with you. Bucky was very adamant that you were. You denied all accusations like a politician that had something to hide.
Neither of you managed to find common ground, and you ended up falling asleep on his lap. Woke up the next morning to find that Bucky didn’t leave. In fact, he didn’t even move you off his lap. He fell asleep, sitting upright, and refused to move in fear of waking you up. He refused to accept any apology from you and swore your couch was comfortable. You disagreed, but quickly shut up when he said that it was better than the hard dirt grounds of World War II.
You hated it when Bucky pulled that shit on you. Bucky loved doing it. He always had a smug grin on his face.
Other times would include quieter moments. Where you both ended up in your bed. By this point in your friendship, Bucky had a drawer in your dresser of spare, comfortable clothes. He would get changed in pajamas for the night, and you two would be laying in bed. Bucky would be reading one of your more raunchy fantasy novels with confusion all over his face as to why you read these books, but still continued to turn the page. He’d have his head against your shoulder, and you’d scroll through your phone watching videos before falling asleep.
Flirting and touching was his default, you believed. Your assumption was only strengthened when he told you stories about the forties, and how he used to try to get Steve to go out on dates with girls that he set him up with. You managed to get him to admit that he was quite the charmer back in the forties.
The only time there wasn’t any flirting was when he opened up about himself– when the conversation went serious on both of your ends. Then, the banter would stop and you both would give each other your undivided attention.
The touching wouldn’t stop, though. Even if he was the one leading the conversation, exposing you to the depths of his mind, he would play with your fingers. Touch your hair. You figured it was to busy himself from the fact that he was being so vulnerable with you. You never brought attention to it, allowed him to do what he needed to get through the words that he was forcing out of his throat– to tell you the things that he wanted you to hear.
You generally assumed that Bucky was just a touch starved man once you learned about his past. Coupled with him returning to the world and coming back to his personality, you figured he was just returning to his roots as a charismatic guy. You never thought anything of it, if you were being honest. Until you did.
You should’ve realized it when you started taking pictures of him during your outings together. Your camera that only shot still life or animals gravitated towards him without even noticing. Your very first photo of him was a candid shot.
Bucky wasn’t looking at you. He was smiling at the cat that you both had taken interest in, that was at the park that you two were strolling through. He had crouched down, holding a hand out for the cat to come to him if it wanted to. And it did. Came and sniffed his palm, then nuzzled the warmth of his hand. Bucky smiled. A soft, gentle smile that took your breath away– and you took the picture without thinking.
It started your collection of photos of Bucky.
Bucky, the only person you had ever taken pictures of. The only person you wanted to take pictures of. He became your subject matter overnight. Your phone camera roll was filled with photos of him from your apartment— pictures of him on your couch, in your kitchen cooking, asleep in your bed.
Your favorite picture of him right now was when the two of you went out to a bookstore together. He was walking down the aisles in front of you, and you meant to take a picture of his back. Another candid photo, another photo where he was unknowing. Except, he turned around. He was going to point out something to you, but stopped when he saw you had your camera in hand. You were caught.
“What are you doing, pretty girl?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at you.
“Smile. You’re looking exceptionally handsome right now,” you said, lifting your camera to your eye, so you could see him through the viewfinder.
Bucky let out a small laugh, shaking his head at your words. However, he didn’t argue. Didn’t fight back. His hands found their way naturally into his pockets. He tilted his head at you in a kind of boyish way that reminded you of the old photos you saw at the Smithsonian when the two of you went together.
And just like you asked him to, he smiled. Not at your camera, but at you. Your heart stuttered for a few moments, your finger froze over the button, and you had to remind yourself to take the picture.
You were forever glad that you did.
You stared at the photo for a long time, smiling to yourself– smiling back at Bucky’s face caught in time. You had the picture printed out on a mini Polaroid printer, and attached it to the back of your phone, but turned around so only you would know what was there. That was enough for you. You simply wanted to carry his smile with you wherever you went.
“What does it mean when your closest guy friend is always touching you, but doesn’t seem to like… make a move?” you brought up one day during a Sunday brunch with the girls.
Your friends looked up at you, raising an eyebrow. It was only the three out of the five of your group– you’d known the two of them since the beginning of high school. The three of you were generally closer since the other two had joined your little circle during the last couple years of university.
“Is this about your mysterious best friend that you won’t tell us anything about?” Leah teased you, a fat grin on her face. “What was his name again? Jamie?”
“James,” you corrected, clearing your throat. “And there’s nothing to tell about him. Just answer the question.”
“Well,” Mel hummed, picking up her mimosa. “What kind of touches are we talking about? Like just accidental hand brushing or…?”
You were thankful that Mel was taking you seriously at least.
“Like… Cuddling on the couch during movies. Head on each other’s lap when we talk. He has a drawer at my place because he sleeps over sometimes– not intentionally. It just gets late, and I tell him it’s fine and to just stay over. So I told him to just bring a change of clothes, and I just wash his stuff whenever he uses them.”
“He sleeps… on your couch?” Leah asked slowly.
“No, we sleep in my bed together. Like when you guys come over…” you trailed off, voice dying down, looking down at your breakfast.
“Like when we— when all of us cuddle in your fucking bed? Like when we were in college cramped onto a twin bed?” Leah demanded, eyebrows shooting to her hairline.
You don’t answer her. You stab a fork into your pancakes, and poke the inside of your cheek with your tongue awkwardly. You can’t look at either of them in the eyes right now. They’re a little too judgmental for your taste.
“How does he talk to you? Like sweetly or?” Mel asked, frowning at you.
“I mean– he calls me all these pet names. All the time. Calls me pretty and beautiful.”
“So you sleep next to the guy in the same bed, he’s always touching you, calls you all these sweet and cute things– never popped a boner or anything? Never tried to get a little handsy with you?” Leah asked.
“Leah!” you hissed, looking around at the other patrons in the restaurant to see if anyone heard her. “We are in public. Can you keep your voice down?”
“No, but she’s right though,” Mel said quickly, placing a hand down on the table. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she leans in, “Is he gay?”
You’re taken aback for a moment. “Uh– I… I don’t know. It never came up. I don’t think so? He’s had girlfriends before.”
You’re suddenly brought back to memories of your conversations with Bucky where he talks about Steve and Sam very fondly.
He has plenty of memories with Steve that he speaks of with nostalgia. There are times when he talks about not Captain America, but Steve Rogers with so much pride in his voice that you can’t help but smile. At this point, you were certain that you could meet Steve on the street at any time, and you would know him like he was your own childhood friend.
Then there’s Sam. Bucky swears he hates the man, but you can hear the smile trying to crack through his words. Like he’s trying to hide how he really feels for a long winded bit that he’s doing. Despite all his sharp words, Bucky still talks about Sam. That has to count for something.
“He might swing both ways, maybe leaning towards men,” Leah hummed, leaning back in her seat like the code was just cracked. “I mean, has to be, right? You’ve known him for almost what, an entire year now and nothing’s happened? Men don’t just befriend women at this age just to be friends.”
“I disagree with that last statement, but I do think that you’re reading too much into him,” Mel quickly said, nodding. “Men and women can definitely be friends without expecting anything from each other.”
You drown out the rest of their talk– the debate of whether or not men and women can just be friends. You’re spiraling. The polaroid hidden in the back of your phone case is weighing your purse down exponentially as the realization hits you.
You were in the perpetual friendzone. Bucky didn’t bat an eye at you. He flirted with you, touched you without flinching, and laid down next to you in your own bed without his gaze lingering.
This was a man that was raised in the forties, and if you were correct in the little that you knew about that time period, anything premarital was some sort of sin. People were shamed. Disowned. Stoned. Excommunicated from the church.
And here Bucky was– doing just that. Doing all that and much more.
Yeah.
You were fucked.
A light buzz within your purse caught your attention. You reached for your phone, eyes falling onto the notification of the man you were just talking about.
You read the message over and over again, unable to believe what you were seeing for a few moments.
Handsome [11:32am]: Stark’s throwing a party next Friday night. Do you want to come meet everyone?
The jet landed down, and the sound of the decompressors of the jet doors opening signaled the end of a successful mission.
While the others clambered off with ease, good moods, and joy, Bucky couldn’t help but feel a wave of irritation wash through his body. The mission wasn’t difficult by any means, but the load of missions was what pissed him off.
It’d been two weeks since he last saw you.
Bucky was simply surviving off of stupid images that he learned were called ‘memes’ that you sent him every day. That, and your cute good morning! and sleep well :) text messages which never failed to truly make him have a great morning and a well rested sleep.
Sometimes, if he got lucky, you sent him a picture of yourself. The first time that you did, he had to Google how to save images to his camera roll. After that, it was over for you. It didn’t matter what kind of picture that you sent. Even if you weren’t the full subject, he saved it.
There was a picture where you were only partially in it, and you were trying to show off the matcha lavender drink that you bought. Another photo where your face was cut off at the top because you were cuddling with Mel’s puppy at her house. Some more stupidly angled photos of just your eyes— Bucky learned those ones being sent to him meant you wanted his attention.
He also had pictures that he took of you. None of which, you were aware that he took. It was easy to hide. You often walked ahead of him when you were together, or your attention was focused on something else. It wasn’t difficult for a trained assassin to steal a photo or two.
Besides that, you slept like the dead next to him. Slept on his shoulder, and his lap like you owned the space. Bucky had a collection of you sleeping, though he wouldn’t admit it. It sounds creepy, but he found it endearing.
The first time he was in your bed, and you sleeping beside him— he couldn’t fucking close his eyes.
Were you stupid? That oblivious?
Bucky knew that you were comfortable with him, but to invite him into your bed without assuming anything? Yes, he was your friend, yes he was respectful, but he’d also been flirting with you for months on end waiting for you to pick up on the hints.
Obviously, he wasn’t going to do anything. With each repeated time, it got a little bit easier. He found himself being able to take a small nap beside you in your bed.
It was a comforting feeling— the warmth radiating off of your body. He was surrounded by the smell of your clean sheets, the scent of the laundry detergent that you used mixing with the shampoo you washed your hair with, and the perfume that stuck to your skin.
You moved in your sleep. Towards him. He would wake up to find you curled up beside him, like you would be if the two of you were cuddling on the couch and watching something. Bucky never pushed you away during these moments, but he never pulled you closer.
Part of him felt guilty, if he really thought about it.
You were normal. Someone that trusted him outside of the heroics. You treated him like any other guy on the street. You didn’t expect him to be anything else other than your friend.
And Bucky was. He was a damn good friend to you, and he considered you one of his closest friends, too.
Simply, somewhere along the way… it shifted. He couldn’t tell when. There was no epiphany. Just a quiet realization one day. When he looked at you… he saw peace. A possible future with him, as something more than just a weapon.
Beside you, he felt different. As if the years and the war hadn’t affected him, hadn’t altered his brain in some sort of way that made him headstrong and tough around the edges the way he acted with the rest of his friends.
With you, he felt softer. As if the walls were broken down without any fanfare or gracious ending. There wasn’t anything special that you needed to do or say to him. You just existed, and made breathing easier for him.
Bucky quietly decided that even if you never looked his way, that it was okay. He would stay by your side, simply as another friend of yours if that’s all you’d ever want from him. Your presence alone was all he needed. You, without even realizing it, gave him something that he didn’t know was possible anymore.
You gave him hope.
“We’re gonna meet your so-called friend that you always bail on us tonight?” Sam asked as Bucky came out into the common areas.
The mission was finally showered off of him, and Bucky felt a bit lighter now. He just needed to change into that semi-formal attire that Stark shoved into his hands— the same clothes that were tied with a threat if Bucky didn’t wear it.
“She said she would,” Bucky replied.
“Are we sure she’s even real?” Natasha asked, walking by to grab an apple from the fruit bowl. “Pretty sure Barnes is just strolling through New York getting fresh air by himself these days.”
“Sure,” Bucky shrugged, ignoring the chuckles of laughter at Natasha’s half-hearted jab.
Bucky fished his phone out of his pocket, turning it back on. There should be some texts from you, waiting for him after his mission. And he was right.
Pretty Girl [12:03pm]: what do the other girls wear
Pretty Girl [12:05pm]: i googled iron man parties and they look rly fucking fancy sarge WHAT DOES BLACK WIDOW WEAR
Pretty Girl [12:27pm]: i think ur saving the world… save my outfit when ur free pls </3
Bucky couldn’t help the smile that came onto his face, trying to imagine the panicked look on yours as you floated through your closet.
Bucky [6:42pm]: Natasha and Wanda wear dresses.
Your reply comes instantaneously. Bucky still can’t understand how you text so quickly.
Pretty Girl [6:42pm]: like?? floor length???
Bucky [6:45pm]: No. I’m wearing just a button up and slacks, if that makes you feel better.
Pretty Girl [6:45pm]: what color
Bucky [6:46pm]: Black
Pretty Girl [6:47pm]: mmm.. very nice. brings out your eyes
Pretty Girl [6:47pm]: i’ll see you in a couple hours :)
Bucky hated Stark’s parties with a passion. Despised them. This time? He couldn’t wait for it to come any sooner.
In fact, he turned straight back to his room and got ready like a teenager waiting for his very first date to come. And he sat there, on the edge of his bed, waiting for the time to come.
When the sounds of the party started, he went outside. Slowly but surely, guests started filtering in. Tony put on his best facade, greeting everyone with much vigor. Bucky didn’t understand how he could do it every single time.
“Why are you hanging by the door for?” Sam asked, clapping a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “She’ll come when she comes— and she’ll find you when she does.”
“Just… making sure she gets in safe,” Bucky grunted.
“Ugh. Just drink, dude,” Sam groaned, pushing a glass of amber liquid into his hands as he guided him towards a group of them— Natasha, Clint, and Rhodey. All three of them were sitting together at the conversation pit, chatting together.
Bucky supposed he could wait here. You would text him if you didn’t find him right away, too. He relaxed beside Sam, though he was still on edge.
He couldn’t focus too much on the conversation in front of him. They were talking about Rhodey’s most recent date, if he was correct. A disaster, by the sounds of it. Bucky let out a chuckle when they all laughed, just to sound like he was absorbed into the conversation just like the rest of them.
“Speaking of dating— looks like Cap’s found someone he’s finally interested in,” Natasha said, a smirk on her face. “She’s cute. Anyone know who she is?”
Bucky’s eyebrows raised. “No way. Steve?”
“Turn around,” Natasha said, pointing behind him. “They’ve been chatting for the past ten minutes.”
Both Bucky and Sam turned to look, only for a pit to form in Bucky’s stomach.
You were there. Absolutely beautiful— dressed so effortlessly stunningly in a way that made the breath get caught in his throat. Then again, you could be in pajamas and an old hoodie, and Bucky would be a fool for you.
You sat at the bar counter, absolutely flushed. Not from drinking too much alcohol, no, the drink in your hand was completely full. The skin of your cheeks are tinted a shade of red from embarrassment and shyness in a way that Bucky had never been able to see before. Your eyelashes are fluttering against your cheeks as you struggle to maintain eye contact with Bucky’s oldest and longest friend.
Steve stood beside you, so fucking close. He leaned onto the bar counter with an elbow, a small smile on his face as he talked to you. His eyes never left your face, even when you couldn’t look him in the eyes.
The conversation between you two is never ending. You’re both responding in quick succession despite the fluttering party around you, ignoring the noise and the chatter. You two are completely absorbed in each other’s words. It’s like nothing else matters.
You say something that makes Steve chuckle. His head hangs low just for a moment, and he shakes his head. You have a shy smile on your face as you trace the rim of your glass, speaking to him softly. You’re nervous. You’re shy. You look almost a little scared of what he’ll say next.
When he does respond, you let out a soft laugh, pulling your lip between your teeth before shaking your head shyly. Your cheeks are getting redder by the second.
Then, Steve leans in— whispers something in your ear.
You freeze for a second, your lips part, and you stare at Steve. You’re flustered. Steve’s grin goes even wider as he pulls back to look at you, and he finishes the rest of his drink.
Steve looks quite satisfied with himself for your reaction, the pure flushed and embarrassed look on your face. You’re unable to react for a few moments before you’re turning away from him quickly, unable to look him in the eyes— and Steve is laughing at you while you’re fanning your face with your hands.
“Since when has Steve had moves like that?” Sam asked, eyebrows raised. “She’s like butter for him.”
Bucky has never seen you like this before. There’s never been a moment where you have ever acted like this for him before. Not once, not ever.
Despite the fact you’re so embarrassed at whatever he had to say to you, you’re still talking to him. You can’t even look him in the eyes, but you’re responding to each and every single thing he’s saying to you. Just like Sam said— you’re melting for his words.
Bucky has a pit of despair in his gut. He has to look away. He can’t watch the scene in front of him anymore. A long breath enters and exits his chest as he slowly tries to think rationally.
Rationality fully leaves when Sam’s voice breaks his meditation.
“There he is!” Sam exclaimed, standing. “Introduce us to your friend, Steve!”
Steve’s walking over, with you. Steve’s hand is on your back, leading you over to the group of them. You look relaxed, the blush is mostly gone from your cheeks, but Bucky can’t focus on anything except for the fact you’re extremely close to Steve.
Sam moves to greet Steve, and two hands clap together before chests hit in a brother hug, their other hands hitting each other’s back.
“Well, I’m not the one who should introduce her,” Steve chuckled, shaking his head.
You give Sam a polite smile before sidestepping both men, going around them, dropping onto the couch beside Bucky. Immediately, he shifted over to give you space. You notice, and Bucky tries not to react to your gaze.
As you settle, you give a nod to Natasha and Rhodey on the opposite couch. Natasha gives you a smile in return, but she looks a bit confused.
You introduce yourself as Bucky’s friend— the one that Bucky goes to see all the time.
“The one that’s not real?” Sam asked, surprised.
“You tell them I’m not real?” you asked, looking at Bucky as you lean back into the cushions.
“They say it on their own,” Bucky muttered. You stared at him for a few moments. You heard the edge to his voice, and he cursed in his head for being so blatant with his irritation.
“Are you okay?” you whispered, your voice softer, only for him to hear. He wanted to scream. Not at you, but at himself.
Bucky doesn’t look at you. Instead, he gets up, handing you his drink before walking away without another word. He can feel your eyes on him, feel the way you straightened on the couch in panic as he left without warning.
He fucking hates this.
Only two tells. He only needed to do one thing, say one thing, and you immediately could tell something was off about him. He hates even more that he just walked away from you without even saying a word, but he needs a second to collect his thoughts.
For the rest of the party, Bucky avoided you like the plague. He felt your eyes on him. He refused to look at you. Even when the crowd thinned out, and the party dwindled down to just the team and you, Bucky avoided you.
Eventually, you took your leave.
It was Steve who saw you to the door. Steve offered to give you a ride home. You rejected, giving him a smile and saying you’ll just call an Uber or something, and wait in the lobby. Steve wasn’t having it. Something about it being too late at night, and he was right.
Bucky could see, out of the corner of his eye, you looking at him. He didn’t look back.
So, you left with Steve, Steve’s jacket on your shoulders to keep you warm for when the night air hit you.
Shortly after, Bucky excused himself to his room, and his phone went off in his pocket. He re-read your text, feeling more and more like a fucking asshole with each read.
He tossed his phone to the side, dragging a hand down his face. Bucky couldn’t answer you. Not tonight.
Pretty Girl [1:32am]: is everything okay?
Just like you thought, you and Steve became extremely good friends right away. You practically knew him and everything about him right away from the very beginning, thanks to Bucky.
You didn’t even mean to approach him first, but your eyes found him when you were looking in the crowd when you arrived. He was attempting to get a drink when you dropped in on the bar, and opened up with—
“Is Bucky gay and not telling me?”
Steve choked on the water he originally had in his hands before looking at you. You belatedly introduced yourself to him, telling him who exactly you were to Bucky before repeating yourself, asking him if he and Bucky were dating or if Bucky and Sam were dating or if all three of them were in some… throuple… situation.
Thankfully, Steve took it like a champ. He laughed so loud it made you grin before he shook his head and confirmed that Bucky is indeed single, and has been since the forties.
Then, he asked you why you even assumed.
Your next question—
“How the hell do I get your dumbass friend to like me then?”
Steve looked intrigued at that point. Leaned against the bar, hooked on your every word. You told him about your situation with him— how touchy Bucky was with you. The cute names he called you. How he was always at your place.
You told him how your friends thought he must not like girls, which is why you even had to ask Steve in the first place.
Then he whispers to you, in your ear for only you to hear—
“I’m certain he’s already in love with you if he’s doing all of that.”
Steve had such a big grin on his face after saying it— and he couldn’t stop telling you how happy he was to meet you. How he’d noticed how Bucky was just a generally brighter guy these days, but wouldn’t say much about you, as if he wanted to keep you to himself.
Steve said he understood why Bucky fell for you, from how you were talking about him.
“My words don’t mean much,” Steve said, smiling at you, “but thank you for looking at Bucky like this. Like he’s a man.”
That first half of the party was almost like a blur for you. You had practically reached enlightenment just by speaking to Captain America. All of your world’s issues had been solved by your conversation with the man, and you could only remember bits and pieces from how scrambled your brain was.
You were so embarrassed from admitting all of it to Bucky’s friend. Your feelings about having to ask for advice on how to get Bucky to look your way to Steve telling you that you already had Bucky wrapped around your finger. All of it had you on a euphoric level that you had never experienced before.
Yet, if Steve’s so fucking certain, then why is Bucky ignoring you?
You remembered the second half of the party better than the first. Bucky moving away from you on the couch. At first, you thought it was because his friends were around. You tried not to let it bother you– the way that he created distance between the both of you.
Despite the fact your heart was racing because you received verbal confirmation from Bucky’s best friend that Bucky had feelings for you, you tried acting normal. The same way that you always acted with him. Touchy. Casual. The same flirting routine that you two always use.
Yet, you don’t think he looked your way once the entire night. You tried. You desperately tried to corner him, to talk to him. You should’ve known better to try to get the former Winter Soldier alone.
Bucky doesn’t know this because you’ve never told him, but he has read receipts on. You know he’s seen every single one of your text messages. You know he’s read every single one of them the second you’ve sent them, which means there’s no mission.
You’ve gone over a week without contact with him. You’ve gone longer without seeing him, but never without any form of communication. There was always some sort of text or call, something to connect the two of you together.
You didn’t have the clearance to go in and out of the Avengers compound. You couldn’t just waltz in there. All you could do was text and attempt to call him, and wait for him to text you back.
But you don’t want to bother him if he doesn’t want to talk to you anymore. You’re better than that— you’re not going to chase attention from someone who clearly didn’t want yours. You’re still not sure what you did to offend him, but you’d try one last time.
Feelings aside, you valued him deeply as your friend. You thought he felt the same way. You weren’t sure if you were hurt from feeling a friend breakup, or having to get over your crush over him. Either option fucking sucked.
You call him one more time during your lunch break, only for the phone to go immediately to voicemail. You let out a deep sigh, and wait for the prompt to allow you to record your message.
“I’ll stop calling and texting you now,” you said, your heart beating so wildly in your chest you’re certain that your phone’s microphone can pick it up. “I don’t know what I did, but… Yeah. I’ll leave you alone now. I wish you the best, I guess. Stay safe, handsome.”
You hang up, sending the message. You turn your phone off next. You don’t want to know if he’s texted you or called you back, and you don’t trust yourself by just simply turning on the do not disturb feature on your phone. You’re the type to still look at notifications to see if you were disturbed.
You try to power through the rest of your day on autopilot.
Your plan is to complete your menial work tasks. Tasks that should have been so easy to complete without a single bat of an eye, but no. The universe wanted to make your life harder. As if to just laugh at you, add onto your plate, and make you feel even more miserable.
The emails you received from your team were full of dumpster fires that you needed to put out for your clients. You were pulled into emergency meetings that you didn’t have time for. Those same clients were calling you, frantic and fucking pissed that your company wasn’t delivering what you had promised them.
All at the same time, your upper management was cracking down on your boss, who was then taking it out on all of you— and you had no time to deal with his tantrum. You were one fucking person, dealing with your own meltdown in your own personal life, but expected to deal with everyone else’s.
You didn’t get out of work on time. You couldn’t. It was impossible. You had a mountain of tasks that had no end in sight. You didn’t take your final break at the end of the day. Honestly, your head was pounding.
Still, you didn’t go home right away. Didn’t turn your phone back on. You went to the grocery store instead. You couldn’t handle the thought of sitting in your lonely home, by yourself with your own thoughts.
You should’ve just gone home.
You roamed up and down aisles that you didn’t need to go down, only for a rambunctious child to slam into you with an open container of fruit juice in his hands, spilling all over your clothes before falling backwards. The kid’s parent had the audacity to yell at you.
You barely had half the mind to walk away before breaking down in tears yourself because why is your kid drinking unbought juice in the store and running around unsupervised? while the kid’s mom screamed at you to pay for the juice.
You didn’t even buy anything at the store. Just dropped your basket off at the register and left before you ended up exploding. Apologized to the cashier for the inconvenience before making the walk home.
A soft curse fell from your lips as you shoved your key into the door— it was fucking jammed again. You shook the door, tears prickling in your eyes. You were sticky, uncomfortable, angry, overstimulated, and so fucking sad. You’re about to slam your fist into the door in utter rage and frustration when it opens.
“You really need to tell your landlord to fix your door, doll,” Bucky murmured to you, “Even I had trouble getting in earlier.”
You’re staring at him, like a deer caught in headlights. He looks sheepish, eyes trained on the ground at your feet. For a moment, you wonder how the fuck he’s in your apartment. Then you remember you gave him a key a long time ago for emergencies.
Your silence must’ve alerted him. His eyes finally drag upwards, and widen when he sees the state you’re in. His eyebrows furrowed. He’s quiet, for just a moment. Then, his inner thoughts come forth.
“You look like shit.”
“Yeah. Because that’s exactly what I want to fucking hear from you after uncalled for radio silence,” you said dryly, coming to your senses. You watch him cringe at your tone before you push past him, walking into your apartment.
Your work bag is unceremoniously dropped onto the nearest chair, and you shrug off your cardigan next. You can hear Bucky shuffling behind you as you make your way to your bedroom for another change of clothes before you drown yourself in hot water.
By the time you come out of the bathroom, no longer sticky, muscles slightly relaxed from the spray of the water, you find that Bucky had made dinner for the two of you. It’s nothing fancy or extreme– just some pasta and chicken that you definitely didn’t have in your fridge before. You vaguely wondered if he had gone shopping before he even came over.
You want to press him. Tell him to get the fuck out of your house. But God, the food smells good, he looks good in his stupid fucking sweatshirt and jeans that screams boyfriend material, and you’re so tired.
You can feel his eyes on you, cautious. The tension in the air is thick. You could probably eat it for dessert, if you wanted to. For now, you take your time stabbing into the pasta in front of you and bringing it to your lips. You fill your stomach, ignore his stare, and ignore the way that he doesn’t eat his own share of food.
“I got your message,” Bucky finally spoke.
“Great. Why are you here then?” you replied, dropping your fork onto the plate. It clattered loudly against the ceramic, and you finally sat back in your seat. Your arms crossed over your chest as you finally looked at him.
Bucky was still looking at you. His lips were parted, as if he was trying to come up with the words to speak. His fists were clenched on either side of his plate, and then his mouth shut. He took in a deep breath from his nostrils, and shook his head, lowering it as he did.
“Are you here to return my apartment key? Didn’t have to make me dinner to do that. You could’ve slipped it through the mail slot, but whatever. Hand it over,” you said, holding out your hand to him.
His head immediately snapped up, and a crease formed between his eyebrows. He looked hurt– but not in a kicked puppy kind of way. Almost scandalized, like he was offended that you even suggested that to begin with.
“I’m not returning your fuckin’ key,” he responded, voice a little tight.
You frowned, raising your eyebrows at him. You lowered your hand back down, and tilted your head at him as you observed him for a few moments. You were both in a quiet standoff, one that you didn’t fully get.
“I’m sorry, did I misunderstand something between us?” you finally asked, tone clipped. “I’ve texted you. Called you– like an obsessive fucking girlfriend for nearly two weeks now. I can’t even say that you ghosted me because ghosting is a term that you use for people in relationships or people in talking stages, and we clearly aren’t in either of those–”
“What the fuck is ghosting?” he cut you off, exasperated.
“I just fucking told you!” you shouted back, throwing your hands into the air.
Then, you looked at him. Really looked at him. Despite his tone, he was genuine. Confused. He wanted to know, and you were going off on a tangent on him. It wouldn’t be fair to him or you to keep going if he had no clue what you were saying. So, you took in a slow breath of air before you explained.
“It means you ignored me. Fell off the face of the Earth without any explanation– no rhyme or reason. I had no clue what happened to you, or if I did something to hurt you. There was no closure, no understanding. I don’t know what I did to piss you off, so now I’m pissed off at you,” you said, trying to keep your voice as even as possible. “And now, you come into my fucking apartment, make me dinner, and try to act like everything is okay? That’s just a load of bullshit, James. I have to get texts from Steve to make sure that you’re alive, and not dead in some random country!”
Bucky’s eyebrow twitched, and he sat back in his own seat. You watched as he sucked on his teeth, and slowly exhaled.
“You and Steve text? How often does that happen?” he asked, his voice low.
“Are you for real?” you asked, a laugh escaping your lips. You couldn’t even try to mask the confusion that was on your face now. You stared at him, blinking. “Out of everything I just said– that’s what you’re going to take away from that? Not that I’m mad– you’re not even going to apologize?”
“Just answer the question, please,” he murmured, his shoulders rising as he took in another, small breath.
Your eyebrows furrowed as you stared at him. You couldn’t read his face. There was something distant in his eyes. He was guarded, far away, and not the Bucky that you knew.
“I’ve texted him more than you’ve texted me these past couple weeks,” you answered, clenching your jaw. “Which, by the way– you texted me absolutely nothing. So you can guess how often me and Steve text.”
“So you two really hit it off then, huh?” Bucky said, though it sounds more to himself than to you. He’s looking down at this full plate of food now, avoiding your gaze as his tongue is poking at his cheek. He almost looks pissed off.
“What the hell are you even talking about?”
His eyes flickered up. “You and Steve. At the party. That’s where you met, right? He brought you home, didn’t he?”
“He did, since the person that I assumed was going to be my ride home avoided me all night,” you shot back. You could feel your already thinning patience dissolving into nothing at all. “How is this relevant to the conversation that we’re having?”
Silence settled like a stone wall as you stared at each other. The two of you met another dead end to your conversation, with nowhere to go. This was the first time you had ever argued with Bucky like this, and you could feel your relationship with him slipping through your fingertips. You don’t know this side of Bucky. Your agitation was already through the roof, and Bucky was mad about something that you didn’t even understand, but you could see it in his eyes.
Then, you watch his anger dissipate. It cracks, like he’s conceding. Like he doesn’t want to be mad. He’s fighting an internal battle, struggling with himself in his mind. You don’t know which part of him is winning yet.
Bucky scrubs a hand down his face as he slouches in his seat, and rests his elbows on the table, burying his face in his hands for a few moments. He takes two, slow, deep breaths as he tries to compose himself.
“Steve’s a good guy,” he finally spoke through a clenched jaw. “A great guy even. I’m glad you two seem to be getting along.”
Your temper freezes in its place as you stare at him. What?
Bucky lifts his head, lacing his fingers together in front of his mouth. He’s still not looking at you, eyes trained somewhere behind your head.
“I– I haven’t seen someone make him laugh like that in so damn long, and I know you really well, so I don’t doubt that you’ll make him happy either. And I’ve never seen you act so fucking shy in front of guy before, and I’m glad it’s Steve that made you act like that–”
The words are spilling out of Bucky’s mouth faster than you can comprehend. Your mind is trying to keep up with the clusterfuck of information that you’re suddenly receiving from him. You’re doing your best to decipher what he’s saying to you, while sitting in front of you, looking like a sad, lonely, kicked fucking puppy. He looks like you’ve just abandoned him.
“–and God I just wish that it was me that you looked at like that because I’ve been with you this entire time for over a year now, and I’ve been flirting with you every single fucking day that I’m with you and you never seem to notice–”
“You’re jealous?” you finally cut him off, your mind finally catching up with his words. “You’ve been ignoring me because you’re jealous that I was talking to Steve at the party?”
You watch as Bucky’s lips part, and he slowly falls backwards into his seat. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he attempts to catch his breath from the long winded, incoherent rant. He clenches his jaw like he’s about to break his teeth into pieces. Then, he nods once, swallows thickly, and looks you in the eyes. Nervously.
You can't believe what you're hearing. He's jealous. The guy you've been ripping your hair out over, the one you've embarrassed yourself in front of Captain America over is jealous.
You got up from your chair, and went over to your bookshelf. You could feel him watching you as you pulled out one of your photo albums– a black binder. Sleek, inconspicuous, unassuming. You brought it back to the table, dropping it down in front of him before sitting back in your seat, taking a slow breath.
Silently, you gestured for him to open it, looking down at it before looking back at him. You watched as he slowly reached for it, moving his plate away to make more space.
Then, he saw it.
Your possession of candid photos, spanning over the last five months. Just Bucky, and Bucky alone. In nearly all of them, Bucky wasn’t looking at you. You thought that he would have been aware that you were taking the photos, with his assassin senses, but Steve told you otherwise– he trusts you, he said.
You watched as Bucky continued flipping through the photo album, page by page, confusion riddling his features with each turn, each new photo that he saw. There were photos from your excursions together.
The photos taken on your DSLR camera were the ones where he wasn’t facing you. Where he had no clue that you were even pointing the camera at him. These photos were taken outdoors, when you were outside doing something else in the world. At an aquarium. At the park. At a nice cafe that you saw online that you dragged him to. You had made sure the flash was turned off on your camera, made sure that he wouldn’t be able to see you sneaking photos. You always tried to be sure there was something near him that you could pretend to be taking a photo of instead, too.
In some of the recent photos, his face was clearly shown. At some point throughout your process of sneaking photos of him, you realized that he thought you were just tapping away at your screen. It was one of the many benefits that you had from the fact that Bucky didn’t use his phone often, other than to contact you.
These were photos of him in your kitchen when he made dinner or of him on your couch, your legs on his lap. Some photos were of him sleeping on the other side of your bed, completely unaware that you had put your camera to his face
“You don’t take pictures of people,” he murmured, fingers brushing over the photos. “You told me you think people become the fakest version of themselves on camera.”
“You’re right. I don’t. I fucking hate it,” you answered with a shrug. “And they do.”
“Then what’s all this?”
“Photos of you through my eyes– exactly how I see you. An entire collection of it, actually. I hoard those photos. I have more of them that I need to go get developed, and add to that album, actually,” you admitted.
“Why?”
You could only stare at him for a few moments, your heart thumping wildly in your chest, threatening to crawl up your esophagus and show itself to Bucky. He looked like he was putting together the pieces, just as you had done yourself. But he needed the confirmation.
“I asked Steve if you two were dating. That’s what we were talking about at the party.”
You watched as Bucky’s head snapped up towards you, eyebrows raised up to his hairline. You’re certain that if he had water, he would’ve choked like Steve did.
“Sweetheart, what the fuck–”
“And then we kept talking about you,” you cut him off, looking away from him, clearing your throat. “And I asked Steve how I could get you to like me– to notice me– and stop just flirting with me like a friend. He told me that if you were flirting with me at all, there’s a pretty good chance that you already like me. Which is why I got shy.”
You can feel heat crawling up your neck, blossoming under your cheeks, and on either side of your head to your ears. It was your turn to avoid his gaze. You kept your eyes down on your hands, which were folded onto your lap. You could hear your heart in your ears. Your stomach flipped over in your body in unnatural ways, and you wish you didn’t eat any of the food Bucky made.
Then, you saw Bucky’s metal hand on top of yours. You didn’t even hear him stand or get out of his chair. It was moments like this that you forgot how quiet he could be– how he made himself loud for you, how he made his presence known for your own comfort. It was one of the many things that he did for you without you even realizing it.
Your breath hitched as you turned, finding him on one knee beside your chair, looking up at you. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, gently, comfortingly, sweetly, in a way that made your heart stutter in your chest.
You met his eyes. They were soft. Just like how he had looked at you that day in the bookstore, when you told him to smile for you. A small smile was on his lips as he looked up at you, unguarded and raw.
“I’m really sorry, doll,” he whispered, and you released a soft breath. “I didn’t– I should’ve just talked to you instead of running from you. I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. I… didn’t want to be rejected by you.”
“So you thought pushing me away completely would be better?” you shot back with a frown, but there was no real anger to your words, and Bucky could tell.
“Can I make it up to you?” he asked. “Take you on a date? An actual date– maybe one where we can take a photo together instead of you taking ones of me like a creep hiding something.”
A laugh fell from your lips as Bucky squeezed your hands. His smile only grows at the sound of your laughter, and you can’t find it in you to be a brat to him. Not when he’s kneeling beside you, holding your hands, and asking so nicely. Then again, you were always soft for him.
Then, you reached for him. You grabbed him by the collar of his sweatshirt, pulling him up as you leaned down, meeting him somewhere in the middle. His lips are on yours within seconds, and they’re as soft as you had imagined– as you know they are because you’ve put your lip masks on his lips with your fingers more times than you can count. But God, feeling them directly on yours is a different sense of euphoria that you never would’ve known until now.
You slowly slink out of your chair for comfort, until you’re on the floor with Bucky, body pressed against his. Your hands are on his shoulders, his wrapped around your back to hold you tight against him. You’re breathless against his lips, slotted against him perfectly like he was made for you. You could probably stay like this forever. Kissing him slowly in the dining area of your apartment.
When you finally parted, his forehead pressed against yours. Your breaths mingle, fanning against each other’s faces as you look at each other. The tension is back, but different. You both react at the same time.
Bucky dives back in for another kiss, a hand coming to cradle the back of your neck to support you. You can feel his tongue swipe the seam of your lips, requesting entry that you would never deny him. He immediately takes the chance to explore, while your hands explore underneath his clothes, searching for skin.
A low, guttural groan escapes his throat. “This is backwards, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “We should be going on dates first before all of this.”
“Are you complaining?” you asked, hands moving up his abdomen, and resting on his sides.
“No, but I wanna be a gentleman for you, make it up to you for the bullshit I put you through–”
“Technically, we have been going on dates this entire time,” you reassured, peppering a series of kisses along his jaw and down his neck. Bucky lets out a soft sigh, moving his head to the side to allow you space to keep pressing your lips to his skin. “Since we both liked each other, we just never said it out loud.”
You can feel his resolve of being a gentleman breaking with each kiss. His hands tighten around you, and you can feel his pulse quicken under your lips. Gently, you nip onto a soft spot, listening to him let out another groan before you placate the ache with your tongue.
Then, you’re being hoisted off the floor with a shriek falling from your lips. You grab onto Bucky’s shoulders quickly, and you look at his face– there’s determination all over his features as he makes his way down the hall to your bedroom. The resolve has shattered. You’ve broken him.
Bucky’s been in your bedroom before. He’s been in your bed before, been under your sheets, slept comfortably through the night with him on the other side of the bed– but God, this is so much better.
Clothes are thrown off, damn near ripped at the seams, littered all over your floor, and Bucky’s hands are all over you. He’s laid you down onto your pillows, and his head is between your legs before you can come to your senses– and you feel the warmth of his tongue flattening against your aching core.
You both moan into the room at the same time, almost in harmony. You weakly push yourself onto your elbows to look at him, to watch him, and he’s hooking your thighs over his shoulders, pulling you deeper into him to lock you in place. Then, you meet his eyes as he takes another pass.
Bucky doesn’t need to say a single word for you to understand that he’s been waiting to taste you on his tongue for months. He eats like a man that’s been starved, like a man that had spent years in the desert, and you were the first drop of water that he’s had.
You can only fall back against the pillows, reaching for him, grabbing onto his hair– which makes him groan against you. The vibrations alone make your body tremble against him. He’s enjoying every single moment, eyes falling shut. His hand shifts, thumb moving to press against your clit, and your body reacts instantly, thighs clenching around him.
“Bucky– fuck–” you gasped out, and you fall apart instantly. He groans into you, almost in approval as he licks up all of your arousal and juices until there’s nothing left. You’re twitching, sensitive, and pushing on his head– damn near sobbing for him to give you a break.
Reluctantly, he does get up. And he looks like he’s the one who just came. He’s breathless, chest rising and falling, expression fucked out and beautiful. Bucky licks his lips, then wipes the area surrounding his mouth before he slots himself between your legs, lowering himself down to you.
“So good for me, baby,” he praised softly, kissing your forehead as his elbows rested on either side of your head. His kisses moved further down your face until his lips met yours again in a slow, gentle kiss. “So, so good for me. Can you keep going?”
“God, if you don’t fuck me I might kill you.”
You could feel him grin against you as he slowly shifted, and you felt him slowly drag the length of his cock against your folds, coating himself in your slick. A soft gasp fell from your lips as he moaned out your name. He dropped his head into your shoulder, trying to ground himself as he lined himself up with your aching hole, and pushed in.
You can feel him deep– every ridge and vein, pulsing inside of you. He’s thick and girthy, long, stretching you out more than you’d ever been before, and it’s too much, and not enough at the same time. You need him painting the inside of you, staining you, claiming you– you can’t tell him that right now. Not yet. You just got the man.
You know that you’re not much better. You’re wet around him, walls twitching and crying at the feel of him. Your legs are trembling around his hips, fingernails clawing at his shoulders and digging deep as you try to catch your breath. You’re impossibly full, but you need him to move.
And he does.
The first pull back has you seeing the gates of heaven. When he sinks all the way back in, you’re sent straight to hell.
Bucky fucks you into the bed like a man on a mission, full of sin and no regrets. His hands are all over you, grabbing at your waist to hold you in place while his lips are busy marking your chest in places where only you and he will know. When your back arches off the bed, his lips close around a stiff nipple, tongue lapping around the hardened peak and sucking.
You’re sensitive, breaths erratic, and he’s too good.
“I can’t– I can’t–” you whimpered, fingers digging into his chest.
“Oh, but you’re doing so well, baby,” Bucky praised softly.
You can barely open your eyes to look at him, but when you do? There’s a light sheen of sweat that’s coating his skin, and his eyes are on you, watching every single part of you, burning you into his memory– the way you look under him as he fucks you– how your breasts move in correspondence with each thrust of his hips, how fucked out and cock drunk you look, how your body spasms and twitches under his ministrations. He’s compartmentalizing every single detail of you.
“Bucky, please,” you moaned out, a shaky breath escaping your lips.
“Gimme one more, doll– Can you do that for me?” he groaned, his hips picking up speed, “Need you to cum on my cock, pretty thing.”
There’s a neediness in his voice that makes your walls flutter around him, that shoves you off the edge a second time that night– just like he wanted you to. A curse falls from his lips as his hips stutter against you, and he rides out your orgasm as long as possible before he’s pulling out of you, his own release spilling all over your stomach and chest. Bucky catches himself on his elbows before he collapses on top of you, breathing heavily.
Part of you wants to tell him what a waste. You keep it to yourself for now.
“Kiss, Bucky,” you muttered instead, reaching for his face.
He chuckles, almost breathy, and leans back down to you. He’s careful to avoid the hot, sticky mess that he’s left behind on your body, but he kisses you regardless. A sigh escapes your throat as he meets your lips.
Before long, he’s completely leaving you, muttering something about needing to clean you up. You stay there, boneless and sated, drifting off to sleep. You don’t even realize he’d come back until you feel a warm washcloth on your skin, wiping away the remnants of misdeed that you two had committed just moments prior.
Then, you’re being hoisted into his arms again, and the sheets are pulled over your bodies. His lips press against your forehead as his arms wrap around you, tugging you closer to his chest. Once again, Bucky is in your bed. Like he’s been countless times before, but this is different. It’s changed. You like it better this way.
You’re listening to the steady beat of his heart, allowing it to be your lullaby for the night when he breaks the silence.
“Is this a yes to the date?” Bucky whispered.
A grin breaks out on your face, and you press a kiss to his bare chest. “Yes, handsome. You can take me out on a date.”
Oh my god I can just picture teasing and flirting Bucky so well and when he thinks Steve is about to win the readers heart and I just love a good miscommunication trope haha
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, Time travel romance (accidental, unexplained), Slow burn and eventual smut, Soft Dom!Bucky (1940s and modern), Filthy Smut in multiple timelines, creampie, fingering, oral (F! receiving), Memory loss and recovery, Heartache and longing, Uniform kink / Sargent kink, Emotional intensity, Post-Winter Soldier trauma (referenced), Implied trauma from Hydra, Soft angst and emotional vulnerability
word count: 18k
Summary: Bucky Barnes never looked at you twice. Too cold. Too distant. Too focused on the mission. You were too much, he said—too loud, too close, too everything. So you stopped trying. Then you woke up in 1943. And he was there—James Buchanan Barnes, all charm and swagger and soft smiles, looking at you like you hung the stars. Flirting like it was breathing. Touching like he already knew your body. Calling you his girl. You told yourself it wasn’t real. That you couldn’t stay. But seven days in the past can ruin a person. Especially when the present is waiting. And when you come back? He remembers. All of it.
notes – not proofread. could have been like 40k words. inspired by an ask from the amazing @niinesb
You weren’t exactly sure what you’d done to piss off James Buchanan Barnes.
Scratch that—you were sure. Absolutely nothing.
From the moment you were assigned to the New Avengers team six months ago, Bucky had been cold to you. Not cold like the others had warned—he didn’t brood in corners or snap like a feral animal. No, Bucky Barnes was cold in the way someone gets when they’ve already made up their mind about you. Dismissive. Clipped. Quick with an eye roll or a grunt, but never more.
He talked to everyone else on the team just fine. Friendly enough with Bob. Dryly funny with Yelena. Even gave Ava a half-smile now and then. But you? You were the ghost in the room.
The thorn in his side. The fly in his drink.
You’d tried to brush it off at first. Not everyone clicked immediately, right? But now, half a year into shared missions, debriefs, and long nights of tactical planning, the pattern was impossible to ignore. Every time you so much as opened your mouth, Bucky’s jaw clenched like he’d rather chew broken glass than hear your voice.
And honestly? It was starting to piss you off.
You were a good soldier. Smart. Quick. Sharp. You never gave him attitude, never pushed his buttons—not even when he deserved it. But his contempt had a weight now, digging into your shoulders like an extra pack you hadn’t trained for.
Which is how you ended up in the quinjet, hunched over a StarkPad, chewing the inside of your cheek, while Bucky sat across from you radiating icy silence.
The mission had been simple. Quick recon of a possible Hydra remnant site tucked in the mountains of Romania. In and out. Nothing serious. You were riding shotgun with Bucky because he was the only other one free. Lucky you.
He hadn’t spoken a word to you the entire flight. And you’d finally had enough.
“Hey, Barnes,” you said without looking up. “Question for you.”
His sigh was audible. Heavy. Like you were personally dragging him through hell.
“Do you hate me,” you asked, voice light, “or is this just your sparkling personality?”
You finally looked up to meet his eyes—and regretted it instantly.
Steel blue. Cold as a bayonet. He didn’t even blink.
“If I hated you,” he said slowly, “you’d know it.”
Oof. Okay.
“So it is your personality,” you muttered. That earned you a scoff. He turned back to the mission readout like you weren’t worth the energy. Something inside you cracked. A hairline fracture along a fault that had been building for months.
You tried again.
“I just don’t get it. You talk to everyone else. Laugh with them, even. But me?” You tilted your head. “I’m invisible unless I mess up. Which I haven’t, by the way. So what gives?”
Bucky didn’t answer right away. For a second, you thought he might actually ignore you again. But then he stood up with that heavy, silent grace, every inch of him thick with annoyance, and came to stand in front of you.
You didn’t flinch. But your spine locked straight.
He was tall. Broad. His vibranium arm glinted under the lights, catching in the shadows of his dark tactical jacket. His mouth twisted as he looked down at you—like just seeing you irritated him.
“You really wanna know?”
Your stomach tightened. But you nodded.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. Shook his head once like he couldn’t believe he was having this conversation. “You’re not my type.”
Silence.
That was it?
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You asked,” he said with a shrug. “That’s your answer.”
You stood up, toe-to-toe now. “So your issue with me is that I’m not—what? Fuckable enough to be worth talking to?”
His eyes narrowed. “Don’t twist it.”
“I’m not twisting anything, Barnes. You said it like it explained why you treat me like a damn ghost.”
He took a step closer, and for the first time, the tension in the air shifted. It wasn’t just cold—it was charged. Static and heat, friction and frost. “You want the truth?” he asked, voice low.
You swallowed, nodded again.
He leaned in slightly. “You’re loud. You talk too much. You care about people even when it’s not practical. You make jokes at the worst times. You have a tendency to take unnecessary risks just to make a point. And yeah,” he added, voice sharp, “you’re not my type.”
You tried to cover the hurt that sliced through you. Tried to hold your chin up, tried not to show it.
“Got it,” you said. “I’ll stop bothering you.”
You turned back to the StarkPad, heart stinging in your chest—but the rattle of turbulence snapped your attention forward.
“Brace,” Bucky barked, voice all soldier again. “Something’s—”
The quinjet shook violently. Alarms screamed. You felt the stomach-dropping lurch of altitude loss—but no fire, no explosion.
Just light.
Blinding, golden light ripped through the cabin like a living storm. You barely had time to gasp before everything went white.
-
When the world stopped spinning, your knees hit cobblestone. You gasped, sucking air into your lungs, fingers scraping against pavement. The sound of a horn blared nearby.
You blinked hard—once, twice, trying to make sense of the image forming around you. Streetlamps. Yellow taxis—not modern ones. Men in hats. Women in long skirts. Big band music drifting from an open window. A newsboy shouting something about a war.
And across the street, leaning against a lamppost with wide, stunned eyes…
…was Bucky Barnes.
But not the one you knew.
This Bucky looked younger. Cleaner. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a white undershirt beneath his leather jacket. Hair slicked, lips curled in a slow, curious smile as his eyes swept over you like you were the only thing worth looking at in the entire goddamn city.
Then he pushed off the lamppost, swagger in his step, and crossed the street with a grin so charming it nearly knocked the breath out of you.
“Well,” he said, voice smooth as bourbon, “ain’t you somethin’ out of a dream.”
You were still on your knees. Still breathless. Still gripping the edge of a time-shocked world where the air smelled like diesel and warm pretzels and before.
Your eyes scanned him like they were starving. It was Bucky—but brighter. Still heavy with muscle, but leaner than the man who’d grow into the soldier you knew. Hair combed back but falling in a rogue wave across his forehead. That smile? Easy and devastating. That voice? Playful. Brooklyn born and bred.
You opened your mouth to speak—and realized you had no idea what to say.
“Whoa, hey—” he stepped closer, crouching now, one knee hitting the cobblestone in front of you. “You alright, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
You choked on the lump forming in your throat. God, this was real. “Y-Yeah,” you rasped. “Just… lost my balance.”
He let out a soft laugh and offered his hand. “Lemme help you up.” His touch was warm—real—and so solid you could’ve sobbed. He pulled you to your feet like you weighed nothing, and you swayed, trying to adjust to the world around you.
Streetcars. People in fedoras and high-waisted skirts. Signs with war bond slogans. This wasn’t cosplay. This was Brooklyn. In the 1940s.
And this version of Bucky Barnes was still holding your hand.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, scanning your face like he could read everything beneath your skin.
You nodded. “Yeah. I just… hit my head.”
“Might explain the outfit,” he muttered, eyes trailing down your tactical gear.
You looked down at yourself—black ops uniform, boots, StarkTech wristband—and winced. “Oh my God,” you whispered. “I look insane.”
“You look like the future,” he said, grinning again. “Which is workin’ for you, don’t get me wrong. Just… kinda makes me wonder if I hit my head too.”
He released your hand only to circle you once, eyeing the details. “I mean—damn, doll. You armed under all that?”
You choked out a laugh. “You have no idea.”
That made him smile wider. “I’m Bucky,” he offered, stepping in front of you again. “Bucky Barnes.”
The way he said it—like it should mean something—hit you in the ribs. You nodded slowly, lips twitching.
“Yeah,” you murmured. “I know.”
That made him pause. He tilted his head, curious. “Have we met?”
You shook your head quickly. “No. Just… heard about you.”
“Well,” he said, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jacket and eyeing you with clear, unfiltered interest, “can’t say I’d forget a face like yours.”
Jesus Christ.
You were going to pass out.
He looked at you like you were something he’d been waiting for without knowing it. Like he wanted to taste you and know your middle name and build you a life all in the same breath.
This Bucky hadn’t been broken yet. No Hydra. No war trauma. No cold walls or clipped tones. Just a guy who looked like he’d kiss you on the sidewalk and mean it.
“Well, you’re clearly lost,” he continued, glancing around. “And I’m a gentleman. Let me buy you a coffee while you, uh—figure out what year you think it is.”
You bit your lip. “You’re just gonna take in a strange woman who might be crazy?”
“Sweetheart,” he said, stepping in again, “I’ve done dumber things for less beautiful girls.” That shouldn’t have made your stomach flip. But it did. God help you. “Besides,” he added, low, “you don’t look crazy. You look scared.”
That shut you up. Hard.
He held your gaze for a long, quiet beat. “Come on,” he said finally, touching the small of your back. “Let’s get you warm.”
He took you to a corner diner two blocks away, all neon and tile and glass sugar dispensers. He ordered two coffees and a slice of cherry pie to split, because “you look like you need something sweet,” and when you sat across from him in the booth, he watched you like a man trying to memorize every blink.
“So,” he said, stirring his coffee. “You from around here? Or… very far away?”
You hesitated. But when you looked into those eyes—so open, so alive—you couldn’t lie. “Far,” you said quietly.
“How far?”
“Too far.”
His brows lifted. “Well damn, you speak in riddles, too. Guess I’ve got my work cut out for me.”
You smirked despite yourself.
His gaze softened. “You really okay?”
“No,” you admitted. “But I’m better now.”
Something flickered in his eyes. That was the moment, you’d realize later. That tiny second when something in him decided: Mine. “Tell you what,” he said, voice lower now. “You stick with me. I’ll get you through the week.”
“The week?”
“Yeah. However long you’re here. You let me take care of you, alright?”
Your throat dried. “Why?”
That grin again—slower this time. Hungrier. “‘Cause I like you,” he said simply. “A lot. And I’ve only known you fifteen minutes.”
You sat back, overwhelmed. This was him. Bucky. And he was everything the world had burned out of him in the years that followed. He was safe. Warm. And he already wanted you like it meant something.
“I don’t have anywhere to stay,” you said softly.
“I’ve got a couch,” he offered. “Or you can take the bed and I’ll sleep on the floor.”
You gave him a look.
He raised both palms, mock-innocent. “I swear on my Ma, sweetheart. I’ll be good for ya.”
“Something tells me you don’t like being good.”
That grin tilted wicked. “Wouldn’t you like to find out.”
Oh God.
You were in so much trouble.
-
Bucky didn’t let go of your hand after the diner. Not when he helped you into his coat because your tactical suit was turning heads. Not when he guided you across the crosswalk, throwing a wink over his shoulder. Not even when you hesitated in front of a department store window, caught by the sight of a 1940s dress that made your brain skip.
He saw your look, then turned to you with that grin again—like he’d found another excuse to spoil you. “You like that one?”
You blinked. “It’s… pretty.”
“Well then, doll,” he said, cocking a brow, “guess we’re going shopping.”
“Bucky—”
“Ah ah,” he cut you off. “Don’t argue with a man on a mission.”
You opened your mouth to protest—but he was already pulling you inside. Fifteen minutes later, you stood barefoot in a curtained stall, blinking down at yourself in the soft blue dress he’d picked: simple, elegant, with cap sleeves and a cinched waist. The reflection made your heart stutter. You looked like you belonged there.
You stepped out slowly. Bucky was leaning against a post near the register, hands in his pockets, hair ruffled from the wind outside. He turned, saw you—and stopped breathing.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
You glanced down. “Too much?”
He took a step forward. “You’re gonna kill a man walkin’ down the street in that.”
You flushed. “You really think so?”
“I know so,” he said, voice rougher now. “You’re the most beautiful damn thing I’ve ever seen.”
You didn’t know what to say. He looked at you like he’d touched heaven and found it soft and smiling in front of him. When he stepped closer, you half expected him to kiss you.
But instead, he ducked his head, and his voice dropped. “You want it?”
“I—”
He held up his hands. “I’ll get it. No strings, no pressure. Just figured… you deserve to feel good.”
You swallowed hard. “You don’t even know me.”
He met your eyes. “Then let me.”
-
The day passed like a fever dream. He took you to a street vendor for hot dogs with mustard so sharp it made your nose burn. Then ice cream—vanilla soft serve dipped in chocolate, and when you got a little on your lip, he wiped it with his thumb and licked it clean.
You swore you saw stars.
You wandered through Central Park, talking about everything and nothing. He told you about Steve, about the army, about Coney Island. You told him stories you twisted into sounding like fiction—space-age tech and high-stakes rescues and an apartment you were pretty sure didn’t exist yet.
He listened like it was the most interesting thing he’d ever heard. Like your voice could write constellations. At one point, he caught you smiling at him—really smiling—and said, “You got a laugh that’d bring a man to his knees, sweetheart.”
You blinked. “That a line?”
“Nah.” He grinned. “Lines are for dames who don’t matter.”
You flushed again. He was too good at this. Too warm, too easy, too much. And yet—he wasn’t pushing. Just circling you like he couldn’t help it.
As the sun dipped low, throwing warm pink across the skyline, he turned to you with a soft, boyish smile. “I know the perfect place to watch it set,” he said. “Come on.”
He brought you to a rooftop he claimed belonged to a friend of a friend. You had to climb a narrow iron staircase behind a row of brownstones, but when you stepped out onto the tarpaper and looked over the edge—it was breathtaking.
Brooklyn stretched below you like a sleeping beast. Orange-pink clouds curled above factory chimneys, and the river caught the light like molten gold.
Bucky spread out his jacket for you to sit on and unwrapped a still-warm pretzel from his coat pocket like a magician. “Thought ahead,” he said proudly. “Street vendor. Best in the borough.”
You laughed and took a bite. He watched you chew like it was pornographic. “What?” you said, grinning with your mouth full.
“Just,” he leaned back on his elbows beside you, “you’ve got this thing when you eat. Like it’s the first time. All soft eyes and quiet sounds. You’re gonna drive me insane, doll.”
You nearly choked.
His grin only deepened. “I’m serious. If you keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m gonna have to throw myself off this roof before I do something stupid.”
You turned to him fully, eyes scanning the boyish cut of his jaw, the shine in his hair, the slope of his neck where it met his collarbone. He was so alive. So untouched by what was coming.
Your voice was quiet. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know you’re brave,” he said. “You’re funny. You talk like you’ve been places no one else has. You walk like someone who’s used to leading. But your eyes?”
He leaned in, just slightly. “Your eyes look tired. Like they’ve seen too much.” You sucked in a breath. “And if you need someone to take care of you for a little while,” he whispered, “I’d like to volunteer.”
God. You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Your heart was thundering and you didn’t trust your voice. Instead, you leaned your head against his shoulder. And Bucky let out the softest sigh, like he’d been waiting all day for that.
As night fell, the stars came out—distant, cold, beautiful. Bucky shifted beside you and murmured into your hair, “I got a place not far from here.”
You lifted your head.
“You can crash there, seriously,” he added quickly. “Nothing funny. You’ll have a real bed. And I’ll be a gentleman.”
You searched his face. He meant it. He wasn’t pushing—he was offering. Safety. Warmth. Something dangerously close to kindness.
You nodded slowly. “Okay.”
His smile could’ve lit the skyline. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” He stood, held out his hand. “Let’s get you home, doll.”
You took it and didn’t let go.
Bucky’s apartment was on the third floor of a brick walk-up with uneven stairs and a door that stuck halfway shut. He kicked it open with the heel of his boot, holding the frame for you with one hand and flicking on the light with the other. It was small. Warm. A little messy in the way only boys could manage. Shoes tossed by the radiator. A stack of comics on the side table. Two bedrooms. One couch. A kitchen barely big enough for two people to stand in.
But it was home.
You stepped inside slowly, feeling out of place again. A time traveler in borrowed skin. Bucky watched you carefully. Not leer-like. Not calculating. Just… quietly fascinated.
“Sorry it’s nothin’ fancy,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “We make it work.”
“We?” you asked, turning to him.
Before he could answer, a soft, congested cough came from one of the bedrooms. Then—
“Buck? That you?”
Your eyes widened. That voice. You’d know it anywhere. But when the man himself stepped out—tousled blond hair, thin limbs, big sweater sleeves pushed to the elbows—you nearly forgot how to breathe.
“Steve Rogers,” Bucky said proudly, motioning toward him like he’d just invented the guy. “My best pal. Steve, this is—uh…”
He turned to you, face flickering with sudden sheepishness. “…Actually, I don’t know your name.”
You blinked. “Oh.”
He looked… stricken. Steve coughed again. “Well, she’s beautiful, whoever she is.”
Bucky snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Beautiful.”
You rolled your eyes, trying not to blush. “It’s Y/N.”
Steve smiled, warm and wheezy. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.”
You nodded, still a little dazed. Pre-serum Steve Rogers stood five feet tall and maybe weighed 110 pounds soaking wet—but something about his quiet presence, his kind eyes, made the room feel safer.
“Y/N’s stayin’ the night,” Bucky added casually, like this was normal. “She had kind of a rough day.”
Steve gave him a look. “What kind of rough?”
“The kind we’re not askin’ about,” Bucky said gently, shooting you a glance. “She just needs a place to breathe.”
Steve nodded once. “Well. You’re welcome here.”
You swallowed. “Thanks.”
Bucky gave you his bedroom. He insisted—said the couch had “just the right spring for his back,” and besides, you needed it more. The sheets were clean. The room smelled like shaving cream and cedar soap. He tossed you one of his shirts to sleep in and left a glass of water on the nightstand.
“I’ll be out here if you need anything,” he said from the doorway, voice quiet now. “Bathroom’s to the left. There’s a spare toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. Might be a little stiff.”
You turned, shirt bunched in your hands. “Bucky?”
He paused. You looked at him, soft now. Small. The day had been dizzying, impossible. But he’d been real. Solid. Warm in a way you hadn’t felt in so long.
“Thank you,” you said.
Something passed through his eyes. He nodded once.
“You’re safe here.”
Then he pulled the door halfway closed. And you stood there in his shirt, holding your breath.
-
You didn’t sleep right away. Too much noise in your head. Too much ache in your chest.
Bucky’s scent was everywhere—clean and warm, like skin and cotton and the faint trace of motor oil. His pillow was soft. His bed was wide. And your body didn’t quite feel like yours.
You lay in the dark listening to the sounds of the city beyond the window, and then—closer—Bucky and Steve’s voices in the living room. Low. Murmured.
“Where’d you find her?”
“She kinda… fell into my arms.”
“No kidding.”
“Yeah. Wasn’t gonna let her sleep on the street, Steve.”
“…You like her.”
A pause.
“You know I’m not a love at first sight kind of guy, punk. But I do think she’s the most interesting girl I’ve ever met.”
“Does she know that?”
“Nope.”
“You gonna tell her?”
“…Not tonight.”
You bit your lip and rolled over, heart in your throat.
Hours passed. The city never slept. Neither did you. You kept thinking about the way he looked at you—like he couldn’t decide if you were real. Like he wanted you to be.
And it hit you, quiet and sharp: He didn’t know what was coming. Didn’t know what he’d be turned into. What he’d lose. What he’d become.
The Bucky you knew in your time was scarred. Hardened. Full of ice and metal and regret. He barely looked at you. Barely let himself want anything. But this Bucky? He had no armor yet. And he’d already given you his bed.
You didn’t know how long you could stay here. Not just in this apartment— in this time. In this skin that didn’t feel like it belonged to this era. In this borrowed warmth. In this strange, dizzying version of the world that had somehow wrapped you in velvet and soft jazz and the smell of motor oil and old books.
Every step you took beside Bucky Barnes felt like it might be your last. Every look he gave you—sweet, unguarded, curious—chipped away at your common sense like water carving out rock.
You knew the science. You knew enough about temporal anomalies and Stark’s tech and SHIELD’s experimental files to understand what might have happened. But that didn’t help you now. There were no labs. No comms. No breadcrumbs to follow.
Just him.
And God help you, he made you want to stop looking.
-
The day had passed like it belonged to someone else’s life. Bucky had taken you to bookstores where the pages smelled like old smoke and glue, and the clerk greeted him by name. He insisted on buying you a pocket notebook—“for all those riddles you speak in”—and grinned so wide when you took it that it almost hurt.
You’d laughed more than you had in months. Not the polite kind. Not the public kind. The real kind. The kind that cracked something open.
You didn’t let yourself think about your Bucky—not yet. The one in your time. The one who’d brushed you off like static. Who’d said you weren’t his type. Who’d looked through you like glass.
He was probably glad you were gone.
You weren’t naive. You knew when someone wanted you to disappear. He probably thought of your absence as a relief—less friction on the team, one less nuisance to endure. You doubted he’d even ask where you went. Why would he? You were forgettable, weren’t you? Loud. Reckless. Not his type.
But this Bucky? This Bucky bought you a fucking pretzel and smiled at you like he couldn’t wait to hear what you’d say next. And it was ruining you.
-
When he’d turned to you after lunch and said, “I wanna take you dancing,” you’d hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to—but because you did. Because you wanted to step into whatever he was offering and never look back. Because part of you—the part that was tired, aching, worn thin from years of tight grips and clipped words and gritted teeth—wanted this to be real. Wanted to lean into the warmth in his voice, the promise in his smile, and the easy safety of the world he lived in, where the most dangerous thing was falling too fast for someone you barely knew.
It terrified you.
You blinked up at him, standing there in the middle of the crowded sidewalk, the hum of the city buzzing behind him. His hands were in his coat pockets, hair catching the winter sun, mouth twitching like he already knew what you were going to say.
So you covered your heart with a joke. “Are you trying to win me over?”
He didn’t flinch. His grin widened—slow, lazy, a little dangerous—like he’d been waiting for the challenge.
“Is it working?”
You snorted softly, looking away. It was. Of course it was. You’d never been so seen—not by him, not by the version of him you knew in your time. This Bucky didn’t just notice you. He leaned into you. Flirted like it was breathing. Made you feel like the only woman on the sidewalk, in the city, in the whole goddamn decade.
Still, you rolled your eyes—kept your cool. “You’re laying it on thick.”
“You like it.”
You met his eyes. He wasn’t cocky, not really. There was no cruelty in his teasing. It was softer than that. Sweeter. Like he wanted to make you smile just to see how your face moved when you did.
“I’m not easy to win,” you said, voice quiet now. Serious.
His grin faded—not gone, just gentled. “I wouldn’t like you if you were.”
That made your chest ache. You hadn’t realized you’d stopped walking until he stepped in close, just enough to crowd your senses without touching you.
His voice dropped to something warm. Earnest. Almost shy. “I just wanna show you a good time. Somethin’ real. Something that makes you forget,” He paused, looking down. “Whatever it is you’re runnin’ from.”
Your breath caught. You hadn’t told him anything. Not really. But he knew. Somehow.
You nodded. Barely. Just enough. He took it like a promise.
“Good,” he said, softer now. “Because you deserve that, doll.” And he held out his hand. “Come on. I’ve got the perfect place.”
You hesitated one second longer, searching his face for anything that might betray his easy charm, some hint of ulterior motive. But all you saw was kindness. And curiosity. And a hope that felt almost too big for such a small, quiet moment.
So you took his hand and you didn’t let go.
-
The place he brought you to was tucked in the corner of a quiet block, down a narrow set of stairs behind a faded green door with a flickering neon sign overhead that just read The Blue Room. You might have missed it if he hadn’t pointed it out — it looked like a supply entrance for the bakery next door. But the sound leaking from the cracks in the brick said otherwise.
Inside, it was nothing like the polished lounges of your time. No pristine marble floors or LED lighting. No velvet ropes or high ceilings or overpriced cocktails in minimalist glasses. No one took your name. No one checked your ID. You just walked in, and the room breathed.
The floors creaked beneath your feet, well-worn and uneven from decades of dancing. The walls were a soft, tarnished gold. The lighting was low and warm, thick with the glow of amber sconces and the soft haze of cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling. A saxophone moaned gently from the corner, weaving through the air like silk.
The room was full but not packed, humming with a low buzz of conversation and laughter. Soldiers in dress uniforms twirled girls in cherry-lipped smiles and pin-curled hair. Waitresses with trays full of glasses moved gracefully between tables, laughing at familiar jokes, winking at customers. A few men in suspenders and sleeves rolled to their elbows leaned at the bar, nodding along to the music. The rhythm of the place was slow, warm, alive — like a heartbeat.
You stood near the entrance, momentarily overwhelmed. It was beautiful. Not fancy. Not curated. Just human. A moment frozen in time, and for once, not in the terrifying way.
Then Bucky stepped up behind you, his presence as steady and grounding as ever. His hand slipped gently into yours, warm and calloused and easy. His breath brushed your ear. “C’mon,” he murmured. “We don’t have to do the fast ones.”
You turned your head slightly, startled. “I didn’t say yes.”
His voice was low, teasing. “You didn’t say no.”
You stared at him, deadpan. “I don’t know how to dance like this.”
His smile grew, slow and sincere. “You don’t have to. Just follow me.”
You weren’t graceful. The moment your feet hit the floor, it became clear that you were not going to be the belle of the ball. You stepped the wrong way on the first beat, nearly caught your toe under your own heel, and mumbled an apology under your breath.
But Bucky caught you. Both hands steady on your hips, he guided you easily, gently correcting your footing without a word. His touch was firm but not presumptuous — careful in the way of someone who knew how to lead without making it a performance.
“Hey,” he said softly, eyes locking with yours in a way that made your stomach flutter. “I got you.”
You believed him. And so, you followed. It wasn’t perfect. You fumbled once or twice, still too stiff, too aware of the people around you. But Bucky didn’t care. He never looked away from you. Never laughed at your missteps. He just kept smiling — not the cocky grin from earlier, but something gentler. Something that felt like care.
The music was slow enough that your body had time to adjust. You stopped worrying about the beat. About who might be watching. About anything except the pressure of his hand at your back and the slow, lazy sway of his hips as he pulled you gently into rhythm with him.
Your chest brushed his on the next turn. Your fingers curled in his hand. Your feet forgot to trip. And suddenly, the room disappeared. The lights, the laughter, the music — all of it melted away until there was only him. The solid weight of his body guiding yours. The quiet concentration on his face. The faint smile tugging at his lips like he was proud of you for trying.
You forgot the cold way your Bucky used to look through you like you were a noise he didn’t have time for. This Bucky was looking at you like you were something rare. Something wanted.
As the music slowed, so did the dance. The swing faded into a bluesy sway, and the air around you thickened. You drifted closer to him, feet finding him without thinking, hips brushing just enough to be felt. His arm moved lower on your waist. Not possessive. Not inappropriate. Just there. A promise. A question he wasn’t asking yet.
Your bodies met in that soft, electric way—not quite flush, not quite separate—like gravity was trying to stitch you together but hadn’t made up its mind yet.
His breath was warm at your temple. You felt him inhale. Felt his chest rise. “You’re a fast learner,” he murmured, voice like smoke and honey.
You smiled without meaning to. “You’re a good teacher.”
He let out a quiet chuckle. “Nah,” he said, eyes dropping to your lips, just for a second. “I just like holdin’ you.”
You should’ve pulled away but you didn’t. You stayed pressed to his chest, breathing in the scent of him—clean skin, worn cotton, cedar soap, and something unmistakably him. Something warm and masculine and steady, like a lighthouse in a storm.
You didn’t think. You didn’t speak. You felt like glass. Like one more touch might break you in half—not from pain, but from want.
The walk back to the apartment was quiet. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just… full. Every step was lined with things unsaid. You didn’t hold hands, but your arms kept brushing. Your shoulders bumped once. He looked at you like he wanted to speak, but never quite found the words. And you were glad for the silence. Because you didn’t trust yourself to say the right thing, either.
You were too full of him. His warmth. His voice. The ache in your chest from how easy he made it feel to be seen. Wanted. It wasn’t real. You knew that.
-
When you reached the front steps, Bucky opened the door for you like always, hand warm at the small of your back. You climbed the stairs side by side, but slower now.
Halfway up, he glanced sideways. “You cold?”
You turned toward him. His voice sounded almost shy now. Younger. You shook your head. “No. I’m okay.”
Still, he stopped. Unwrapped his scarf. And without asking, draped it gently around your shoulders. It was warm from his skin. It smelled like him. You swallowed hard, heart aching. He was killing you. Piece by piece.
Steve was already asleep when you entered. Curled on the couch like a question mark, blanket pulled halfway over his chest, one sock slipping off the edge of his foot. His mouth was slightly open. You smiled faintly.
Bucky leaned down, pulled the blanket up over his friend’s chest, and muttered, “Night, punk,” so soft you weren’t sure Steve even heard it.
Then he turned to you, thumb hooked in his belt loop, brow raised. “You can take the bed again.”
You stopped in your tracks. He did too. “…You sure?” you asked.
He nodded, calm. “Course.”
You stared at him. Everything in you boiling over. This man was letting you sleep in his bed. Cook in his kitchen. Take up space in his life like you belonged there despite knowing you less than 48 hours. And he hadn’t tried anything. Not once. Not a single move out of place.
He wasn’t trying to fuck you. He was just taking care of you. And you couldn’t take it anymore.
You turned, slowly. “I mean,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, “you don’t have to give it up every night. It’s your bed.”
He blinked.
You hesitated. Then, with heat rushing to your cheeks, you rushed out, “I don’t mind sharing.” His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. You rushed ahead again before he could misread it. “You don’t have to be a gentleman,” you murmured. “But I know you will be.”
He stared at you like he was memorizing the way your lips moved. The way you looked when you offered him softness. “You sure, doll?”
You nodded once. “Yeah.”
His voice came out hoarse. Quiet. “Okay.”
You lay side by side in the dark. Not touching. Not speaking. The space between you stretched like a fault line. You could feel his presence — the heat of his body, the rise and fall of his chest, the unspoken tension thick in the air. You faced the wall. He faced the ceiling. And your thoughts were screaming.
You need to get back. You can’t stay here. This is a dream. It’s not yours. He’s not yours. And the Bucky who is? He probably doesn’t care.
You pulled the blanket higher. Bit your lip. You were starting to forget what it felt like to be unwanted. To be looked through. To be told—without words—that you were wrong. This Bucky made you feel like a miracle and you didn’t know how much longer you could stand it.
“Still awake?” he whispered.
“…Yeah.”
He shifted slightly beside you. Not toward you. Just enough to make his voice clearer. “I’m glad you came,” he said.
You stayed silent.
“Even if I don’t understand how,” he added. “Even if you vanish tomorrow. I’m still glad I met you.”
You turned your head slowly. He was staring up at the ceiling, hands folded across his stomach.
His voice was quieter now. “You make the room feel brighter.”
Your throat clenched. “You’re good at making people feel safe,” you whispered, surprised by how true it sounded.
He smiled, just barely. “I want you to feel that.”
You watched him breathe. One long, steady inhale. One soft, contented exhale. Then, almost reverently, you whispered, “Goodnight, Bucky.”
He closed his eyes. “Goodnight, doll.”
And somehow, in that borrowed bed, in that borrowed life, in a time that wasn’t yours… You felt more seen than you ever had in the world you left behind.
-
You woke to the sound of a pot clattering in the kitchen. It was still early. Pale morning light crept between the slats of the blinds, drawing soft gold lines across the bedsheets. You blinked slowly, adjusting to the world. The room smelled like toast.
Bucky was gone.
You sat up—stiff, dazed, wearing his shirt, the covers still warm where he’d slept beside you. Just sleep. Restful. Safe. The way he’d whispered goodnight, doll still echoed in your chest.
You padded out to the kitchen on bare feet, finding him hunched over the stove in a plain white tee, sleeves tight over his biceps. He looked domestic, casual—like something out of a magazine cover. He was humming, gently off-key, spatula in one hand, frying eggs in a pan that crackled under the weight of sizzling butter.
He turned at the sound of your footsteps. His smile was immediate. “Hey, sleepyhead.”
You folded your arms, leaning against the wall. “Are you always up before sunrise?”
“Army habit,” he said, flipping the egg with a little too much flourish. “Steve hates it.”
You grinned. “You’re making breakfast?”
“I’m makin’ you breakfast.”
That made your stomach twist. He slid a plate onto the table—eggs, toast, a sliver of jam. He even poured coffee into a chipped mug and added cream without asking, like he’d been paying attention.
“You didn’t have to do all this.”
“Wanted to,” he said simply. “It’s day three. Figured I had to impress you eventually.”
You tried not to let your smile grow too much. “You’re doing a good job.”
He looked down—sheepish now. Boyish. It made your chest ache. You ate together at the tiny table, knees brushing again. You talked about nothing and everything. He asked about your favorite music, your favorite food, your favorite season. He made up fake answers for himself when you refused to give too much away. He called you doll like it was your name and leaned in every time you laughed.
And when you told him—teasing, playfully—that he wasn’t as charming as he thought he was, he gave you a look so soft, so fond, that it knocked the breath out of your lungs.
“You’re trouble,” you whispered, gaze flickering down to his mouth without meaning to.
His voice dropped. “You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he said, “I’m gonna do somethin’ stupid.”
Your pulse spiked. You stood abruptly. “I should… brush my teeth.”
He stood with you. “Yeah. Right. I’ll clean this up.”
But as you turned toward the bathroom, his fingers caught your wrist.
“Hey.”
You paused. Turned. He didn’t speak — not right away. He just stared at you for a long, quiet second, eyes sweeping your face like he was trying to memorize it all before it slipped away. And then, slowly, he stepped closer. His voice was low. Careful. Nothing but honesty in it. “Can I kiss you?”
Your breath caught. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t playing. He wasn’t pushing. He was asking. You nodded. Just once. And then he kissed you like it meant something. Not greedy. Not showy. Just warm. His hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushing your skin as his lips pressed to yours. He tasted like coffee and sugar, and something about the way he breathed through his nose, like he didn’t want to scare you—it undid you.
You kissed him back. Softly. Gently. Once, and then again. And when you pulled back, he stayed close—forehead nearly resting against yours.
“I’ve been wantin’ to do that since you stumbled into my arms,” he whispered.
You smiled, heart racing. “Only took you three days.”
He grinned. “You’re a tough nut to crack.”
-
He dreamed of you. That was how it started. The second night after your disappearance, Bucky Barnes tossed and turned in a cold sweat, sheets tangled around his waist, a dull ache in his chest. He didn’t remember falling asleep—just the moment his eyelids closed, and suddenly there you were.
Spinning in his arms in some haze-lit dancehall, wearing a soft blue dress and a smile that should’ve stopped time. He saw the way your hem twirled, the curve of your mouth when you laughed, the exact shape of your hand in his. And he could feel it—the way you fit against him, the press of your waist under his hand, the ghost of your body flush to his.
He remembered wanting to kiss you. Desperately. Like it had been building for days, and the music had just slowed, and your lips were right there, soft and flushed and parted, and he was leaning in—
And then he woke up. Hard. Sweating. Angry. Not because the dream ended. But because it wasn’t a dream. Not really. It didn’t feel like one.
The next day, it got worse. He saw you. Not really—you were still missing, still gone, still ripped from the quinjet in a flash of light and chaos—but he saw you. Flickers. Glimpses.
The curve of your jaw in profile when he blinked too long. The swish of a skirt that didn’t exist anymore. The echo of your voice calling his name—not with contempt, not with frustration, but fondly. Sweetly. The way no one ever did.
And then, just before dawn, another memory. He was standing in the kitchen, making coffee. And you walked in. Hair rumpled. His shirt on your frame. Bare legs. Sleepy eyes. You smiled at him like he hung the fucking moon. And he knew—knew—that you’d slept in his bed. That he’d pulled the covers over you. That you’d whispered Goodnight, Bucky and fallen asleep breathing against his chest.
It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. But he could feel the ghost of your body in his arms like it had been.
By the third full day, he was losing his grip. No one else seemed to notice.
Ava kept checking mission logs, trying to figure out what had happened. Yelena was deep in a debrief with Valentina, arguing over how to get you back if “they all just punch and shoot”. The team operated like a machine—even short one person—and no one had the time or bandwidth to question why Bucky had started pacing at night. Why his mouth was always half open like he was about to ask a question he didn’t understand. Why he kept whispering your name when he thought no one could hear.
But it was there. Gnawing. He couldn’t stop seeing it. The way your lips had looked in that blue dress. The way your eyes had closed when he leaned in to kiss you in the sunlight. The brush of your leg against his at the breakfast table. The soft gasp you gave when he kissed you again—unshaven, half-dressed, still tasting of coffee and sleep.
And the need he’d felt then—God, the need. He remembered wanting to bend you over the counter, morning breath and all. He remembered wanting to fuck you slow, messy, still dazed with sleep. Remembered wanting to say things to you he’d never said to anyone. He remembered your mouth on his, the small, surprised sound you made when he licked into you like he’d been starving.
But he didn’t. Because it never happened. Right?
He pressed his palms into his eyes hard enough to see stars. He didn’t know what the hell was happening. What the fuck kind of cruel hallucination this was. He hadn’t even liked you. Right?
You were loud. Reckless. Irritating. Always questioning him. Always lingering too long in rooms he wanted to be alone in. You smiled at everyone like you weren’t afraid of breaking. You cared. And he’d hated that. Because he couldn’t care. Not then. Not when it meant letting someone see how fucking lonely he really was. But now? Now you were gone. And he couldn’t stop tasting you.
He jerked off to the memory that night. Couldn’t help it. His hand was rough. Quick. Angry. He grunted your name once and bit it back the second time, hand flying faster over his cock like he could chase the feeling down. He remembered how your lips had felt when he’d kissed them. How warm you’d been in his arms. The sound of your laugh. The way you whispered stay when he offered to sleep on the floor.
And he came hard—faster than he meant to. Spilling into his hand with a breathless, broken groan. When it was over, he sat there, hunched and shaking, guilt rotting him from the inside out. Because if none of it was real… Why did it hurt like it was?
He didn’t sleep again that night. He just stared at the ceiling. Waiting for the next memory. Waiting for you.
-
You woke before him. His arm was heavy around your waist, anchoring you to the bed. His chest pressed warm to your back, breath slow and steady against your neck. For a moment, you just lay there, eyes closed, letting yourself believe it was real. That this was your life. That you belonged to this time. To him.
You didn’t. You knew that. But God, you wanted to.
You turned your head slowly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him in the morning light. Hair tousled. Lips parted. Brow relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen in your own time. There was no weight on him here. No decades of pain. No Hydra. No Winter Soldier. Just a man who kissed you like he wanted you.
And he did. He proved it every time he handed you coffee before you asked. Every time his fingers brushed yours a second too long. Every time he said your name like he was trying it on his tongue just to see how it tasted.
That morning, when he woke, he blinked at you sleepily, hand tightening at your hip. “Hi,” he rasped, voice rough and warm.
You smiled. “Hi.”
“You’re still here.”
You blinked. “You thought I wouldn’t be?”
He swallowed. “Didn’t know if I’d dreamt it.”
Your breath caught. “I’m real.”
“Yeah,” he whispered, cupping your cheek. “You are.”
He kissed you like it was the only thing that mattered.
-
You didn’t leave the apartment that day. The rain came early, whispering against the windowpanes in a steady rhythm, soft enough to ignore but constant enough to quiet the world outside. The city moved on without you. For once, that felt like a blessing.
You sat together on the couch, legs curled beneath you, one of Bucky’s tattered paperbacks in your hands. Something about spies or gangsters or both—you hadn’t been paying attention. Not really. Not with the way his thigh brushed yours, solid and warm, every time he shifted to turn a page.
He was beside you, reading something well-loved, the spine bent like it had been cracked a hundred times. He didn’t say much. Just hummed sometimes—soft and low—or tapped his fingers along the margins like the silence needed something to hold.
At one point, he leaned forward, reached for a slice of sandwich from the plate on the coffee table, and held it out to you without looking up.
You blinked. “That for me?”
“No,” he said dryly. “I was feeding the ghost.”
You grinned and took it, letting your fingers brush his just long enough to feel the tension curl between your knuckles. He smirked but didn’t comment.
Later, when Steve finally returned—soaked to the bone, arms full of groceries—he dropped the bags, muttered something about the sidewalk being a “goddamn ice rink,” and disappeared into the bathroom.
You were half-finished with your second sandwich when Bucky rose from the couch, disappeared into the kitchen, and returned with the wooden spoon from the drying rack. You barely noticed until you heard the crackling static of a record player, the soft scratch and warble of something old and velvety rising beneath the hiss.
Then came Ella Fitzgerald.
He didn’t say anything. He just stood in the middle of the room in his socks and undershirt, raised the spoon to his lips, and started lip-syncing dramatically to Dream a Little Dream of Me.
You choked on your bite, clapping a hand over your mouth as he reached for an imaginary note in the air like he was singing onstage at the Apollo. When he turned and pointed to you—brows raised, doing the finger waggle like he was flirting with a thousand-person audience—you lost it. Laughter burst out of you, sharp and real and loud, curling your spine over your knees as tears pricked the corners of your eyes.
Then Steve walked out of the bathroom—towel around his neck, expression already tired—and stopped dead. He looked at Bucky. He looked at the wooden spoon. He looked at you, curled up, breathless from laughing. Then he just turned around and walked back into the bathroom without a word.
That only made it worse. You laughed until you couldn’t breathe. Bucky bowed deeply, grinning. “I take requests, sweetheart.”
-
Long after Steve had fallen asleep on the couch, you found Bucky standing in the kitchen. The apartment was quiet, the only sound the soft, steady drip of the leaky sink and the occasional creak of the old wood beneath your bare feet.
He hadn’t turned on the main light. Just the one above the sink—a narrow golden glow that softened the corners of the room and turned him into a silhouette carved in amber. He was barefoot, leaning over the counter, sleeves pushed to his elbows, two glasses of water resting beside his hand.
You stood in the doorway for a beat too long just watching him. The slope of his back. The breadth of his shoulders. The way his hair curled at the nape of his neck. He looked tired. But not heavy. Not like your Bucky.
He looked real. And for a second, you wanted to tell him. Everything. Who you were. What year it was. Why the way he looked at you now was going to break something open in you for a man who didn’t even know he had a heart left.
But instead, you stepped into the kitchen. Quiet. Barefoot. He turned before you could speak. And for a moment, he just looked at you. Really looked. Hair tousled. Eyes soft. Cotton pants slung low across your hips, the cotton of his undershirt slipping off one shoulder, collar loose enough to bare the line of your neck and the dip of your collarbone. You didn’t speak either. You didn’t need to.
He set both glasses down, stepped forward, and reached for your hand. You didn’t ask where the music came from. Maybe it was playing faintly from the radio left on low in the living room. Maybe it was just in his head. Maybe in yours. It didn’t matter.
He pulled you in close, one hand curling around your waist, the other lifting your hand to his chest. No one said a word. He spun you once, slow—no rhythm, no technique, just instinct and want—and when you turned back into him, you stayed there. His chest to yours. Your cheek brushing the warm cotton of his shirt, right over his heart. You felt it. The way it sped up. The way it kept time for both of you.
He didn’t make a move. Didn’t lean in. Didn’t kiss you. He just held you. Let you sway with him in the soft gold of the kitchen, your bare feet stepping with his in unspoken rhythm. You fit against him like you’d been built to. After a minute, he whispered your name. Just once.
You looked up. He didn’t kiss you. Not yet. He just stared. Stared at you like he already felt time slipping away. Like you were the only thing keeping him tethered. Like he wanted to memorize this moment — this version of you, in his shirt, in his arms, in the low light of a life that hadn’t been shattered yet.
Your breath hitched as you said, quietly, “Bucky.”
That was all it took. He kissed you slow. Hands on your jaw, tilting your face up, thumbs brushing your cheeks like you might break if he pressed too hard. His mouth was warm and tentative at first, like he was asking a question with every touch of his lips. But you answered it. You kissed him back. Messy. Needy. And then it all unraveled.
He groaned into your mouth, pulled you up into his arms, and walked you backward toward the bedroom without breaking the kiss. He didn’t drop you. Didn’t toss you onto the bed. He laid you down. Reverent. Gentle. Like he’d been handed a miracle. His body came over yours, all heat and muscle and quiet restraint. But his hands — God, his hands were shaking.
“You’re sure?” he asked, voice hoarse, like it hurt to speak.
“Yes,” you nodded, eyes shining.
That broke something in him. He undressed you like he was unwrapping something precious. Not a single sharp motion. Not a single impatient yank. He ran his fingers up your thighs like he was learning your shape. Dragged his knuckles along the underside of your breasts like he’d never touched softness before. When he finally stripped off his own shirt, you saw him bare for the first time — strong, solid, scarred in the way only a soldier can be. But his eyes were soft. Gentle. Starved.
He kissed his way down your stomach like it was sacred ground. His palms flattened along your hips as he settled between your legs, broad shoulders pressing your thighs apart. You could barely breathe—not with the look in his eyes, not with the reverent heat of his breath just above where you ached.
“Spread those pretty legs for me, baby,” he said, voice low and steady, as though it was the simplest request in the world.
You obeyed. You had no choice. Bucky slid his hands behind your knees and pushed—gently, but firm enough to open you wide for him. His eyes dropped to your glistening folds, and for a second, he just stared. He looked hungry.
He let out a quiet groan, like the sight of you alone was too much. “Goddamn,” he muttered, dragging his thumbs along your inner thighs. “You always get this wet when a man treats you right?”
You swallowed hard. “No one’s ever—”
He glanced up. His face changed. “No one’s ever what, doll?”
You hesitated. Flushed. “No one’s ever… taken their time.”
His brow twitched. Then he leaned in—slow, nose dragging up your slit without touching, just breathing you in. “Then they were all fools,” he rasped. He licked you once—one slow, devastating stroke from your dripping entrance to the swell of your clit—and you nearly came off the bed. He chuckled, low and dark. “Easy,” he murmured. “Ain’t even started yet.”
His tongue circled you with precision—soft and teasing at first, then firmer, wetter, focused. His lips wrapped around your clit and sucked, slow and rhythmic, like he wanted it from you. You whimpered, hips arching, but his arm came across your waist, pinning you down.
“None of that,” he said against your skin. “Stay right there, baby. Let me do my job.” Then his fingers came into play. One thick digit slipped inside you, slow and careful. “God, you’re tight,” he groaned, knuckle-deep already. “Squeezin’ me like a vice. You sure you want all of me tonight?”
You moaned helplessly. “Yes—fuck, please—”
He added a second finger. You gasped. He grinned. “Better hold on,” he murmured, fingers curling just right. “Got a rule, sweetheart. My girl always cums first.”
His mouth dropped back to your clit as his fingers began to move — slow pumps, twisting, searching, finding that perfect spot that made you see stars. When he hit it, he knew. “Oh yeah,” he breathed. “Right there, huh? That’s your spot. Look at you, baby. Look how good you take my fingers.”
You were babbling now, legs trembling, hands in his hair as he worked you open. He groaned when you tugged hard. “That’s it, sweetheart. Use me. Come on. I wanna feel you gush on my fuckin’ hand.” His lips suctioned over your clit as his fingers thrust faster, curling harder, and your back arched.
“Bucky—oh God—”
“Cum for me, doll,” he growled into your cunt. “Come on. Soak me. Show me how sweet this pussy is.”
And you did. You shattered around him with a cry, thighs shaking, nails dragging down his shoulders as your orgasm tore through you like a tidal wave. He didn’t stop. Not until you whimpered his name in broken gasps, trying to pull away. Only then did he lift his mouth—slick on his chin, pupils blown wide—and smile down at you like he’d just stolen heaven from the gods.
“Still want me inside?” he asked, voice hoarse and reverent.
“God, yes.”
Then he rose above you, bracing his weight on one forearm as he looked down—and for a moment, he didn’t move. He just hovered there, eyes fixed where your bodies met, the flushed tip of his cock glistening against your soaked entrance.
Your legs wrapped around his waist almost without thinking, your thighs trembling from the orgasm he’d just pulled out of you. You felt boneless, undone—but greedy. He dragged the head of his cock through your slick folds once, twice, catching at your clit with a low hiss through his teeth.
“You’re takin’ me so good already,” he murmured, voice gone husky and reverent, like he was in awe of you. “Pussy so wet for me… she knows who she belongs to, huh?”
“Bucky,” you whimpered, fisting the sheet beside you.
He met your eyes. And then—finally—he pushed in. Slow. Deep. Thick. You gasped at the stretch, your mouth falling open as he filled you inch by inch, the pressure stealing your breath. It was too much — and not enough. It was perfect. His cock was hot and hard and wide, dragging against every sensitive nerve inside you, and still he kept going, hips sinking until he bottomed out.
You felt it. Felt him press so deep it made your stomach flutter, made your chest tighten, made your eyes sting. Your body opened for him like it had been waiting—not just for someone, but for him.
His mouth dropped open as he bottomed out, forehead pressing to yours, both of you gasping in the dark. “Fuck,” he choked out. “So tight… baby, you feel that? Feels like heaven. Like you were made for me.”
You could only nod, breath ragged. He didn’t move at first. Just held there, buried to the hilt, like he was trying not to fall apart. Like the moment deserved silence. Like your body deserved worship. Then—gently—he pulled back. And thrust in again. Slower than before. Deeper. Like he was memorizing every second. You moaned, hips rising to meet him.
“Attagirl,” he whispered, his voice low and wrecked. “That’s it. Take it. Let me in, baby. Let me love you right.”
And he did. He rocked into you with a rhythm that was patient and deliberate, the kind that said I’m not just fucking you—I’m keeping you.
His hand found yours, fingers lacing together as he drove deeper, grounding you, tethering you to him like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go. “Never had it this good,” he rasped against your neck. “You know that? Never felt anything close to this.”
You were crying, just a little—from the fullness, from the sweetness, from the way he kissed your tear when it slipped down your cheek.
“Beautiful fuckin’ girl,” he groaned. “My sweet little doll. You’re perfect. Perfect.” Every time he thrust, your breath caught. His hips rolled, slow and heavy, grinding you open. He shifted one hand down between your bodies and rubbed your clit in gentle circles, and you cried out, arching into him.
“Gonna cum for me again?” he whispered, lips brushing yours. “C’mon, sweetheart. Wanna feel you milk my cock. Wanna feel that sweet pussy squeeze me while I tell you how good you are.”
“Bucky—”
“That’s it. Say my name. Cum on it. Soak me. Show me how much you love this.”
And when you broke again—shattering, spasming, sobbing into his mouth—he felt it. He fucked you through it, slower now, hips stuttering as your body clung to his. Then he groaned, long and low, and you felt the heat of him spill inside you, thick and deep and endless. He stayed buried in you. Panting. Shaking. His lips brushed your temple. Then your cheek. Then your mouth.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’ve got you, doll. Always. Just stay with me.”
And even though neither of you said it. you both knew it was more than a fuck. More than a fever dream. It was a promise. Even if time didn’t keep it.
-
It started in the margins. Barely-there flickers at the corners of your vision. The strange chill in your bones that didn’t match the weather. A shimmer in the mirror when you looked too long. A brief, pulsing hum beneath your skin — like your body could already feel time starting to catch up.
You didn’t tell him. Not at first. Because how could you? Because last night, he held you like he had all the time in the world. Touched you like he’d been born to know your body. Fell asleep with your face tucked under his jaw, one arm curled around your waist, a soft, tired kiss pressed to your forehead in the dark.
You woke up to birdsong and his breath at the back of your neck, and for a few aching seconds, you forgot what year it was. Forgot about the man who’d let you fall through the cracks of the future. Forgot everything except this boy — this man — who worshiped you with his hands, with his voice, with every careful kiss like he wanted to build a home in your skin.
Then the knock came. Three short raps against the door.
“Buck?” Steve’s voice, muffled. “It’s the Lieutenant.”
You felt him tense behind you. His fingers gripped your hip once, then slipped away. He stood slowly, bare feet on creaking wood. He looked down at you, eyes shadowed. Said nothing. But you saw it.
The shift. The war creeping back in. The seconds slipping. He got dressed in silence. Uniform laid out on the edge of the bed, ironed within an inch of its life. You sat up slowly, knees pulled to your chest, one of his shirts clutched tight around your body.
He tried to smile. “You gonna miss me, doll?” he asked, light and low, smoothing a hand through his hair in the mirror.
You swallowed. “You’ll only be gone a few hours.”
“Still worth missin’, ain’t I?”
You didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, you rose, stepped up behind him, and wrapped your arms around his waist. You laid your cheek between his shoulder blades, fingers clutching the fabric of his jacket like you could hold him in place. He turned in your arms. Tipped your chin up and kissed you slow. Not rushed. Not goodbye. Just slow.
His fingers threaded into your hair. His thumb brushed your cheek. And when he pulled back, he searched your eyes. “Promise me you’ll be here when I get back.”
You opened your mouth. Stopped. Then nodded.
He nodded too. But the look in his eyes—it wasn’t sure. You watched him leave from the window.
He paused once on the street, tilted his head back like he could feel you watching, and lifted a hand in a lazy, cocky salute. Then he turned and disappeared into the late-morning light.
And suddenly the apartment was too quiet. The edges of things started to blur again—just a little. The shadows stretched longer. Your reflection in the glass flickered, unfamiliar. You sat on the bed and curled your arms around your knees.
I don’t want to go. But you could feel it now. Like static in your bones. Like a slow, rising tide. Time wasn’t going to ask permission. It was coming. And you didn’t know how much longer you had.
-
You didn’t hear the door open. But you felt it. The moment he crossed the threshold, the air in the apartment shifted. Like gravity remembered what it was meant for. You turned from the kitchen—heart already pounding—just as the floor creaked behind you. And there he was. Framed in the doorway. Rain-spattered and flushed from the cold. His jacket was still buttoned, dog tags swaying from his neck, dark hair slicked back except for one piece that had fallen across his forehead. His eyes found you instantly.
And he froze. Took a single step forward and the door fall shut behind him. “You wait up for me, doll?”
Your throat went dry. He looked dangerous. That uniform—olive green, pressed, perfect—stretched across his broad chest like it belonged there. The patches on his sleeve. The shine of the brass. The belt cinched tight across his waist.
You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
He moved closer. Bootsteps measured. “You been thinkin’ about me, sweetheart?”
You backed into the counter as he approached, nodding again—heart hammering so loud you could barely hear your own voice. “All day,” you whispered.
He made a soft sound. Something like a growl. Then his hands were on your waist, spinning you around, bending you over the kitchen counter with a controlled kind of force that made you gasp.
“You know what this uniform means, right?” he rasped against your ear. “Means I make the rules, doll.”
You nodded, breathless.
“Means you say yes when I give an order.”
“…Yes, Sarge.”
That did it. He groaned — full-bodied, filthy — and shoved your panties down in one rough motion, his palm dragging up between your legs. “Fuck, baby. Still so wet for me.”
He didn’t give you time to answer. Just dropped to his knees, shoved your thighs apart, and buried his face between your legs like he’d dreamed about it all day. “Been thinkin’ about this sweet little cunt since I left,” he growled, tongue dragging through your folds. “Missed the taste of you. Thought about you drippin’ all over my cock while I sat in that cold-ass truck, pretendin’ I wasn’t hard as a fuckin’ rifle.”
You moaned—loud, shameless—and he spanked your ass once, just enough to make you yelp.
“Keep still,” he snapped. “Let me fuckin’ eat.” And he did. Tongue firm and fast, his mouth latching to your clit with filthy, practiced hunger. His fingers slid into you deep and curling, finding that spot that made you cry out—legs shaking, cheek pressed to the counter.
“That’s it, baby. That’s it. Fuckin’ cum on my face. Let me feel you.” You broke like a wave, clenching around his fingers, panting his name like a prayer. But he didn’t stop—just grunted against your pussy, tongue dragging up everything he’d coaxed out of you.
By the time he stood, your knees were buckling. He undid his belt with one sharp motion, the clink of the buckle echoing through the kitchen like thunder. Then he shoved his trousers down just enough, wrapped a hand around the base of his cock, and slammed into you in one deep, devastating thrust.
You screamed. He groaned—guttural and raw—then bent over your back, panting into your neck. “Fuck, sweetheart. You feel that? That’s your pussy stretchin’ around your Sarge’s cock. You take it like you were born for it.”
You couldn’t speak. Could barely think. He was fucking you hard now, deep and relentless, still in his uniform—jacket straining, tags hitting your back, boots still on. His hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back. “Say it,” he growled. “Say who owns this pussy.”
“You—Bucky—fuck—Sarge—”
“That’s right. You’re my girl. My sweet little thing. This pussy’s mine. I earned it.”
You were close again—too fast—sobbing with how full you felt. He wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you upright, still fucking into you from behind. His other hand covered your throat, fingers pressing just enough to make your head spin.
“Wanna cum again?” he whispered, mouth against your ear. “Gonna let me feel this pretty cunt squeeze me while I fill you up?”
“Yes— Sarge, please!”
He growled. Then slammed into you harder. “Cum.” He ordered.
You shattered. Came so hard your vision went white, your body trembling in his arms, and he groaned—loud and broken—as he emptied into you with a few rough, desperate thrusts.
“Fuck— take it, baby, take all of it, that’s it, sweetheart—God, you’re so perfect for me. Never letting you go.” And when it was over, he collapsed against your back, breathing hard, pressing kisses to your shoulder as you both trembled. He didn’t pull out right away. Didn’t let you go. Just held you there—full, spent, loved. Then whispered, like it broke something in him, “Don’t go while I’m gone tomorrow.”
-
He fell asleep with his face tucked into your chest, one hand fisted in your shirt, the other curled beneath your ribs like he was afraid of letting go. His breathing was slow now. Deep. But not peaceful — not entirely. Even in sleep, he held you with too much need. Like his body knew something he didn’t. Like it sensed the way time frayed at the edges of this moment. Like it was bracing for a goodbye it didn’t have words for.
You smoothed your fingers gently through his hair, watching the lines on his face relax in the dim amber of the bedside lamp. His lashes brushed your skin. His mouth, that filthy, reverent, hungry mouth, was parted against your collarbone, soft breaths spilling onto your skin like prayer.
God, he was so young like this. Unburdened. Untouched by war, by pain, by the endless weight of guilt you knew he’d carry one day. There were no ghosts in his eyes yet. No metal arm. No frozen decades of silence and screaming. Not yet. And it ached. Your throat burned because you knew what was coming. You knew what the world would do to him.
How it would carve the softness from his voice. How it would dull the light in his eyes. How it would twist his memories and make him doubt every good thing he’d ever been. Every kind word. Every instinct to love. Every night he ever held someone like this. Held you like this. And you couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t protect him from the decades that would follow.
But God, you wanted to. You blinked back tears and pulled the blanket higher around you both, trying not to think about how your time here was running out. How it would happen tomorrow. Or the day after. How you would wake up, or fall asleep, or blink, and suddenly this version of him—this warm, open, man—would be gone.
And in his place? The man you left behind. The man who barely looked at you. The man whose voice was a blade. The man who’d scoffed at your jokes and narrowed his eyes when you spoke and clenched his jaw every time you so much as entered the room.
You used to think he hated you. You used to believe it—really believe it. But now? Now you weren’t so sure. Because when you looked at this Bucky—the one asleep in your arms—you could feel it. The truth of him. That hidden, aching softness. That same bite. That same stubborn mouth and steel spine. But layered with something else, too—something gentle. Something good.
And maybe… Maybe that version of him—the one in your time—still had this softness buried somewhere. Buried deep beneath the decades. Buried beneath Hydra and blood and silence and shame. Maybe he still remembered how to touch you like this. Maybe he wanted to. Maybe he had once, long ago, before the world broke him in half.
You pressed your lips to his temple—so softly he didn’t stir—and let your eyes fall shut. You could fall in love with this version so easily. You already had.
-
It started with the air. Still and strange. Like the apartment was holding its breath.
You felt it before you opened your eyes — the prickling across your skin, the pressure in your chest, the hum beneath your ribs like a string being pulled tight.
No sound. No birds.
Just time, waiting.
You turned your head and found him still beside you — bare-chested, tangled in the sheets, one arm thrown over your stomach. He was half-buried in sleep, lips parted, lashes casting shadows across his cheeks. Peaceful. For now.
You watched him for a long time. Memorizing the slope of his nose, the fullness of his mouth, the creases in his brow that hadn’t hardened yet. The boy inside the man. The one the future would forget.
But you wouldn’t.
You could never.
Because you loved him now.
You loved him.
Even if you never got to say it.
-
It got worse as the sun rose. The shimmer started in the corners of the room—not light, not shadow, something else. A pulse in the air. A fraying of edges. The wall by the window flickered once, twice—like a tear in the fabric of now.
Time was pulling.
No. Not yet. Please.
You sat up with a gasp. His arm slipped from your stomach. He stirred, frowning.
“Bucky,” you whispered, voice already cracking. “Wake up.”
He groaned softly. “Mmm… what time is it?”
“I think— I think it’s happening.”
His eyes snapped open. “What?”
You couldn’t answer. Because the wall across the room was glowing now—pulsing gold, thin and bright and wrong.
He followed your gaze and understood.
“No,” he breathed. “No, no, no—not yet.”
You were already crying.
He sat up fast, hands cupping your face. “Tell me how to stop it. Tell me how to keep you.”
“I don’t know.” You sobbed. “I don’t know.”
“Then stay,” he rasped. “Please. Just stay. I’ll take you somewhere far—off-grid. I'll desert. We’ll figure it out, I swear. Just—”
“Buck,” you whispered, shattering. “I can’t. I think— I think I was never supposed to stay. I think it’s taking me back.”
He was shaking his head. Still denying it. His fingers curled tighter in your hair. “No. No, I just got you. My girl.”
You were both crying now. The glow spread. The air buzzed.
You pressed your forehead to his. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Be with me. Please—” He crushed his mouth to yours, kissing you hard, wet, desperate. His hands slid down your back, gripping you like he could hold you here. “Just one more time. Let me—please—I need—”
You kissed him back and nodded.
“Okay,” you whispered. “One more.”
You made love like it was a promise. Like it was the last chapter of a book neither of you wanted to finish.
No rush.
No frenzy.
Just him.
Moving over you—slow, reverent—slipping inside like he’d done it a hundred times before. Like your bodies had been made for this exact kind of goodbye.
He braced over you, cradling your face in both hands as he sank into you, a groan clawing out of his chest as your body welcomed him. “Still so tight, baby,” he whispered against your lips. “Still mine. All mine.”
You cried beneath him. Tears rolling hot into your hair. Wrapping your legs around his waist, threading your fingers into his hair, clutching him closer like you could keep him. Like holding him tighter might anchor you here.
He fucked you in long, aching strokes. His forehead pressed to yours. Breath shaking. Mouth trembling. “You feel so good, sweetheart,” he rasped. “Gonna miss this. Miss you. I don’t wanna forget. Don’t wanna forget you.”
“You won’t,” you whispered.
But he shook his head—like he didn’t believe you. Like he was already trying to memorize every inch of your face.
And something cracked inside you.
“Listen to me, Bucky,” you said, voice trembling. “You can’t forget. No matter what happens. No matter what the world takes from you—don’t let it take this.”
He stilled for just a moment—eyes locked on yours, confusion flickering deep behind the glassy haze of lust and heartbreak. “What are you talkin’ about—?”
“You have to hold onto this,” you breathed. “Please. To this bed. This morning. This touch. This—us. Because the world is going to hurt you. It’s going to take things from you you don’t even know how to name yet.”
He shook his head again. “No. Don’t—don’t say that—”
“But you have to fight. Even if you don’t know why, even if you can’t remember my name—you have to feel me. Somewhere. Please.”
He went still. Like your words punched straight through him. Then he kissed you—open-mouthed, crushing, broken. And he started moving again—deeper now. Slower. Each stroke a kind of vow.
“I won’t forget,” he whispered. “I swear to God, doll—I won’t.”
You cried harder. “I love you,” you said suddenly—unguarded, wild. “I love you. I don’t care if it’s only been a week. I don’t care if I never see you again. You need to know that. You need to feel that.”
“I do,” he said, voice wrecked. “I do, baby. I feel it. I feel all of it. Every time I touch you—fuck—every time I hear you say my name.” He kissed you deep. “Say it again,” he begged.
“Bucky—” you panted.
“Again.”
“Bucky. My Bucky.”
He moaned deep in his throat—and that was it. He came inside you with a sound that shattered something between you, clutching your body to his like he could fuck the memory of you into his bones.
He held you through it. Mouth against your skin. Trembling. “Gonna find you again,” he whispered. “Even if I forget—I’ll find you. I’ll feel you in my hands. I’ll taste you in my dreams. You’ll always be mine, doll. Always.”
And you—
You kissed him like the world was ending.
Because for you, it was.
-
The bed was still warm when he woke up alone. Bucky sat up slowly, chest heaving, eyes already stinging.
Your side of the sheets sat empty. Not rumpled. Not tucked back in. Just… gone. Like you had never been there. His hand found the hollow you’d left behind and pressed into it, hard. Like he could wring the memory back from the cotton. Like he could keep you there through sheer will.
You had warned him. He knew. But nothing could’ve prepared him for the weight of it. The absence.
The apartment was too quiet. Too clean. Too fucking cold.
He stood, bare-chested, dog tags swinging against his chest, and paced the room like a man trying to retrace his own shadow.
Then he stopped and reached for the small drawer in the nightstand. He fished out a pen and ran into the kitchen. He tore a piece of paper from the back of Steve’s sketchbook. His hands were trembling as he wrote. Ink blotting at the corners where his grip shook too hard.
But he didn’t stop. He wrote it all.
Your name.
Your voice.
Your laugh.
The way you had looked the first time you’d danced with him barefoot in the kitchen. The way you had cried when he made love to you the last time—like you were etching the memory into your soul.
He wrote how your fingers felt tangled in his hair. How you clung to him when you came.
How you had warned him, begged him to remember. To fight. And he wrote that he would. That no matter what happened—no matter what came for him—he would hold on to this.
To you.
He folded the note carefully. Pressed a kiss to it. And tucked it into the lining of his jacket pocket—the one he always wore.
He would keep it close. Even if he forgot. Even if the war chewed him up and spit him out.
Even if the world stripped away his name, his mind, and his mercy—somewhere, buried deep in muscle and bone, you would remain.
-
He woke up choking on your name. Not a scream. Not a gasp. A whisper. Ragged. Crushed. Alive.
His body jolted upright in the dark, drenched in sweat, heart galloping like it was still inside you, still chasing your pulse. His sheets were tangled. His fists clenched. And his cock—hard. Throbbing. Still aching for you like it hadn’t been decades. Like you were still beneath him, soft and wet and whispering Bucky, my Bucky, over and over like a benediction.
He dragged a shaking hand over his face.
No.
No, no, no—
It hadn’t been a dream.
It had been real.
The scent of you was still on his pillow. The taste of your mouth still on his tongue. The feel of your thighs trembling around his hips, the warmth of your tears soaking into his chest, the sound of your breath hitching when he pushed inside you slow that first time. He remembered his words that last time, “Still so tight, baby. Still mine.”
He felt like he was dying because he remembered. All of it.
The way your hand fit in his. The swing of your hips in his undershirt. The sound of your laugh in his kitchen while he made sandwiches. The way your lip trembled when you begged him to remember you.
He remembered you. Not just your body.
You.
The way you stared too long. The way you acted like you didn’t care but couldn’t look away. The way you kissed him like you knew. Like you’d already lost him once.
And now—
Now he understood why.
He stumbled out of bed like a man possessed. Shirtless. Barefoot. Half-hard and half-mad. He paced his apartment, muttering your name, running both hands through his hair like the memory physically hurt.
Because it did.
It hurt.
He’d loved you.
He’d fallen in love with you. In less than a week. Like some fucking storybook. And when you disappeared—when you were ripped from his arms, from his bed, from his fucking life—he’d spent the rest of that night on his knees in the bedroom, sobbing into his hands like a man broken in two.
And then?
The rest of his life had unfolded. The war. The capture. The fall. The silence. The knives.
The loss.
And somewhere inside that hollowed-out version of himself, some piece of you had still clung to him. The way he reached for someone in his dreams and woke up screaming. The way he hated that Ella Fitzgerald song without knowing why.
The way he’d first seen you, months ago, in this timeline—and something inside him screamed.
But he hadn’t known.
Until now.
Until this.
You had come to him.
You’d warned him.
Told him to fight. Told him to remember.
And he had.
It had just taken 80 years.
-
His phone buzzed. He didn’t move. Didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Not when he could still feel you—pressed to his chest, moaning in his ear, whispering I love you, Bucky, as you came around him for the last time.
God, he missed you. He needed you.
“Say it again.”
“Bucky—”
“Again.”
“Bucky. My Bucky.”
He groaned aloud, fisting his hand against his hard length through his boxers. It wasn’t about getting off. It was about the ache. The craving. His body remembered you, and it was screaming for you.
But this wasn’t just physical.
No, this was worse.
He wanted to hold you again. Feed you again. Watch you dance in your pajamas and laugh at his stupid jokes and scold Steve for walking in without knocking.
He wanted to wake up to you again.
And he couldn’t.
You were gone.
But then—a thought. A flash. A whisper of his voice telling you he'd find you.
He froze. Heart hammering.
And for the first time in decades, Bucky Barnes felt something more powerful than shame or rage or regret.
Hope.
If you’d found him once—
If you’d come to him when the world least expected it—
Then maybe, just maybe—
He could find you too.
He stood in the middle of his apartment. Bare chest rising and falling. Eyes burning.
And whispered, “I remember you.”
-
You woke up in your apartment.
Face down. Cold sheets. A bruise on your hip in the exact shape of his hand.
For a few moments, you thought maybe you were dreaming. That your body had conjured it all — the smoke and the saxophones, the cheap soap and the undershirts, the kiss he gave you on the kitchen floor, and the goodbye that cracked you in two.
But then you sat up.
And the pain in your chest was real.
The grief of it came fast. Hard. Hot behind your eyes.
You didn’t cry.
Not yet.
Just stared at the ceiling and whispered, “Bucky,” like he might still be beside you. Like the word might pull you back.
It didn’t.
-
You went back to the Tower the next morning.
Yelena hugged you so tight your ribs ached. Ava hovered at your elbow, quiet but present. Bob pulled you into a jostled, almost shy embrace before disappearing again like a mirage, and Alexei—bless him—cried openly and loudly and accused everyone of underreacting.
You smiled for them.
Laughed at the right beats.
And when John came into the room and stared at you for a full five seconds before silently pulling you into his chest, you let him.
You didn’t talk about what happened.
Not in any real way.
Just said you got sucked into a time loop. Weird glitch in the fabric of space-time. Mission interference. You said it casually, like you didn’t wake up aching for a man who hadn’t been born yet.
They explained they’d tried everything.
Sensors. Search teams. Portal triggers. Bob even tried to “resonate the quantum field” with a spoon and a synthesizer. It didn’t work. None of it did.
They said it was like you’d vanished. Like the world had briefly unstitched.
And then—just as suddenly—you were back.
No burn marks. No radiation. No warning.
Just… back.
You nodded and thanked them and changed the subject.
What were you supposed to say? That you’d fallen in love with a man from 1943? That you’d left him in bed with your name on his lips? That he’d held you like he already knew how the world would tear him apart?
You didn’t say any of it. You couldn’t. Because Bucky wasn’t there.
He’d left on assignment the day before your return.
-
You didn’t cry until three days later.
Not when you woke up alone. Not when you unpacked the old undershirt that still smelled like him. Not when you turned the radio on, hoping — needing — to hear Ella Fitzgerald just to prove he’d existed at all.
But then you dropped a coffee mug. Shattered it across the kitchen tile.
And something inside you broke with it.
You sank to your knees in the shards and cried so hard you thought your lungs might cave in.
Because you hadn’t just lost him.
You’d left him.
-
You kept seeing him.
Not in front of you. Not in the mirror. But behind your eyes. In your dreams. In the corner of your peripheral vision every time you walked into a room that almost smelled like 1943.
You thought you heard him once in the hallway.
Turned so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash.
It wasn’t him.
It was never him.
Because he wasn’t here.
-
And what would you even say, if he was?
What could you say?
I’m sorry I vanished mid-kiss? Sorry I warned you about the future without telling you what was coming? Without stopping it? Sorry I let you hold me like I was yours and then disappeared like a ghost?
You tried to imagine it. The way he’d look at you. What his face would do.
Would he remember? Would he know?
Or worse — would he not?
Would he just stare at you like you were a stranger again? Would he greet you with a nod and a grunt and go back to sharpening his knives?
You didn’t know what would be worse: him forgetting or him remembering everything.
Because if he did remember—
You’d have to live with the sound of his voice breaking when he begged you not to go. You’d have to look into his eyes and see the ghost of that final kiss, that final fuck, that final heartbeat he gave you in the dark.
You’d have to look at him and remember the exact moment your body stopped being yours and became his.
And you didn’t know if you could survive that.
—
What would you say to him?
You whispered it into your pillow at night, just to hear it aloud.
“Bucky, I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t want to leave.”
“I didn’t want to forget.”
“I didn’t forget.”
“Not for one second.”
You’d beg him to understand.
You’d grab his face in your hands and kiss him like it had only been a day. Like no time had passed. Like your body still remembered him the way his remembered you.
If he remembered.
If he didn’t… you’d die quietly.
If he did… maybe you’d finally get a taste of what it felt like to be remembered. Wanted. Chosen. Again.
But only if the universe was kind.
And it rarely was.
-
Until it was. Until the universe gave you one small mercy. Until you stepped into that briefing room — same as you always had, boots steady and heart quiet — and saw him.
Bucky Barnes.
Alive. Whole. Waiting.
And staring at you like he’d spent the last eighty years crawling his way back from death just to see you one more time.
You stopped.
Mid-step. Mid-thought. Mid-breath.
He was across the room. Half-shadowed in the corner like he was trying to blend into the walls. Arms crossed tight. Shoulders drawn. Head low.
But his eyes—
God, his eyes.
Fixed on you like you were gravity itself. Like if he blinked, you might vanish again. Like he could still feel your thighs clenched around his waist and your mouth whispering don’t forget me, Bucky into the dark.
Your pulse skipped.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
You were just here for a mission briefing. Standard debrief. In and out. You’d done this a hundred times. Your badge had buzzed at the gate. The elevator hummed you up, clean and sterile. The Tower lights flickered like always. Controlled. Normal.
Until now.
Until him.
Until the breath caught in your throat and the floor dropped out from beneath you.
You weren’t ready for this. Maybe you were hallucinating that he looked like he remembered. Maybe you were so delusional that you were making up things in his gaze.
He hadn’t moved. He looked just like he had a week ago when you stood across from him before the mission. Before the quinjet. He just stood still, looking at you across the room. Not even a shift in his stance.
But something in him had shifted.
His hand twitched at his side as your gaze traced his form. His lips parted slightly. And somehow… you knew. For certain.
This wasn’t the same man who used to glance past you in the hallway. Who snapped his gum and looked bored in meetings. This wasn’t the version of Bucky who kept his distance and ducked out of group dinners early.
No.
This was the man who had kissed your fingers across a chipped 1940s kitchen table and danced with you barefoot in the hallway. The man who’d cradled your body in trembling hands and slid into you with a reverence that stole your name from your own lips. This was the man who had begged you to stay.
And now he was here. Staring at you. Jaw clenched. Eyes burning. Breathing like it hurt.
He looked older. Of course he did. But different, too — like the lines in his face had finally met purpose. Like the cold weight in his chest had thawed and spilled open.
Because you were here.
Because he remembered.
He remembered everything.
The rest of the team kept talking—Bob cracking a joke, Yelena shoving John, Ava sighing—but none of it mattered. Because he was looking at you like nothing else existed.
And then he moved.
Silent. Direct.
One long stride after another, silent and steady until he was in front of you, shadow falling across your chest.
He didn’t touch you. Didn’t say a word. Just stood there. Breathing hard. Staring like he didn’t trust his own eyes.
You opened your mouth—
But he beat you to it.
“Come with me,” he said, voice low.
It wasn’t a question.
You didn’t answer. You just followed.
He grabbed your wrist and led you down the hall, past the elevators, past the armory, into a supply closet you hadn’t used in months. He opened the door, shoved you inside, and locked it behind you.
The fluorescent light flickered. Your heart slammed against your ribs.
“Tell me it was real.” He said finally, looking down at you, chest rising and falling with the weight of his breath.
You swallowed. “It was real.”
A flash behind his eyes. Relief. Rage. Desire. He stepped closer, his fingers twitching at his sides like he was forcing himself not to grab you. Not yet.
“You remember?” he asked.
You nodded.
His voice dropped. “Do you know what it did to me? The moment you disappeared out of my arms?”
Your throat tightened.
“You were gone. One second you were beneath me. Breathing my name. Crying. And the next…” He shook his head. “I searched everywhere. Thought maybe I’d dreamed you up. Gone mad.”
You tried to breathe, but your chest was a furnace. “I wasn’t gone,” you whispered. “I didn’t want to go.”
He stared at you for one long, shaking second.
And then—
“I want a taste,” he said hoarsely. “Again. No. I need a taste.”
You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak.
So you didn’t. You just stepped into him—hands fisting his shirt, mouth crashing against his like you hadn’t kissed him in nearly a century.
He groaned into your lips like it hurt to be gentle. Like he’d waited too long and dreamed too much to hold back now. His hands were everywhere—jaw, hips, waist, back. He kissed you like a man who knew you. Who’d mapped every sigh, every moan, every place your body broke open under him.
Because he had.
Because he remembered.
You gasped as he backed you into the door, his thigh slotting between yours with brutal purpose. He swallowed it whole.
“God, Doll,” he rasped. “I thought I’d never get to touch you again.”
“I thought you forgot.”
He growled. “Never. I remembered every second. The way you kissed me in that kitchen. The sound you made when I first slid my fingers inside you. How tight you were when I finally fucked you—”
You whimpered.
“I dreamed it all, every night. Woke up so hard it hurt. Had to bite my knuckles to keep from screaming your name.”
He dropped his forehead to yours. “I came thinking about you every time, baby. Every time.”
You pulled him closer, breathing in gasps against his mouth. “Then let me in,” you whispered. “Now.”
He kissed you again—rougher, hungrier, trembling.
“I already am,” he breathed.
Then he lifted you—arms under your thighs, back hitting the wall—and kissed you like the sky might fall down around him if he stopped.
Your hands flew to his face, your fingers in his hair.
His body caged yours against the door. Heat. Muscle. Need.
And this time—
This time he didn’t have to fuck you like it was goodbye. Because you were here. Now. Again. And he wasn’t letting go.
You moaned as his mouth dragged from yours to your jaw, down your neck. Wet, desperate kisses that bordered on worship. He groaned like he needed it—needed you—just to survive.
His hands slid under your shirt. Not soft. Not hesitant.
Possessive.
“Off,” he growled against your throat. “Need to feel you.”
You tore at the hem, dragging your top over your head as he shoved your bra aside with trembling fingers. Your nipples peaked instantly in the chill, and he groaned at the sight, mouth closing over one like he was losing his mind.
“Oh my god—Bucky—”
“That’s right,” he murmured. “Say my name again. I earned that name, baby.”
You cried out as he sucked hard, flicking with his tongue while one hand shoved your pants down your thighs. He didn’t even take them off—just pushed them down far enough to touch what he really wanted.
And god, the sound he made when his fingers slid against your soaked panties—low and guttural—like it took everything in him not to come on the spot.
“Fuck—” He dropped his head to your shoulder. “You’re so wet. You missed me, huh?”
You whimpered. He tugged your panties aside and sank two thick fingers into you in one slow, greedy push. You nearly screamed.
“Jesus—!”
“Still so tight, sweetheart,” he groaned, rocking them in and out. “Still mine. Still fuckin’ perfect.”
You writhed against the door, heels digging into his back as he curled his fingers and rubbed that spot inside you that had your eyes rolling.
“I got a rule,” he panted, kissing your collarbone. “My girl always comes first.” Your head fell back. Your heart lurched as you remembered the first time you heard those words.
He dropped to his knees.
Just like that.
Didn’t ask. Didn’t wait. Just hooked your leg over his shoulder and buried his face between your thighs like a man made to kneel.
“Bucky—!”
You slapped a hand against your mouth as his tongue slid over your clit, broad and filthy, licking you like a man possessed.
He growled against you, then looked up—eyes dark and blown. “You better take that hand off your mouth, doll,” he rasped, voice raw. “You been quiet for eighty fuckin’ years. Let me hear you now.”
You dropped it.
And he went in.
Tongue circling your clit, fingers fucking up into you with perfect rhythm. He devoured you like it was his last meal—like he needed to memorize your taste before time could steal you again.
“Oh fuck—oh my god—”
You were shaking. Writhing. Gasping. Every nerve pulled tight as he groaned into your cunt, messily mouthing at your clit like a man drowning in devotion.
“You’re gonna come for me, baby,” he said, sliding his mouth up just long enough to pant the words into your core. “Gonna come all over my fuckin’ face, aren’t you?”
“Yes—”
He didn’t stop. Not once. His mouth was ruthless, his fingers steady, his filthy Brooklyn praise flooding your ears. “That’s it. Show me. Fuckin’ love how this pussy tastes. Made for me.”
You came with a cry, thighs clamping around his head, hips bucking against his mouth as he moaned and licked you through it. You were still twitching when he stood.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, rubbing your slick down his cock through his pants. “You’re so fuckin’ sweet.”
Then he undid his fly. And the breath punched out of your lungs. Thick. Heavy. Desperate. He stroked it once, slow.
“You ready?”
You nodded, eyes wide.
“No, sweetheart. Say it.”
“I’m ready,” you gasped. “I need you.”
That was all it took.
He grabbed your thighs, hauled you higher, and lined himself up. “You’re takin’ me so good already,” he murmured. “So fuckin’ tight… can’t wait to feel you wrapped around me, baby.”
And then he pushed in.
Slow.
Deep.
And it was like being split wide open by something you’d begged to remember. His cock stretched you to the edge, inch after thick inch until you could feel him in your throat.
Your mouth fell open.
He groaned into it. “God damn,” he hissed, fucking into you with one long, shuddering thrust. “Still the best I ever had. Still mine.”
“Yours,” you gasped. “I’m yours—”
He kissed you then, deep and messy and thankful. Because this time? There was no ticking clock.
Just you.
Just him.
And the kind of fucking that doesn’t end in goodbye.
-
You never made it back to the debrief.
You tried.
God, you tried.
But the moment Bucky came—with a hoarse, broken groan buried in your neck, holding you like you were the only thing keeping him upright—he didn’t let you go. Didn’t even try. He just held you there, trembling, still buried inside you like he couldn’t bear the thought of not being part of your body.
And then he whispered. “Fuck the debrief.” You laughed, breathless. He kissed your cheek. Your jaw. Your temple. “Fuck the mission. Fuck the timeline. I’m not lettin’ you out of my sight again.”
You didn’t fight it.
You let him take your hand, zip you back into your top, and pull you down the hallway like a man on borrowed time. Every teammate you passed turned to speak—Bob raised a hand, John started to ask a question—but Bucky didn’t stop walking.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t even look at them.
Just kept his hand locked in yours and led you straight to his quarters.
The door shut with a soft hiss behind you.
Then everything went still.
He stepped close. Closer than the supply closet had allowed. Both hands coming up to cradle your face like he was still afraid you might vanish if he looked away.
“I don’t know what happened,” he said, voice low, wrecked. “I don’t understand any of it. Why you were there. Why I remembered.”
You stayed silent. Letting him speak.
Letting him feel.
“But I’m glad. I’m so fuckin’ glad, doll.”
His eyes shone.
“I remember dancing with you. I remember the way your lips looked in candlelight. I remember how you smelled when you laid on my chest. I remember your voice when you said my name the first time I touched you there.”
You swallowed thickly.
He dropped his forehead to yours. “I remember how you warned me. How you told me to fight.”
His hands were shaking. “I don’t know if I ever would’ve made it without that.”
You reached for him. Curled your fingers in the collar of his shirt and pressed your lips to his—soft, trembling, endless.
He kissed you like it meant something.
Like it was everything.
And when you finally pulled back, when your breath was shaking between you and his thumbs brushed tears from your cheeks, he asked the question that broke you:
“Does this mean I get to keep you this time?”
You didn’t answer right away.
Just looked at him.
At this version of Bucky—this blend of past and present, of soldier and lover, of man and myth and everything in between.
You saw it all now.
You remembered it all now.
The slow smiles. The gentle touches. The fucking in the dark that felt like worship. The way he whispered don’t forget me like it was a prayer.
You leaned in, kissed him once, and whispered, “Yeah, Bucky. I’m yours.”
His eyes fluttered closed. He exhaled like it was the first breath he’d taken since 1943. Then he pulled you to the bed. No sex. No hunger. Just hands. Just heartbeats. Just him folding you into his arms like the long war was finally over. And he’d won.
-
It happened late one night.
Days had passed since the reunion. You were back at the tower. Back in your room, which somehow felt too modern, too cold, too still—despite the warmth of the man who now never left your bed.
Bucky lay behind you, arm curled around your waist, fingers splayed just under the hem of your shirt like he still needed proof you were real.
Your bodies were tangled under the covers, but neither of you had made a move in hours. Not for sex. Not even for sleep.
He was too quiet. Too still.
You turned in his arms to face him. “You good?”
His eyes flicked open. Pale and sharp, even in the dark. Then he nodded once. Hesitated. And said, rough and low, “I lied, you know.”
Your brows furrowed. “About what?”
He exhaled, looking past you for a moment—through the air, through the years. “Back then. Before. When I said you weren’t my type.”
You blinked, breath catching.
He brought a hand to your cheek, brushing your skin like it was glass. “You were exactly my type. Always were.”
You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Just stared at him.
“But you reminded me,” he continued, voice soft now, “of everything I thought I couldn’t have. Everything I thought I didn’t deserve. Not with the blood on my hands. Not with the shit the world had made me.”
Your throat tightened.
“And I hated it,” he whispered. “Hated that you made me want things I didn’t think I could ever be again.”
You reached for his wrist and held it there, palm to cheek. Anchoring him.
He swallowed. “I saw you laugh, and I wanted to keep it. I saw the way you looked at me, and I wanted to be worth it. But I wasn’t ready. Not then.”
You shifted closer. “You didn’t have to be ready then. You just had to let me close.”
He met your eyes, guilt shadowed deep in the lines of his face. “I couldn’t,” he said. “But I wanted to.”
You smiled—sad and soft and a little tired. “You know I liked you, right? Even before?”
His breath caught.
“I always did,” you said. “Even when you were an asshole. Even when you looked through me like I wasn’t there. I still… I still saw you.”
His brows furrowed.
“And now I’m glad,” you continued, “that I got to see the man you used to be. Back then. In 1943.”
He closed his eyes like that year still lived under his skin.
“Because now I understand,” you whispered. “You didn’t change. You just got hurt. You just got… taken.”
His grip on you tightened.
You leaned in, touched your forehead to his. “And I’m not going anywhere, Bucky. I know who you are now. All of you. And I love that man.”
He shuddered a breath.
Then his arms wrapped around you—not in lust, not even in desperation—but in something softer. Something older.
Something like home.
He kissed your hair. And when he whispered “I love you too, doll” into the dark, it didn’t sound like a confession.
It sounded like a memory, finally given permission to be true.
Oh my god you are so incredibly talented! You write like, entire novels and each of your Bucky fics captures their dynamic so perfectly. My favourite so far has to be ‘the secretary clause’ but this one was just beautiful. First of all heart wrenching when they realize their time in the forties is limited and then how Bucky in the present comes to love her and also the sex really, really hot haha
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, congressman barnes, mutual pining, no-fraternization clause, arranged engagement, slow burn FILTH, oral sex (f receiving), praise, dom!bucky, degradation, creampie, piv, mutual obsession lowkey, inappropriate use of office furniture and Bucky’s ties
word count: 16k
Summary: You built the wall. Bucky Barnes just waited on the other side. Your boss. Your best friend. The man who got engaged for politics—not love—then started crossing every line you swore not to.
He barely mentions the engagement. But he did write a new clause—one that quietly banned staff relationships the second you started trying to date someone else.
notes – not proofread.
taglist: @overwintering-soldier @loganficsonly
— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated
In politics, loyalty is currency. It’s rare, precious, and usually conditional.
But you’ve always given it freely—to one man.
James Buchanan Barnes.
And for nearly ten years, you’ve been the constant in a world that changes by the hour.
Long nights. Early mornings. Crisis management on three hours of sleep and a half-cold cup of coffee. He rose through the ranks while others fell—slick with charm, ironclad in conviction, terrifyingly good under pressure. And through it all, you were there. Not just taking notes and managing schedules, but building the foundation he stands on. Speech drafts, policy briefs, off-the-record intel. You kept the right names on his calendar and the wrong ones off the invite list. You stood behind him during scandals, in front of him during political attacks, and beside him in private—always close, never close enough.
He’s not just your boss. He’s your partner in ambition. The person who trusts your instincts more than his own. The one who always checks the room for your expression before answering a question.
You’ve given him everything.
Except the one thing he’s never asked for.
And maybe that’s why it hurts now—why it lodges deep beneath your ribs when the news drops like a casually placed landmine in the middle of a Monday morning briefing.
Congressman James B. Barnes is engaged.
To a diplomat’s daughter, no less. Blonde. Harvard-educated. Speaks five languages. Photogenic in a way that makes donors happy and opponents nervous. It’s a brilliant move. Perfect on paper. Just like him.
You smile through it.
You say congratulations like it doesn’t taste like blood in your mouth. You organize the press release, update his public calendar, rehearse responses with his comms director. You do your job because that’s what you’ve always done. But something inside you twists. Tightens.
You go home that night and sit in the dark for two hours, your phone on silent, the engagement announcement still pulled up on your browser.
You don’t cry.
You don’t rage.
You just… sit. Quiet. Numb. Like a part of you has gone offline.
Because you never asked for him either. Not out loud. You built a boundary and reinforced it with ambition, professionalism, necessity. He was never yours—you made sure of that.
And now you’ll have to watch him become someone else’s.
So the next morning, when Will from the speech team nervously asks if you’d like to grab dinner sometime, you say yes.
Because you need to remember what it feels like to be wanted by someone who doesn’t make you feel like you’re drowning in silence.
You say yes even though you know it won’t fix anything. Even though you know it’ll only make him notice.
Because part of you—petty and buried and burning—wants him to.
-
You read the email three times that evening before you let yourself react.
Then you shut your laptop with the kind of careful restraint that only comes from years of practice—deep breathing, even expression, spine straight in your chair.
Your eyes drift to the hallway window, where the sky has long since faded into that soft lilac dusk only Washington can conjure, the domed Capitol in the distance glowing like a lie you’ve been trained to believe. The office is quiet now, mostly emptied out after a marathon week. But you’re still here. Of course you’re still here. The Chief of Staff clocked out two hours ago. The junior aides are halfway through their first overpriced drinks on K Street. And James Buchanan Barnes, your boss, the most charismatic and infuriating man in Congress, hasn’t left the building—but that’s not surprising either.
He rarely does before you.
The email’s still there, even with your laptop closed. Burned into the backs of your eyes.
Effective immediately, I’m implementing a no-fraternization policy. Dating within the organization is strictly prohibited and will result in immediate termination. Please ensure this message is shared with all employees.
—J.B. Barnes
He didn’t even bother to route it through HR. No committee. No signatures. Just a direct order from the top. Bucky Barnes, in his own words, using your exact format template for inter-office communication. Cold. Surgical. Strategic.
And right before your first date in years.
You should’ve known.
He always knows.
You reach for your coat anyway. Shrug it on like armor. You’ve had this date on the books for two weeks—Will, one of the speech team guys. Nice. Respectful. The kind of man who holds open doors and says please and doesn’t make your hands shake when he leans too close. The kind of man who doesn’t look at you like you belong to him just because he signs your paycheck.
You’d said yes because… why not? It was time. You’re not just someone’s secretary—though the press certainly liked to twist the title. You’re his chief aide, the woman behind every win, every vote, every clean press cycle. You’ve ghostwritten more soundbites than anyone on the Hill. You run his schedule, his life. You know how he takes his coffee in every city, how many minutes into a hearing he starts flexing his metal hand under the desk when he’s bored, the exact shade of navy he wears when he’s about to tear an opponent apart on the floor.
And you’ve never once let yourself want him.
Not out loud.
Not when he pulled you aside at midnight to walk the perimeter of the Capitol just to get fresh air. Not when he let you patch up his knuckles after the one time he lost control in a backroom debate. Not even the morning he showed up at your apartment with takeout because you’d worked through the night and didn’t have anything in your fridge but mustard and sparkling water.
So you said yes to someone else.
And now, suddenly, there’s a policy. Just like that. No discussion. No warning.
You pull your hair down, letting it fall in waves to soften your expression. You apply lipstick like warpaint, the good one—the one you only wear when you want to feel like a woman, not a political machine. Then you walk out of that building like you don’t feel the weight of his eyes somewhere behind the tinted glass of his office door. Like you don’t know he watched you walk in this morning wearing that dress and didn’t say a word.
The restaurant is warm, humming with candlelight and quiet laughter. Will is already seated when you arrive. He stands when he sees you, a little flustered, a little too impressed, and you offer him your hand with a smile you’ve practiced a thousand times in front of donors.
“You look… incredible,” he says, blinking. “I didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”
You slide into the booth and cross your legs. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He smiles, boyish and sincere. “You don’t know what people call you in the office, do you?”
You arch an eyebrow, picking up your water glass. “The Ice Queen?”
His eyes widen a little, clearly not expecting you to admit it out loud. Then he laughs. “Okay, so maybe you do know. Honestly, I should’ve guessed. There’s nothing happening in that building you don’t already know about, is there?”
You rest your chin on your hand and smile. “It’s kind of my job to know everything.”
He watches you like he’s still trying to figure out how you ended up across from him. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to ask you out,” he says. “I just… I never saw you date. You never talk about your personal life, and you’re always with the boss. I thought maybe the two of you…”
You don’t flinch. You’ve trained yourself for this.
“We’ve never dated,” you say smoothly, even though your heart is racing.
He nods quickly. “Right. Of course. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to assume. It just… took me forever to work up the nerve, and then the memo went out and I figured I was too late.”
Your smile tightens, and you glance down at your silverware. “Bucky and I have never dated.”
He fumbles to recover. “Let’s not talk about work. I wanna know who you are outside of that building. What do you do for fun? What are your hobbies?”
You freeze. Hobbies?
Your mind goes blank.
You don’t have hobbies. You work. You breathe politics. You triage crises before they break the surface. The closest thing you have to downtime is watching food videos while editing policy drafts.
But before you can answer, before you can even lie, a voice cuts in—cool, confident, unmistakably familiar.
“She bakes when she’s stressed,” Bucky says, sliding the words between you like they belong to him. “Keeps a dozen different kinds of chocolate chips in her pantry because she insists they serve different emotional purposes. She watches those insane restoration videos on YouTube—you know, the ones where people fix rusted junk with impossible tools and too much patience. She listens to smutty audiobooks at work when she thinks no one’s paying attention, even though she makes a whole show of rolling her eyes at Joaquin’s romance recs. And when she’s mad at me? She plays logic grid puzzles. Not Sudoku—she says that’s lazy math. No, she picks the complicated stuff. The kind with color codes and fake murder mysteries.”
You look up slowly.
And there he is.
Standing beside your table in a navy-blue suit and a black coat, like the devil came dressed for dinner.
James Buchanan Barnes.
Your boss.
Your problem.
Your heartbreak.
And with the kind of smile that says he’s just getting started.
There’s a beat of silence after he speaks—after that calm, cutting monologue where Bucky Barnes listed off your personal preferences like he’d rehearsed them in front of a mirror.
You’re still frozen, your water glass in hand, condensation slipping down your fingers. Across the table, Will stares up at Bucky with something caught between awe and panic, and for good reason. It’s not every day your boss—the Congressman Barnes—appears beside your table in a dark-lit restaurant like a beautiful storm with an agenda.
You’d almost laugh if you weren’t on fire.
“She also hates cooking shows, by the way,” Bucky adds, like it’s a casual thought. “Says they’re too dramatic. Too much shouting. She prefers voiceovers and quiet camera work. More… meditative.” He lifts a brow toward you, like daring you to deny it.
You force your body to move. Sit up straighter. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same.” He looks from you to Will and then back again. “Did you not get the memo?”
Will clears his throat, trying—and failing—to reclaim some sort of footing. “Congressman Barnes. I—uh, I wasn’t aware you were coming here tonight.”
“Neither was I,” you say sharply. “Funny how that happens.”
Bucky drags a chair over like he owns the table. Like he owns you. The chair scrapes the floor, loud enough to make a nearby couple glance over. He sits with the same languid confidence he uses on the House floor, ankle resting on his knee, arms spreading slightly as he relaxes. Relaxed in posture only—his eyes are ice. His mouth is sharp.
“I’ve been meaning to check this place out,” he says, gaze drifting to the wine list as if any of this is normal. “Heard good things. Didn’t realize my two favorite staffers had such excellent taste.”
You level a stare at him. “You’ve never mentioned this place. Not once in the ten years I’ve worked for you.”
“I’m spontaneous now,” he says, smiling like a wolf. “Didn’t you hear?”
Will chuckles awkwardly, clearly trying to stay on neutral ground. “Small world, I guess.”
Bucky nods. “Very small.” Then, to Will, he says, “You’ve been doing good work lately. I’ve noticed.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Your last speech draft? Excellent. The uptick in approval was clear.”
Will brightens. “You saw the analytics?”
“Oh, I saw them.” Bucky glances over the rim of his water glass at you. “They’re impressive. Especially for someone who still finds time for personal… engagements.”
That’s it. You set your fork down.
“Congressman,” you say sweetly, “with all due respect, your presence here is inappropriate.”
He tilts his head. “Is it? Because from where I’m sitting, this looks suspiciously like a violation of office policy. One you read and acknowledged this evening. Right before you left the building wearing that dress.”
You flinch.
It’s small. Barely perceptible. But Bucky notices. Of course he does.
Will tries to deescalate. “Look, I didn’t mean to cross any lines. We’re just getting dinner—nothing serious.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s not serious,” Bucky says lightly. “She doesn’t do serious. Not unless it’s wrapped in a three-piece suit and tied to a twenty-page strategy plan.” He leans toward you slightly. “Right, sweetheart?”
You inhale slowly. Bite it down.
“I think we’re done here,” you say to Will, standing before your body betrays you. “I’ll grab a car.”
Will blinks. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” you say softly.
You leave before the words catch in your throat. Before you beg Bucky to admit why he’s really here. Before your knees buckle from the weight of how much he still owns you, despite everything.
-
You slam the door harder than necessary when you get home.
The echo cracks through your apartment like the punchline to a joke you didn’t laugh at. Your heels are off before you even reach the couch—one flung with too much force, the other kicked lazily toward the wall. You don’t care where they land. You’re pacing now, tearing open your coat, fingers trembling with something that’s not rage, not exactly. Not sadness either.
It’s him. It’s always him.
You kick at the leg of your coffee table as you pass it, and the old campaign folder you meant to toss weeks ago slides halfway off. You stop. Stare. Then reach down and grab the frame tucked underneath.
It’s a photo from the final rally last year—before the world started spinning sideways. Bucky had just won another brutal debate, the crowd roaring behind him. He’d pulled you onstage without warning, one hand at your back, the other raised in a mock victory pose. He was smiling. A real one. You were caught mid-laugh, eyes tilted toward him like he hung the damn moon.
You drop the frame face down on the coffee table. Not hard enough to break it. Just hard enough that you don’t have to look at it anymore.
Your apartment feels too quiet now, even with the city murmuring outside your windows. You pull your hair down, run your fingers through the curls like it might shake something loose, then cross to the kitchen and yank open a drawer full of nonsense—highlighters, puzzle books, batteries, one of those obnoxious brain teaser cubes Bucky had given you during a delayed flight last winter just to shut you up.
You stare at it like it might start talking.
Then your phone buzzes on the counter behind you.
Will: Hey. I had a great time, really. But I don’t think I should ask you out again. I hope you understand.
You stare at the screen. Not because you’re surprised—just the opposite.
You feel it settle in your chest like something turning to stone.
Of course he’s not going to ask you out again. Because Bucky showed up. Because your boss walked into a restaurant and marked his territory with a smug smile and a thousand little truths no one else was supposed to know. Because you let him.
You press your thumb to the side of your phone and watch the screen fade to black.
Then you slide it onto the counter, turn your back on it, and lean heavily against the edge of the sink. One hand finds the tiny box of baking chocolate chips behind the toaster—dark chocolate, your favorite, your weakness—and you stare at the label like it might tell you what to do next.
You should be angry. Furious. You are.
But underneath it—under the pounding heartbeat, the humiliation, the ruined date, the framed photo flipped face down—is that same old ache.
He still wants you.
He just wants you to be the one to say it first.
And God help you, you’re not sure how much longer you can hold out.
-
The silence is deafening.
You’ve weaponized it with surgical precision—no extra words, no stolen glances, no accidental brushes of fingertips when passing him files. You haven’t said anything to James Buchanan Barnes that wasn’t work-related in seventy-two hours, and it’s killing him. You can see it in the way he slams drawers a little too hard, in the way he leans back in his chair like it might let him get a better view of you. In the way he hovers by your desk pretending he forgot what time the budget meeting starts when you know he memorized the entire week’s calendar this morning.
You hand him the folder without looking up. “2:15. You’re expected to lead.”
“Thanks,” he says.
You nod. Nothing else.
He doesn’t move. “That’s all I get?”
Your eyes lift slowly. “Do you need something else?”
His mouth curves, lazy and dangerous. “No. I’m just surprised the Ice Queen clause applies to me now.”
You blink.
He smiles wider. “You know. The one where you give everyone else the cold shoulder, but never me. I’m flattered to be promoted to the rest of the world.”
You press your lips together. “Congratulations.”
“Though I do think ignoring the policy memo was a bold choice,” he muses, voice light, taunting. “Considering it was my name at the bottom.”
Your fingers still over the keyboard. You don’t look at him. Not yet. “I read it,” you say evenly. “Thoroughly.”
“Guess you just figured it didn’t apply to you.”
You finally look up, eyes narrowing. “No, I figured you wrote it for me.”
His smirk doesn’t falter, but the edge of it sharpens. “If that were true, I would’ve named names.”
“Cowardice doesn’t suit you,” you murmur, going back to your screen.
He steps in closer to your desk. Not touching—he never touches unless he wants to ruin you. But the air thickens. “Will seemed like a smart guy. Shame you had to cut that date short.”
You exhale through your nose and sit back in your chair, folding your arms. “You don’t have to worry about Will.”
There’s a beat of hesitation. His smile fades, jaw tightening just slightly. “No?”
“No,” you say, more sharply this time. “You took care of that for me.”
Bucky’s eyes darken. “It wasn’t personal.”
“It was entirely personal.”
He huffs, dismissive. “You know I have a responsibility to this office.”
“Oh, is that what this is about?” You lean forward now, heat crawling into your chest. “You needed me on-call in case the country collapsed while I was at dinner?”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“You showed up to a restaurant uninvited and humiliated me,” you snap, voice sharp with memory. “You sat down like you had a reservation and tried to drive my date away like it was a joke.”
Bucky doesn’t flinch. “I didn’t try to make him leave. If he was that easily rattled, he wasn’t worth your time.”
“Jesus,” you mutter, eyes narrowing. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I wanted to talk.”
“No, you wanted to interfere.” You pause. Then, pointedly, you add. “And now you’re too late.”
His brows raise slightly, but he doesn’t speak.
You shrug, carefully casual. “I have another date tonight.”
He blinks.
And that’s when you know you’ve hit something.
You keep going. “Not Will. Not anyone you’ve sent to political Siberia yet. Just someone decent, kind. Someone who doesn’t act like he owns the air I breathe.”
He laughs once. Dry. “Does he work here?”
You stare at him, incredulous. “Are you actually about to threaten another staff member?”
“Depends,” he mutters. “Does he deserve a promotion or a punishment?”
You stand slowly, chair scraping back just enough to make a point. “Do you hear yourself? You’re threatening people now?”
“I’m protecting my office.”
“No,” you snap. “You’re protecting your ego.”
His expression slips—just for a moment. That mask of cold calculation cracks at the edges. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he says quietly.
You step around the desk to face him. “And you do?”
He doesn’t respond.
“You’re the one who brought a ring into this,” you say, lower now, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re the one who chose a polished, camera-ready wife. And now you’re throwing tantrums over who I go to dinner with?”
Bucky doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
You laugh under your breath. “Go worry about your fucking wife, Barnes.”
You leave before he can correct you. You’re not his to explain things to anymore.
Not if he won’t say the truth first.
-
Michael is hot.
That’s about all he is.
He’s tall, clean-shaven, expensively dressed—Harvard-educated and very aware of it. His smile is confident, his voice is smooth, and his watch cost more than your rent. Objectively speaking, he’s the kind of man people expect to see on your arm. Successful. Sharp. Ambitious.
Exactly the kind of man you’d pair with your position, your reputation, your image.
And you are so fucking bored.
You swirl the half-melted ice in your glass, nodding like you care about whatever story he’s telling—something about a startup acquisition that “totally restructured the commercial real estate vertical,” which isn’t even a sentence with real meaning. You glance at your phone under the table, not because you’re hoping for anything in particular, just to confirm the time.
It’s only been thirty-eight minutes.
You could’ve sworn it was closer to ninety.
Michael says something about synergy. Or sustainability. Or something else buzzword-shaped. You offer a tight smile and pretend to be listening. You’re doing this—this entire night—for one reason. Not for Michael. Not for romance.
Out of spite.
You’re on a date because you needed to prove a point.
Because you were still shaking three hours after telling Bucky to worry about his wife. Because you needed to remind yourself—and him—that he is not the axis you orbit around.
But God, isn’t it ironic?
You’re here, makeup flawless, dress perfect, sipping an overpriced cocktail and trying not to count ceiling tiles, while Bucky Barnes is probably still at the office, untouchable, unreadable, victorious.
And you hate it. You hate that this feels like a win for him.
Michael laughs at his own joke. You smile reflexively. You don’t feel anything.
Then your phone buzzes.
It’s not Bucky.
It’s a number you recognize—his deputy scheduler.
[9:06 p.m.]
Barnes is asking for you. It’s an emergency.
Your pulse flares before you can stop it. That familiar cocktail of adrenaline and anticipation hits instantly—your body remembering before your brain can protest. It’s not romantic. It’s not flattering. It’s reflex. He calls, you come. Like he trained you that way.
Michael notices the shift in your expression. “Everything alright?”
You glance up, already standing. “Work thing. I have to go.”
He blinks, surprised. “Seriously? Right now?”
“Congressman Barnes,” you say flatly. “It’s not optional.”
Michael laughs, waving it off. “Our boss can’t possibly expect you to drop everything just because he—”
“I’ll cover the tab,” you interrupt, already sliding your card onto the table.
He stares at you, half amused and half insulted. “Wow.”
You offer a polite, hollow smile. “Thanks for the drink.”
You don’t wait for a reply.
You’re out the door five minutes later, coat barely buttoned, heart hammering in your chest for no good reason. Not because you’re eager. Not because you want to see him.
Because it’s a job.
That’s the line you tell yourself over and over on the ride back.
It’s a job. Not a choice. It’s loyalty. Not longing. It’s protocol. Not personal.
And when the car finally pulls up outside the Capitol building, glowing in marble and shadow under the city lights, you hesitate just one second before stepping out.
Then you square your shoulders.
And go to him.
-
You find him exactly where you knew he’d be.
His office is dim, lit only by the glow of the Capitol dome through the tall windows and the amber hue of the lamp on his desk. His jacket is draped over the back of a chair, sleeves rolled, shirt unbuttoned at the throat. A glass of bourbon swirls in his hand, his tie undone like a noose he finally stopped pretending wasn’t choking him.
And he smiles when he sees you. Not like a man apologizing.
Like the devil getting exactly what he wanted.
You don’t speak as you close the door behind you. You just stand there. Glaring. Tense.
“You came,” he says, sipping. “Wasn’t sure if you would.”
“You sent an emergency message, Bucky.”
“Did I?” He tilts his head, feigning thought. “Hm. Must’ve been a miscommunication.”
Your eyes narrow. “You son of a—”
“You’re here,” he says, setting the glass down. “That’s all that matters.”
He crosses the room slowly, every inch of him controlled, calculated, deliberate. Your back hits the door before you can stop him. His arm lifts—not blocking you, not touching you, not yet—but bracing against the wood beside your head. You can smell the bourbon on his breath. It’s almost sweet. Almost sharp. Just like him.
“What is this?” you breathe.
“I needed to see you.”
“No,” you snap. “You needed control. You needed to win. You always need to win.”
His eyes burn into yours. “Then why do you keep letting me?”
You shove at his chest, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
“You are engaged,” you hiss. “You have a wife-to—”
“I don’t,” he cuts in, voice low.
“You will,” you spit. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it? Political power, image, legacy—”
He moves then.
His hand slides to your waist, not rough, not gentle. Just there. Holding. Anchoring. His mouth brushes the shell of your ear as he breathes the words, “Go ahead. Date him. If you think he can handle you.”
Your whole body goes taut. Your breath stutters in your throat.
“Fuck you,” you whisper.
“Maybe you should,” he murmurs. “Might make you feel better.”
You shove him. Hard this time. He steps back—not because you made him, but because he lets you move him. “Is this a game to you?”
His eyes darken. “No.”
“Then what is it, Bucky? Do you just enjoy dangling me? Driving me insane while you play the loyal fiancé?”
He doesn’t reply.
You throw the next words like a blade. “Do you know shit about her?”
That lands.
He flinches. Just barely. But you see it.
You step forward now, fury rising in your throat. “Do you know what kind of wine she orders when she’s lying? Do you know how she solves logic puzzles with a pencil because she hates making mistakes she can’t erase? Do you know what kind of videos she watches when she can’t sleep?”
His voice is low—hoarse when it finally breaks through the silence.
“No,” he says. “But I know you hate red wine and only drink it when you’re trying to impress someone. I know you pull your hair back when you’re overwhelmed, but never tie it tight—because you can’t stand the feeling of being restricted.”
He takes a step closer, voice roughening.
“I know you watch paint restoration videos on YouTube because the pacing calms your brain when it won’t shut off. I know you sleep better when there’s white noise, but you pretend not to care when you crash on the couch in my office. I know you prefer lemon to chocolate and that your favorite pen is the one with the cracked cap, the one you never lend out no matter how many nicer ones you have.”
You don’t breathe.
“I know the way you solve puzzles backwards—how you always look for the constraints first. I know you hum under your breath when you’re concentrating, and I know which books make your cheeks flush when you think no one’s looking. I know you use fake names when you sign up for dating apps. I know your favorite day of the week is Wednesday. I know you hate long sleeves unless you’re exhausted or hiding something.”
He takes another step, his voice dropping to something quiet and wrecked.
“I know you.”
“So you know everything about me,” you snap. “Everything. And you still used it to make me small.”
His voice is ragged when he finally speaks. “She’s not you.”
You laugh bitterly. “No. She’s not.”
“She never will be,” he says, louder now. “She doesn’t make me crazy. She doesn’t make me forget what room I’m in, what the fuck I’m supposed to say when you look at me like that.”
You try to step away, but he closes the distance again, more frayed now, less composed.
“I looked him up,” he says, quiet but shaking. “Michael.”
You stop.
“I saw the reservation in your calendar,” he admits. “Didn’t recognize the name. So I dug. Slipped. I—” He drags a hand over his face. “Old habits. Soldier shit.”
You stare at him, stunned. “You ran surveillance on my date?”
“I needed to know,” he says, chest rising. “If he was worth it. If he could—”
“What?” you snap. “Could handle me?”
He doesn’t back down. “If he could get in.”
You go still.
“I’ve tried for years,” he says, voice cracking at the edges. “And you never let me in. Not really. You gave me your time, your mind, your loyalty—but never you. Not your heart. Not your past. Not your yes. And now I’m supposed to believe some idiot like Michael is going to break through when I couldn’t?”
Silence buzzes between you. Sharp. Unbearable.
He softens then, almost like a man confessing to something holy. “I only know you like that,” he says. “I only ever wanted to know you.”
And for a moment… you believe him.
You believe it like a wound.
You stare at him. At the man who’s supposed to be engaged. At the man who just listed off your habits like they were sacred text.
At the man who knows you better than anyone, and still wouldn’t choose you in public. Not when it counted.
Your chest heaves with everything you don’t say.
So you say nothing.
You turn. Walk to the door without another word, heels clicking against polished marble like gunfire. You don’t slam it. You don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how close you are to breaking.
But your hands are shaking. With fury. With humiliation.
And worse—with want.
You make it to the elevator before your knees start to go. You press the button with a little too much force, breathing hard, fists clenched.
He didn’t touch you. Not really. But you still feel his hand on your waist. His breath on your neck. His voice in your ear like a brand.
You hate him. You hate that you’ll dream about this. And you hate, more than anything, that it still felt like a win for him.
-
You arrive five minutes early, clipboard in hand, press badge pinned neatly to your lapel, hair pulled back in a way that says professional and unbothered—even though your stomach is in knots and your jaw has been locked since sunrise.
He’s already there, of course. Always is.
Bucky stands near the edge of the podium, flanked by advisors and junior staffers, fielding final briefings like he’s not the most magnetic man in the building. He wears navy again—because of course he does. The color of control, power, dependability. The tie is a deep, anchoring gray, but his shirt is crisp and open at the collar. Like a promise waiting to snap.
You’re supposed to stand beside him today. His senior aide. His shadow. His anchor.
And you hate how much you still want to.
You keep your head down as you approach, feigning interest in the notes you already know by heart. One of the interns hands you an updated press packet. You thank her with a tight smile and take your place beside him, center-right of the podium.
You don’t look at him. But you feel him. Immediately.
He doesn’t speak. Not yet. Just tilts his head slightly to acknowledge your arrival, his gaze dropping to your hands. You’re wearing that ring again—the chunky silver one he once asked about during a briefing years ago. Said it looked like armor. Said it suited you.
The crowd in the press gallery begins to settle. The chatter quiets. Cameras flash in anticipation. Bucky steps forward, palms braced on either side of the podium, and delivers his opening remarks with practiced ease.
And just like that—he’s on.
You watch him transform. Charismatic. Measured. Devastatingly persuasive. His voice is rich and steady, his cadence as precise as a metronome. Every sentence lands. Every glance is calculated.
The man was made for this.
But only you know how cold his hands were before he stepped out of the green room.
Only you know he asked for you by name.
The speech has nothing to do with his personal life. Infrastructure investment. Local job creation. A polished, low-risk event meant to reinforce his everyman appeal. But the crowd isn’t satisfied with safe.
You feel it coming before it happens. One of the reporters—young, too bold for her own good—waits for the final question.
“Congressman Barnes,” she says, voice sharp and clear over the rustle of closing folders, “can you comment on the recent reports of your engagement? Any statement I can get from the husband-to-be?”
There’s a beat of silence. It’s not long. But it’s noticeable. You see the flicker in his eyes. Just a crack. Not enough for cameras to catch, but enough that your pulse jumps.
He doesn’t turn his head. But he speaks slowly. Smoothly.
“My personal life is not the focus today,” he says, voice silk over stone. “We’re here to talk about policies that affect real people. And I’ll be happy to return to that now.”
Polite applause follows. Deflection accepted. But only barely.
You can feel the air shifting again. Press tension rising. Staffers bracing.
And then—while the cameras are still flashing, while the crowd rises for a standing ovation—you feel it.
His hand.
The back of it brushes yours. Lightly. Casually. No one would notice. But you do.
Of course you do.
Your fingers twitch, but you don’t pull away.
You don’t look at him. Not until he leans just a fraction closer, enough that only you can hear it over the applause.
“Tell me to cancel the engagement.”
Your breath catches.
You don’t move. Don’t react. Don’t even blink.
He doesn’t touch you again. He just stays there, too close, waiting for something you’re not sure you can give.
The applause swells again. You clap with the rest of them. Deliberate. Steady.
You keep your eyes fixed straight ahead.
And you don’t say a word.
-
The applause fades into the chaos of media packing up, staffers hustling down the side aisles, interns tripping over cables in their rush to reset. Bucky exits the stage first, flanked by aides who immediately begin tossing numbers at him—polling spikes, post-event spin, social media impressions.
He ignores all of it. His eyes stay locked on you.
You trail behind, professional and unreadable, your clipboard clutched to your chest like a shield. You duck under a velvet divider and slip into the back hallway before the press can swarm you for quotes you’re not authorized to give. You’ve almost made it to the green room when you hear him behind you.
“You’re not going to pretend that didn’t happen.”
You turn sharply.
He’s alone now. Jacket off. Sleeves still rolled. His tie’s a little looser than it was five minutes ago, like he needed more air but didn’t want to look like he was suffocating.
You square your shoulders. “We’re not doing this here.”
“Why not?”
“Because I just stood next to you while you lied to an entire room.”
He closes the distance between you in two strides. “I didn’t lie.”
“You’re engaged.”
“I’m not married.”
You laugh, quiet and bitter. “Oh, so technicalities matter now?”
“They’ve always mattered,” he snaps.
You hold your ground. “You don’t get to pull me in with whispers and half-promises. Not in front of a crowd. Not like that.”
“Then just say it,” he says, almost desperate. “Tell me not to marry her. Say it.”
You freeze.
He searches your face for something—fear, maybe. Or desire. Or hope.
But all you can offer is restraint.
“No,” you whisper. “Because if you really wanted out, you wouldn’t need me to tell you.”
That silences him.
His hands flex at his sides. His chest heaves like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. But you won’t let him—not this time. You brush past him, spine straight, every step a quiet rebellion.
And this time, he lets you go.
-
You don’t go back to the office.
You tell the car to take you home instead, ignoring the twenty unread emails and five messages from his scheduler asking for calendar updates. The city hums outside the tinted windows, all marble and neon and monuments—too beautiful for how hollow you feel.
You kick off your heels as soon as you get through the door, drop your clipboard and keys on the hallway table, and walk straight to the kitchen. The fridge light buzzes as you stand there, blankly staring inside at a half-empty bottle of wine and an unopened carton of blueberries.
You’re not hungry. You’re angry.
Not at him.
At yourself.
Because it worked. That moment on stage—the hand brushing yours, the whisper in your ear, the heat in his voice. It slipped beneath your skin so easily. Like muscle memory. Like instinct.
And even now, in your apartment, alone and untouched… you still feel it.
Tell me to cancel the engagement.
You hadn’t realized how badly you wanted to. How much you’d fantasized about him saying those exact words.
But you also know what it means.
It means if you say it, he’ll do it. He’ll burn his future to the ground.
For you.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
Because the moment you say yes… this stops being something you didn’t ask for.
It becomes yours.
The choice. The fire. The fallout.
You sink onto the couch, still in your dress, still wearing the scent of him like static on your skin.
You don’t cry. You don’t scream.
You just sit there.
And you wonder—what happens if you say it? What happens if you don’t?
-
The ballroom was a glittering sea of affluence—crystal chandeliers, champagne towers, violin quartets—all the trappings of Washington’s most self-congratulatory evening. The annual Congressional Unity Gala. A night meant to display poise, diplomacy, and good breeding. You wore it like armor: the black dress hugging your waist in all the right places, your makeup done with scalpel precision, a glossy smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. And on your arm, Michael.
You’d let him pick you up. Let him flash his donor badge with pride. Let him order your champagne and drop not-so-subtle hints about where the afterparty might go. Because none of it mattered. None of it reached the parts of you that were already lit on fire by something else.
Or rather, someone.
James Buchanan Barnes, across the room, in a midnight black tux that should’ve been illegal. He hadn’t looked at anyone else since you walked in. Oh, he talked. Shook hands. Even laughed once, you thought—but that laugh didn’t reach his eyes either. Not when you were holding another man’s arm like a shield.
He was watching you even now.
Well not exactly watching. Studying. Like he always did. Like the entire night had narrowed to the axis of your proximity and whether he could tolerate it one more second
Michael was still talking. Something about a think tank panel and a vacation to Saint Kitts, and you gave a perfectly-timed smile, even as your spine prickled with heat. You could feel Bucky’s gaze long before you saw him move. But when you turned, he was gone.
That should’ve been your first warning.
The second came moments later—when a hand curled gently, possessively, around your wrist just as you reached for another flute of champagne. He said your name like a command. Voice low, polished, polite on the surface.
“Can I steal you for a second?”
You didn’t get a choice. He was already pulling you down a side corridor, past the double doors and into a quiet alcove lined with coats and velvet curtains. The music faded to a hum behind closed doors, and when he stopped, you nearly collided into his back.
“Bucky—”
“Don’t,” he said, turning slowly.
You were pressed between the wall and him in seconds, the breath knocked out of your lungs by how close he got. His hands braced on either side of your waist before they slid down—slow, hot, certain—until they gripped your hips hard enough to bruise.
“What the hell is your problem?” you hissed, trying to push him back.
He didn’t budge.
Instead, his mouth found the curve of your neck, breath warm against your skin, lips brushing just beneath your ear. You froze. Every inch of you went electric. And when he bit—a barely-there scrape of teeth that made your knees buckle—your hand shot to his chest.
“This isn’t—” You gasped. “You can’t—”
“You trying to make me lose my mind?” he whispered.
Your laugh was breathless. “Seems like it’s already working.”
His hands tightened. Just enough to make your pulse stutter. But then—then he did something worse than touching you. Something crueler than kissing. He softened.
His mouth skimmed back up to your temple. His voice dropped lower, almost fond.
“I see you,” he murmured. “You walk in with that clown like you’re trying to kill me.”
You swallowed thickly. “It’s a gala. I brought a date.”
“You brought bait.” He looked down at you like he could see through all your armor. “But sweetheart… I’m already caught.”
Your heart thudded so loud you swore he could hear it. “You don’t get to say things like that. You don’t get to do this.”
“I know.” His forehead pressed to yours. Just briefly. Just enough to feel like a confession. “I know.”
It was unbearable. The tension. The nearness. His body wasn’t doing anything overtly indecent—and yet you felt wrecked just from the press of his hips, the possessive grip on your waist, the barely-there brush of his mouth against your pulse point.
You hated him. God, you hated how soft he was being. How real. You shoved him back. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to breathe.
“Go back to your fiancée,” you snapped.
The words landed like a slap. He blinked slowly, jaw flexing. Then he stepped in again, just once, voice cold and cutting.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmurs, his voice raw, quiet, almost reverent. “Doesn’t matter what room I’m in, what meeting I’m leading, what bullshit interview they’ve scheduled me for—I look up, and I’m wondering where you are.”
You freeze.
His forehead drops to yours. Barely touching. But enough.
“When I make it home, I listen to my voicemails twice if your voice is in them. I’ve read every memo you’ve ever written more times than I need to—just to feel like you’re near.”
Your throat tightens, your hands curling into fists at your sides.
He shifts closer. You can feel the line of his body against yours now, heat flooding your skin, unwelcome and addictive.
“I keep telling myself this isn’t what it is. That I’ve buried it deep enough, hidden it behind the job, the campaign, the rules. But tonight, when you walked in with him—”
You flinch.
“I saw red.”
He breathes you in. His nose brushes your temple.
“I don’t know how to stop wanting you,” he admits, barely audible. “Even when I try. Even when I lie to myself.”
You hate the way your body reacts to him. The way your skin sparks where he touches you. The way your knees soften. The way your heart betrays you with every beat.
You want to tear yourself away, throw his confession back in his face—but he keeps going.
“Years,” he whispers, his voice aching now. “I’ve been carrying this for years. Waking up wanting you. Going to bed trying not to. Every time I look at you across that damn office, it’s like my chest cracks open.”
His hand slides higher up your side. Not greedy. Not lewd. Just aching.
“You ruined me,” he breathes. “You don’t even know it, do you?”
Your lips part bit there’s no air in your lungs.
“I used to be cold,” he says. “I was good at it. Detached. Clean. Efficient.”
His thumb brushes your ribs. “And then you showed up. You made me feel everything.”
You wrench away—shaking. Trembling. It takes all your strength to keep walking. To not look back. To not crumble.
Because the worst part isn’t what he said.
It’s that it finally sounded like the truth.
-
You avoid him. You avoid everything.
Your inbox piles up with messages that bear his name in the subject line. Committee briefings. Travel memos. External requests for quotes only he can approve. You send them up the chain and pretend you don’t notice that the responses never come back.
It’s been four days since the gala.
Three since the engagement announcement hit the press, and wasn’t just a memo passed around the office or a secret whispered in political circles.
A full-page, polished photo of Bucky and his fiancée—her chin tipped elegantly to his shoulder, both of them glowing under soft, strategic lighting. The Hill’s headline reads: “Power Couple of the Century.” A quote from Bucky beneath it: We’re thrilled for the future.
You closed the browser window before finishing the article. You didn’t even make it to the part where they name the venue for the fall wedding.
You didn’t cry. You weren’t going to.
But your body mourned in strange, treacherous ways. The ache in your chest that felt like grief. The sudden, inexplicable urge to throw your phone into the sink. The way you couldn’t listen to music on the train because every damn song felt like it knew your secret.
You tell yourself to snap out of it. You wear red lipstick to the office. You arrive ten minutes early. You host morning briefings, organize correspondence, shake hands with foreign diplomats. But you don’t look toward the corner office.
You don’t have to. It’s empty.
The days stack.
No one knows where he is. Not the press secretary. Not the interns. Not even Sam, who leaves you a voicemail that’s half worry, half warning. (“If you hear from him, just… let me know, okay? He’s not picking up my calls either.”)
The news coverage doesn’t help. Commentators dissect every angle of the engagement—from policy implications to body language. You catch a clip playing in the corner of a lobby screen one night as you leave the Capitol late, and you have to physically turn your back on it just to breathe.
By the third day, your resolve begins to crack.
You don’t mean to go looking for him.
You just need a file. Something from his personal archives that was never digitized, never shared, something only he would’ve had access to. So you send a quiet request to his detail and get a cryptic reply with an address.
Not his office.
Not a hotel.
His townhouse.
You haven’t been to his place in over a year—not since the night after the midterms, when you stayed past midnight proofreading a victory speech while he nursed a scotch and paced barefoot over the carpet.
You remember the feel of that night like a secret you were never meant to carry. The air thick with unspoken things. The way he looked at you from across the room like he’d already made a decision.
You left before anything could happen.
You wish you could say you didn’t think about it again.
Now, the townhouse is silent as you approach, tucked behind a security gate, lights low. His car’s out front. You knock once. Then again.
The door opens slowly.
And there he is.
Bucky Barnes, in a white dress shirt halfway unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbows, bourbon glass in hand. His hair is a little longer than usual, pushed back but messy. His jaw is dark with stubble. His tie is discarded on the floor by the entryway, like he’d tried and failed to make an appearance somewhere respectable before giving up entirely.
He doesn’t say anything.
He just steps aside and lets you in.
The living room is dim—low lighting, classical music humming softly from somewhere distant. A few open folders are strewn across the coffee table. Pages of notes in his handwriting. A crushed pen. The fireplace glows with low embers. The bottle of bourbon is nearly full.
Of course it is. He can’t get drunk. Not really.
You stand there in the doorway, your coat still on.
He sinks back into the couch like he never left it. “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he says eventually.
You don’t answer. “I didn’t ask for you,” he adds, glancing sideways.
“No,” you say quietly. “But I came anyway.”
That earns you a flicker of something in his eyes. Not a smile. Not quite. Just… soft recognition. Like he’s been waiting for a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
He tips the glass against his lips. “They wanted to make a second announcement,” he says flatly. “About the venue. Some vineyard her father owns. Very chic. Great optics.”
You say nothing.
“I didn’t show up to the press call,” he continues. “Didn’t even tell them I wasn’t coming.”
You step further in. The heat of the fireplace draws you in slowly, like gravity. “So?” you say. “You changed your mind?”
“No,” he replies. “I never made it up to begin with.”
That stuns you. You blink. “What?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t feel real. She didn’t feel real. I kept telling myself it was the right move. The right image. The cleanest political play.” His voice grows quieter. “But you know what I was really thinking the whole time?”
You brace yourself.
“I was thinking,” he murmurs, eyes lifting to yours, “how much I hated the idea of her standing beside me in the office. Sitting at my table. Answering questions meant for you.”
Your breath catches.
“I kept picturing her trying to read my mind across a crowded room and getting it wrong.”
He leans forward now, elbows braced on his knees, glass cradled between his hands. “I’ve made compromises for this career,” he says. “I’ve lied, I’ve calculated, I’ve given up things I’ll never get back. But the one thing I never questioned was you. What we built. What you are to me.”
You want to tell him to stop. You want to scream.
Instead, you whisper, “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”
“Because if I let myself say it,” he replies, “I’d never be able to stop.”
Silence.
The air feels like it might fracture under the weight of it.
“I’m not here to make a scene,” you say. “I’m not here to pick up the pieces for you, Bucky.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not staying.”
He nods once. “Okay.”
You hover by the doorway, hand tightening on the strap of your bag.
Then he says, very softly, “Will you just… stay until I fall asleep?”
You pause. Your chest aches. He sees it.
“I won’t touch you,” he adds quickly. “I just—can’t do another night alone in this house, not tonight.”
You’re a fool. A fucking fool.
But you nod.
You toss your coat over the armchair, sit beside him in the warm dark. You don’t speak again. You just watch him, glass slipping from his fingers as sleep finally pulls him under.
You curl up in the chair beside the couch.
You don’t sleep.
You just listen to the steady rhythm of his breathing and wonder how the hell this became your life. Wonder how long you can hold out before something—maybe everything—breaks.
And in the quiet between dreams, you think:
He never said the engagement was off.
But he never said it wasn’t.
-
By the time the sun rises—tinted gold through the tall windows—you’re aching from tension and the stiffness of having stayed in one place too long. Your body is cold. Your mouth dry. The rage still simmers just beneath the surface, but the hurt—sharp and endless—is what really burns.
He stirs as the light touches his face.
Groggy. Slow.
Then he sees you.
The moment clicks into place—whatever softness last night held evaporates in an instant. His brow tightens. He sits up, the blanket falling away from his chest. Shirt still unbuttoned. Collar rumpled. Jaw dark with a night of stubble and silence.
“You stayed,” he says quietly, like it means something.
Your jaw clenches. “You made it sound like you’d fall apart if I didn’t.”
He runs a hand through his hair, bracing. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”
“Yeah, well.” You rise to your feet. “Guess I was curious if you’d actually still be breathing when the guilt caught up to you.”
He flinches.
You walk toward the kitchen, not because you’re hungry but because you need the space—need something to do that doesn’t involve grabbing the nearest object and throwing it at him.
But he follows. Of course he does.
“You didn’t have to stay,” he says again, a little sharper now. “I didn’t ask for your pity.”
Your hand slams down on the counter.
“Don’t flatter yourself. It wasn’t pity. It was habit. Years of habit. Cleaning up your messes, holding the line, making sure you don’t fall apart in front of people who’d kill to watch you bleed.”
Bucky steps into the kitchen, barefoot, shirt half-open, and suddenly you hate how he looks at you—like he wants to say something real, something soft, something human.
You cut it off before it starts.
“What the hell was that last night?”
He stiffens. “What do you mean?”
“You told me you couldn’t picture her beside you,” you snap. “You told me you couldn’t stop thinking about me. About us.”
“I meant it.”
“Then what the fuck are you doing?” Your voice breaks—just slightly. “Are you engaged or not?”
“No,” he breathes. “Not anymore.”
You blink.
You weren’t ready for that.
But your rage catches back up in seconds. “When? Before or after you asked me to stay the night like I was some emotional support toy?”
His eyes flash. “Don’t do that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“No, it’s not.” He steps forward. “I didn’t ask you to stay because I needed support. I asked you to stay because I didn’t know how to be in this house without you in it when I felt like the world was falling apart.”
You laugh bitterly. “Jesus, Bucky.”
“You want honesty?” he snaps. “Fine. You want the truth? I’ve never wanted anything more than I want you.”
Your breath stutters.
“But I can’t want you,” he says. “Not without costing everything I’ve built. The campaign. The alliances. My credibility. You think people won’t use this against us?”
You stare at him. “Then cost it.”
It lands between you like a detonator.
And then he’s moving— and it’s fast. He crosses the distance like he’s starved, and your back hits the kitchen wall with a dull thud. His mouth finds yours—hot, desperate, trembling with years of restraint.
It’s not soft.
It’s fire.
Teeth and tongue and frustration. His hands are on your waist, then higher—fingers digging in, thumbs pressing into the curve of your ribs like he could mold you into him. Your hands yank at his shirt, shoving it off his shoulders.
“Fuck,” he groans against your mouth when you bite his bottom lip. “I’ve wanted this—”
“You’re late,” you whisper between kisses. “You’re years late.”
“I know,” he pants. “I know, I know—”
His mouth trails down your jaw, then to your neck. He doesn’t kiss—he devours. His teeth graze your skin, and when he bites—not hard, just enough—you gasp. Your knees threaten to buckle, and he catches you with one hand, pressing harder against the wall, bracing you there like you weigh nothing.
You pull at his belt. The clink of the buckle is loud in the quiet. He groans when you touch his waistband, his head dropping to your shoulder.
“Shit—”
Your blouse is half undone—his fingers slipped the buttons apart like he’s memorized them in a dream. His palm splays against your bare stomach, slides upward with reverence and hunger in equal measure.
He doesn’t even look. He feels. Like it matters more.
“God, you’re—” he breathes, shaking. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You both know how close this is. One more second. One more kiss. You’ll tip over the edge and never come back.
So you stop. Just barely. One hand flat against his chest, one breath trembling against his throat.
“We can’t,” you whisper.
His eyes meet yours, wide and glassy and undone. “Say that again,” he begs softly. “And I’ll let go.”
You don’t. You can’t. Instead, you press your forehead to his, catching your breath.
He rests one hand on your cheek, thumb brushing gently under your eye like he wants to memorize this moment forever.
You step back. You fix your blouse. You turn away before you shatter.
He doesn’t follow.
Not this time.
You leave the townhouse in silence. The morning air hits your skin like a slap, but you don’t let yourself look back.
Your body still burns. Your lips are raw. Your heart feels like it’s been flayed open and stitched shut all in the same moment.
And you know—God, you know—you’re not done.
Not even close.
-
The headlines hit like a grenade.
CONGRESSMAN BARNES CALLS OFF ENGAGEMENT TO DIPLOMAT’S DAUGHTER
White House Event Cancelled Amid Sudden Statement Withdrawal
Insiders Say Something—or Someone—Changed His Mind
You read the articles with a steady hand and a blank face, mouthing your morning talking points to the rhythm of your spoon against a chipped coffee mug. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t text him. You didn’t tell anyone—not even Sam—that it had all been a lie since the beginning. You don’t tell anyone about the moment Bucky whispered, “Tell me to cancel the engagement.”
You had told him to. Then cost it. You’d looked him in the eye, dared him to stop hiding behind politics and public image, and he’d kissed you like it was the end of the world.
And now everything was burning down.
You tried to stay professional. Clinical. Detached. That was your gift, after all—rising above. You let your phone buzz off the table when he texted. Let the little banner notification flash “Come over. Just talk.” and rolled your eyes instead of answering.
The first time you went, it was to shut him up.
You hadn’t seen him in two days, not since the townhouse visit.
Now, you stood at his threshold again, wrapped in your long trench coat, jaw tight. He opened the door in gray sweatpants and a white shirt stretched over his chest, barefoot and blinking like he hadn’t expected you to actually show.
“I have twenty minutes,” you said.
He didn’t believe you. You didn’t believe you. But he stepped aside.
That night, you stayed in the armchair. You curled your knees to your chest and gave him nothing but nods and one-word responses while he talked about nonsense—legislation, cable news commentary, whether or not he was losing his mind.
You didn’t go back the next night.
But the one after that? You did.
This time, you sat beside him on the couch. Not touching. Just close. Close enough to hear his breathing change when your thigh brushed his. Close enough that when he turned to speak and his eyes dropped to your lips—you felt it.
He never kissed you. Didn’t even reach for your hand. But it was there. That energy. That tension that burned hotter now that you knew what it felt like to have his body pressed against yours. To have his mouth on yours. His hands on your skin. You’d made out with him like your life depended on it in his kitchen three days ago—and now you were pretending you didn’t feel that same heat crawling up your spine.
By night five, you weren’t on opposite sides of the couch anymore.
He didn’t ask. You didn’t speak. He just lifted the blanket and you climbed in beside him, curling into the warmth of his chest like it had been carved for you and only you. His fingers traced idle patterns on your back, and for a while, you let it be innocent.
But you were both too far gone for innocence to last.
It started with the subtle shift of your hips when he adjusted. The brush of your thigh over the sharp muscle of his. Then the pull of your wrist, his hand sliding down to your lower back, tucking you tighter against him. You could feel him—God, you could feel him hard and straining against the sweats he wore—and when your leg hooked over his waist, it was over.
He exhaled, rough and low. “You do that again and I’m gonna make a mess in my pants.”
You froze.
He didn’t.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he whispered into your hair, his voice hoarse, needy, almost broken. “You have no idea how bad I want you.”
You clenched, heart pounding. “Bucky…”
“I think about it constantly,” he said, his hips rolling once—slow, subtle, restrained. “The way you taste. The way you sound when I barely touched you last time. You moaned my name like it was a prayer.” His lips brushed your jaw. “I want to put my mouth on every inch of you. Make you scream so loud the whole damn block knows who you belong to.”
You whimpered. Quiet. Like if you kept the sound small enough, it wouldn’t count.
“But I won’t,” he said, pulling back. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing uneven. “Not unless you beg.”
You trembled. You could barely breathe.
You didn’t beg. But your body moved against his anyway—slow, aching, desperate for contact. You rutted softly against the line of his thigh, chasing friction that was stupid, dangerous, forbidden.
“God,” he groaned, his hands holding you in place, not moving—not moving, but strong enough to feel like ownership. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, clutching him like gravity had shifted and he was the only thing anchoring you to the earth. You were shaking—tiny tremors that danced across your thighs and spine, every inch of you tuned to him like a struck chord. He hadn’t moved. But you had. You were moving—grinding now, slow and helpless, your hips finding a rhythm like your body had been waiting for this since the first time he ever looked at you like he needed you.
You weren’t even thinking. Just feeling. The hard line of him beneath the cotton of his sweats, the damp heat building between your legs, the way his thighs were flexing like he was physically restraining himself from losing control.
His hands were splayed at your waist, thumbs dragging along the bare skin just above the hem of your panties where your shirt had ridden up. He wasn’t guiding your movements—but he wasn’t stopping them either. And maybe that was worse. Maybe it was better. Maybe it was all you could handle.
“You’re soaked,” he rasped, like the words were being torn from his throat. His voice cracked with something close to reverence. “I can feel it through everything. Jesus, baby…”
The nickname hit you like a brand. Not playful. Not flirty. Something older. Something real.
You whimpered as your hips rolled again, slower this time—grinding your soaked panties over the thick strain of his cock through his sweats. The friction wasn’t sharp. It was soft. Blunt. Overwhelming. Just enough to keep you dizzy and not enough to satisfy, and maybe that was why it felt so much worse. Every drag of your clit against that hard heat had your stomach tightening, thighs twitching.
Bucky cursed under his breath, his head dropping back for a moment before he surged forward again, catching your mouth in a kiss so brutal it knocked the air from your lungs. There was nothing sweet about it. It was open-mouthed and panting, all tongue and teeth and the echo of a thousand moments you hadn’t let yourselves have.
You moaned into it—too loud, too desperate—and he swallowed the sound like it was holy.
His hands slid lower, just enough to grip under the curve of your ass and rock you against him harder. The wet drag of your core over the fabric of his sweats was making a mess now, darkening the front of them, and you knew—knew—he could feel the way your clit caught on the ridges of the seam with every rut of your hips.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he grunted, voice wrecked. “Keep going. Just like that. I’m not gonna last—I swear to God—”
You ground down harder, hips stuttering as the pressure built. Every pass against him made your thighs clench tighter around his waist. The pace was faster now—frantic and filthy, your arousal soaking through your panties as you chased your orgasm shamelessly. You were whimpering, gasping, breaking apart one shaky breath at a time.
His hands were trembling as they held you—his head buried in your shoulder, breath hot against your skin, mouth dragging open kisses over your throat like he needed to keep tasting you just to survive it.
“Feels so good,” you whispered, incoherent. “So—so fucking good—Bucky, I—”
“You’re close,” he murmured against your pulse, his lips wet. “I can feel it. You gonna come just from this? From grinding on my cock like a needy little thing?”
You nodded, shaking. “Y-Yeah. I—I can’t—”
“You can,” he whispered, a filthy promise against your ear. “You will. Make a mess on me, baby. Soak through me. Want you to come on my cock, even if it’s through these fucking pants.”
The sound that tore from you didn’t feel like yours. It was strangled. Raw. Your whole body tensed as your orgasm hit—rushing through you like fire in your veins, white-hot and trembling and endless. You bucked once, then twice, the slick of your arousal coating the fabric between you as your legs spasmed, your cries swallowed in the kiss he pulled you into just as you broke.
And then he was following you.
Bucky’s hands tightened on your hips—just once, just enough—and his body jerked beneath you with a ragged groan.
“Fuck—fuck—” He hissed, hips stuttering up once before he froze completely, head tilted back as he came. You felt it—hot and thick between you, the damp heat soaking through the already ruined front of his sweats. His thighs trembled under yours, cock twitching against you as he rode it out with gritted teeth and a growl muffled against your collarbone.
Then silence.
You were still panting, boneless and flushed and wrecked in his lap. He hadn’t let go. You weren’t sure he could.
The air between you was sticky and hot, thick with sweat and the heavy smell of sex. His forehead dropped against your shoulder, and one hand came up to trace your spine—slow and reverent.
“You good?” he whispered, voice hoarse.
You nodded, eyes closed. “Yeah.”
He exhaled, almost like he’d been holding his breath the whole time. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” you said softly. “Me either.”
But you didn’t move. Neither did he. And maybe that was the scariest part of all.
You were already dying. Bit by bit. Every night you came over. Every night you swore it wouldn’t happen again. Every night you curled into him anyway. The heat between your legs never cooled anymore. Your panties were damp constantly. You couldn’t concentrate at work. You couldn’t breathe when he looked at you in the hallway. And now—now you’d dry humped your boss on his couch like a goddamn teenager.
-
You didn’t plan to say it a week later, back at his house late after a press conference. But you’d been holding it in so long, the words spilled from your throat like a dam breaking.
“I wanted you.”
It was barely louder than a whisper. But it landed like a confession between sins.
Bucky’s eyes lifted from where they’d been fixed on the floor. He’d been sitting in the low amber light of his bedroom, legs spread, forearms resting on his thighs, sweatpants riding low on his hips. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Just stared. The air went still—like even the night was holding its breath.
Then his voice dropped, quiet and reverent. “Say it again.”
You swallowed. Stepped toward him. “I wanted you.”
He stood.
The distance between you evaporated in a second. He didn’t rush. Didn’t lunge. He just moved with that terrifying grace he always carried—a man trained to kill and relearning how to love. His hand rose, slow and sure, brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers like he was afraid you’d disappear.
“You still do?” he asked.
You nodded.
“Sweetheart,” he whispered, and then he kissed you.
But this kiss wasn’t like the last one. It wasn’t teeth and tongue and a breaking point. It was soft at first. Soft and searching. His mouth moved over yours like he was tasting you for the first time, committing you to memory—slow and deliberate. You melted into him as he pulled you in, one hand at your lower back, the other curling around the back of your neck. It was all heat and tension and unbearable restraint.
“I’m gonna ruin you,” he murmured into your mouth.
You nodded again. “Please.”
His groan was almost pained. “Get on the bed.”
You did.
He knelt between your legs and kissed you again—deeper now, lips bruising yours, tongue sliding against yours like a promise. His hands were gentle as they undressed you, but his eyes—God, his eyes—were hungry. Devouring. You should’ve been shy, exposed under that gaze. But all you felt was wanted. Completely. Utterly. Unapologetically.
When he pushed your thighs open, settling between them, you were already slick. Already aching.
“I think about this,” he said, voice gravel and silk. “Every night. Every time you looked at me like you didn’t know. Like you didn’t feel it too.”
He kissed down your chest, tonguing your nipples, sucking gently until you moaned. He mouthed over your sternum, down your belly, until he settled between your thighs like it was home. Like he’d always meant to worship you from there.
“Let me taste you,” he rasped. “Let me make you come on my mouth. Please.”
You didn’t say yes. You just opened your legs wider.
He groaned like you’d given him the world.
His mouth was soft at first. Teasing. He kissed your inner thighs, dragged his nose along your folds, and then finally—finally—he pressed his mouth to your pussy and moaned. Deep and guttural, like the taste of you was better than the bourbon he couldn’t even get drunk on.
And then he started eating.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t messy. It was precision. Mastery. Worship. His tongue moved with languid reverence, licking long and slow up your slit, curling into your entrance, sucking your clit with perfect pressure until your legs were trembling around his shoulders.
You fisted the sheets, gasping. “Oh my God, Bucky—fuck—!”
“You’re close already?” he murmured, mouth glistening. “Such a good girl when you want to be. At least she’s honest,” he says as he flicks your clit with his tongue.
You whimpered as he switched to suck your clit again, gently, coaxing. “That’s it. Let go. I want it—need it—need to feel you come on my tongue.”
It was the praise that undid you.
Your thighs clamped around his head as you came, moaning his name, hips bucking helplessly into his mouth. He held you down and took it, groaning into you as your orgasm pulsed through your core, your body arching off the mattress.
When you came down, dazed and wet and shaking, he didn’t even wipe his mouth. Just kissed up your body again, licking and nipping as he moved until he was hovering over you.
“You’re not done yet,” he said, voice hoarse with want. “I’m gonna fuck you now.”
You reached for him—hands tugging at his waistband, desperate to feel him bare. He kissed you hard as he kicked out of his sweats, your panties long gone. When you felt the thick heat of him against your thigh, you nearly sobbed.
He didn’t rush. He kissed your shoulder. The hollow of your throat. Your jaw. He stroked himself slowly—letting you watch—before sliding a hand beneath your knee, lifting it over his shoulder as he turned you gently onto your side.
And then he slid into you.
It was slow. Agonizing. Full.
You gasped as he stretched you open, his cock thick and hot and perfect, every inch of him dragging against your walls like he was carving himself into you forever.
“Fuck, baby,” he panted, bracing over you. “You’re so tight. So fucking wet. Feel like heaven.”
You could only whimper, the angle deep and punishing and right. His hand slipped beneath you, fingers playing with your breasts, teasing your nipples as he rocked into you in long, deep thrusts.
It was all too much. And not enough.
His lips brushed your ear. “Look at me.”
You turned your head.
He kissed you—sweet and slow as he fucked you deeper, the rhythm steady, intense, building you back to the edge again.
“I’ve wanted this,” he whispered against your lips. “Since the moment you walked into my life. You ruined me, sweetheart. Let me ruin you now.”
You moaned into his mouth as you came again, clenching around him with a choked cry. He followed a heartbeat later, groaning your name as he buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside you, shaking with it.
He didn’t pull out right away. Just held you. Breathed you in. Pressed his forehead to yours like he was trying to slow his racing heart with the beat of yours.
And then—softness.
You lay in the stillness together, his chest rising and falling under your cheek, his vibranium arm wrapped around your waist like a lock.
“I’m not letting go,” he said, more to himself than to you.
You didn’t answer.
You were already asleep.
-
You weren’t supposed to be there.
It was a press conference about foreign aid reform—dry, pre-approved policy remarks, nothing personal. You were only in attendance because Bucky’s new deputy press secretary had a panic attack an hour before curtain and fled to the restroom in tears. You’d stepped in without thinking, without makeup or armor or warning, just an old blazer from your car and the years of muscle memory that let you breathe through a crisis.
You didn’t expect your heart to be the one that flatlined.
The briefing room buzzed with voices as the press filed in, cameras flashing, murmurs rising like the static before a storm. The event was set in the west conference hall of the Hart building, with white marble floors, austere curtains, and the unmistakable stench of ambition in the air. From your shadowed perch behind the wings, you watched him walk to the podium—tall, composed, every inch the polished face of the modern Avenger turned statesman.
His suit was perfectly cut. His tie a deep navy that made his eyes look impossibly blue. His vibranium arm glinted beneath the cuff of his jacket when he adjusted the mic. And still—still—he looked like he hadn’t slept.
He cleared his throat and began. “Thank you all for being here.”
The first part was smooth. Robotic. He went through the numbers, the funding bill, the bipartisan support. You heard the voice you knew best: the measured public mask, the controlled cadence. You weren’t breathing any more than you had to.
And then it happened.
A voice cut through the din—sharp, cynical, with the gleam of bloodlust behind it.
“Mr. Barnes, can you comment on the rumors that your broken engagement had something to do with your chief of staff?”
The room quieted instantly.
Your heart stopped. There was a beat of silence. Then another. Then a third.
And then Bucky lifted his eyes. Not to the reporter.
To you.
You stiffened behind the curtain, every cell in your body suddenly made of glass.
He turned back to the podium. “Yeah,” he said simply, voice steady but low. “Yeah, I can comment on that.”
You stepped closer to the edge of the wings, hidden behind velvet and shadow. You weren’t breathing.
He exhaled slowly and rested both hands on the podium. “There’s been a lot of speculation lately about my engagement. And about the people involved. And since you asked—I’m gonna tell you the truth.”
He paused. Let it hang.
“My engagement was arranged,” he said flatly. “It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t real in the way people hoped it would be. It was about political partnerships. About optics. About building an image people could rally behind.”
A few shocked murmurs rippled through the crowd.
“I went along with it because I believed it was the right move,” he continued. “I thought—after everything I’ve done, everything I was—I thought I had to earn a clean future by performing one.”
Your throat tightened.
“But here’s what I learned,” he said, voice rising slightly. “When you build a life for the cameras instead of the mirror—you start to forget who you are.”
Your hand found the edge of the curtain. Clenched.
He glanced down, swallowed, then looked back up.
“There is someone I’ve trusted with my life for the past ten years. Someone who’s been by my side through every victory and every failure. Who’s held me together when I wanted to break. Who never once asked for credit. Who only ever told me the truth, even when it hurt.”
He didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. His voice deepened.
“And if falling in love with the woman who’s kept my life together for ten years is wrong—then I never should’ve run for office.”
The room exploded.
A hundred flashes went off at once. Shouting. Scrambling. Reporters lunging to rephrase and refocus, to trap the moment, to name you. But you were already backing away—stumbling into the hallway behind the dais, breath tight in your chest, blood roaring in your ears.
You weren’t ready. Not for this.
Not for him to mean it.
You braced yourself against the cold wall of the hallway and stared down at your trembling hands.
He’d said it. Out loud. To them. Not in the dark. Not on a couch. Not in the privacy of his sheets and your skin.
He’d named it.
Named you.
And no one in the world could take it back.
-
The chaos backstage was immediate.
Staffers scrambled to manage the fallout, press aides whisper-shouting into earpieces, campaign strategists barking into phones, trying to frame what had just happened before it turned into a media wildfire. But Bucky didn’t move.
He stepped off the stage like he didn’t hear any of it.
Like none of it mattered.
His eyes scanned the hallway, sharp and searching, until they found you near the end of the corridor—half in shadow, half in panic, hands clenched at your sides like you might fly apart if anyone looked at you too closely.
And he—he didn’t rush. He didn’t demand. He just walked toward you with the slow, precise control of a man used to carrying his guilt like a second spine. And when he reached you, he didn’t say a word. Didn’t touch you.
Just stood there. Close enough to feel the heat of him. Close enough to know that if you looked at his mouth, you’d remember what it tasted like.
But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Not with the world still shaking around you.
So you walked. Past him. Quiet. He followed.
Neither of you said anything as you moved through the underground parking garage—him a step behind, like a soldier trailing his commander. Like a man who’d just ripped apart his reputation in front of a nation and didn’t regret a damn thing.
When the door of his car clicked shut behind you, the silence hit different. It was heavy, charged— dangerous.
Bucky gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing tethering him to restraint. His knuckles were pale. His jaw flexed once. Then again. You could feel the tension coming off him in waves, blistering and electric, vibrating in the tight air between you.
Still, neither of you spoke. Not when the engine started. Not when he pulled out of the garage. Not for five blocks.
You sat staring out the window, trying to calm the hurricane under your skin. But you couldn’t—not when the ghost of his words were still echoing in your head. If falling in love with the woman who’s kept my life together for ten years is wrong—
“You shouldn’t have said it,” you whispered finally, your voice so raw it hurt. “Not like that. Not out there.”
His grip on the wheel tightened. “Why not?”
“You just detonated your entire political career.”
“Good,” he said, eyes still on the road. “It wasn’t worth it if I couldn’t have you.”
You exhaled sharply, like the wind had been punched out of your lungs. “That’s not how this works, Bucky.”
“It’s how this works,” he shot back, turning to look at you at a red light, blue eyes lit with something wild. “You think I’m gonna stand up there and pretend the last ten years meant nothing to me? You think I’m gonna lie to the press while you sit in the back of the room like you don’t matter more to me than every vote in the damn country?”
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
“All this time I was trying to protect you,” he continued. “From the press. From me. But I can’t anymore.”
The light turned green, but he didn’t move. The car behind you honked once, angrily. He ignored it.
“I love you,” he said, quiet now. “And I’m not gonna be ashamed of it.”
You turned to him slowly, like you weren’t sure he was real. “You don’t get to say that like it’s simple,” you breathed. “Like it doesn’t come with consequences.”
“I don’t care,” he said. “I don’t care if it ruins everything else. I need you to know—I choose you.”
The words hit like lightning. You felt scorched and shaking, undone by the rawness of it.
He finally pulled forward, driving in silence as your pulse thundered in your ears.
Neither of you spoke again.
But when he reached across the console at a red light and took your hand—your fingers curled into his like they always had.
Like they always would.
-
You barely remembered unlocking your front door.
His hand never left yours—not in the elevator, not in the hallway, not when you fumbled with your keys like your brain was still somewhere back at that podium. It wasn’t until the door clicked shut behind you that you realized you were both holding your breath.
The second the lock turned, the silence wrapped around you like a blanket. Not heavy, not charged. Just… quiet.
Safe.
You set your bag down slowly, turned to face him.
He was already watching.
He looked exhausted. Not physically—he could probably run a marathon without blinking thanks to the serum—but something deeper. His shoulders were heavy with it, his jaw shadowed with unspoken truths. But his eyes?
His eyes were soft.
“You meant it,” you said finally, voice barely above a whisper.
There was no performance in him now. No mask. No politician. Just the man who had spent a decade standing behind you, beside you, quietly holding every piece of your world together.
“I did,” he murmured. “Every damn word.”
You let out a shaky breath. “Why now?”
His jaw flexed. “Because I couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t sit next to you every day, watch you hold the seams of my life in place, and pretend I didn’t want to come home to you.”
You swallowed. Hard. “I’ve been in love with you for six years.”
That got him. His shoulders dropped slightly, his expression shifting like a dam had cracked just behind his ribs.
“That long, huh?” he murmured.
You nodded, pulse thudding. “Yeah.”
He took a slow step forward, eyes pinned to yours, something aching and beautiful in the way he looked at you.
“Well,” he said, the ghost of a smile flickering over his mouth, “I’ve got you beat.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“I fell in love with you the first year,” he said, quiet but sure, like it had been a fact of his existence since then. “Didn’t even see it coming. One minute you were just a name on a hiring list, and the next—” He huffed out a soft laugh, the kind that carried too much feeling. “I walked into my own office and you were sitting at my desk. Wearing a navy suit. Feet up, headset on, telling someone I was in a meeting. Then you looked at me and said, ‘You’re late. Fix your tie. You’ve got seven minutes until the vultures circle.’”
Your eyes widened.
“I remember that,” you breathed.
“I remember everything,” he said, stepping close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. “The way you talked to me like you weren’t impressed, even though everyone else in the building was half in awe. The way you looked at me like I wasn’t broken. Like I was… someone worth betting on.”
His voice dropped, hands gently curling around your waist.
“I was gone for you by the end of the week. Didn’t stand a chance.”
Your breath caught.
“Bucky—”
“I didn’t say anything,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along your hip, “because I was afraid one wrong move would scare you off. You were too important. Too fucking bright. I’d already built my whole world around you.”
You leaned into him, forehead pressing to his chest. You laughed softly, remembering all he was sharing. “You were always flustered.”
“I was smitten,” he corrected, gently cupping the side of your face like he couldn’t not touch you. “Jesus, sweetheart. I didn’t stand a chance.”
Your lips parted, the ache blooming beneath your ribs again.
“I think that’s the problem,” you whispered. “Neither of us stood a chance. But we were both so scared of screwing it up.”
He nodded, thumb brushing over your cheek.
“I thought if I said anything, it’d ruin you. Or ruin me. Or both of us. You were the only thing in my life that worked. The only thing I didn’t question.”
You closed your eyes. “Same.”
“I would’ve rather loved you quietly forever than risk losing you.”
You let that sit for a moment. Then said, “But we already lost time, didn’t we?”
He swallowed thickly. “Yeah. We did.”
You reached for him this time—fingers curling into the front of his coat, tugging him closer. His forehead pressed to yours, noses brushing.
“You had a fiancée,” you said softly.
“You had half the country thinking we were just colleagues.”
“You let me go on dates.”
“I sabotaged every single one of them.”
That made you laugh—wet, breathless, disbelieving. “God, you’re the worst.”
“I am,” he murmured, “but only for you.”
The moment stretched.
“I was going to marry someone I didn’t love,” he said, voice low, broken. “Because I thought it was the only way to keep you in my life. Because I thought you’d never choose me.”
“I always would’ve chosen you,” you said, eyes shining. “You just didn’t ask until you were already engaged.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you—really look. His eyes searched yours like he was trying to memorize every detail. Then he leaned in and kissed your forehead. Your temple. The corner of your mouth.
“We’ve both been idiots,” he murmured.
You nodded. “But we’re here now.”
His arms wrapped around you like a shield, like surrender, like he never wanted to let you go again.
You weren’t sure what tomorrow would bring. The press. The fallout. The questions.
But tonight, in the warmth of your apartment, in the quiet that lived between confessions and second chances, you held him back.
And for the first time in ten years—neither of you was afraid.
-
You woke up with your cheek pressed to his chest.
Warmth. Steady breathing. A metal arm locked around your waist.
The last few hours felt like a fever dream—like you’d fallen asleep in the middle of something sacred and selfish. Your clothes still clung to you in soft disarray, one leg tangled between his, the strap of your camisole off your shoulder. His thumb traced slow, absent circles into the curve of your hip beneath the blanket. Lazy. Thoughtless.
Intimate.
You didn’t speak right away. Neither of you did.
But when you finally lifted your head and looked at him—really looked—there wasn’t an ounce of uncertainty left in his expression. Just that quiet sort of reverence. Like waking up with you still there had rewired his entire nervous system.
And maybe it had.
Because three weeks passed. Three long, impossibly strange weeks.
You both tried to be careful. Tried to be subtle. But subtle didn’t really work with James Buchanan Barnes.
He still stole you away during late-night strategy sessions. Still let his hand linger on your lower back when the door closed behind you. He still came over after events and talked politics with your cheek resting on his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. Sometimes you fell asleep in his lap while he skimmed foreign briefings. Sometimes he woke you up with his mouth on your collarbone, saying things like “just making sure you’re real.”
But he hadn’t made it public. Not yet.
Until the memo dropped.
You were halfway into a budget meeting when it happened—Monday morning, dead center of the conference room, your eyes burning from too little sleep and too much coffee. Someone handed out printouts. You didn’t notice at first.
Not until a murmur passed through the room like a current.
“Is this real?” one of the newer staffers asked, blinking at the paper.
Another aide laughed under her breath. “Oh, it’s real.”
You finally looked down. A single sheet of thick ivory stock paper, printed in stark black font.
Addendum to Staff Ethics Memo #211
While the internal non-fraternization policy remains in effect, the following clause has been added:
Exceptions may be made for the exceptional.
Your breath caught.
And then, just beneath it, handwritten in sharp, unmistakable ink:
Only one exception ever needed.
—J.B. Barnes
You didn’t react.
Not outwardly, at least.
You didn’t look at him across the table. Didn’t crack a smile. Didn’t even reach for your coffee.
But your pulse was thunder in your ears.
The rest of the room started murmuring. No one said your name. No one had to. The implication was as loud as a headline.
Bucky didn’t so much as flinch. He just sat with his hands folded in front of him like a man who had no intention of pretending anymore.
The meeting droned on.
You couldn’t hear a word of it.
When it finally wrapped, you stood, gathered your notes, and made it halfway down the hallway before he caught your wrist and tugged you gently into his office.
He shut the door behind you.
You turned with a breathless, flat look. “A memo?”
“You wanted quiet,” he said, voice low. “But I wanted clear.”
You shook your head—half exasperated, half dangerously close to smiling. “You’re unbelievable.”
His hands slid over your waist like gravity pulling him home. “So are you.”
You tried to act annoyed. You really did. But then he kissed you. Soft. Open-mouthed. Honest.
And the sound you made into his mouth—that little helpless exhale—told him exactly what he already knew: You didn’t need a memo to make it official.
But God, it didn’t hurt.
-
It happened that night. The same night the memo went out.
The building had emptied hours ago. Even the interns had left, quiet and wide-eyed after the staff meeting. Someone made a joke about “Barnes finally growing a pair,” and someone else swore they saw you blush when they mentioned the clause. But you kept your head down. You kept your mouth shut. You played it safe.
Because you knew what was waiting once everyone was gone.
Now his office was silent, dimly lit by the glow of the city through the tall windows, all sharp shadows and blue night. The chaos of the day finally behind you. The storm had passed.
And all that was left was this: you, standing in front of his desk. Him, leaning back in the chair, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled, tie tugged loose.
His eyes tracked your every movement, slow and heated and hungry. One hand curled around the arm of his chair. The other tapped lightly against his thigh.
“You gonna stand there all night, or are you gonna let me see what’s mine?” he asked, voice a low, velvet drawl.
You stepped closer.
He didn’t rise—just waited, watching with that infuriating, devastating patience. The kind that made your heart trip and your skin tighten. He reached for his tie and let it dangle between his fingers like bait.
“Give me your wrists.”
Your breath caught. You didn’t ask why. You didn’t need to.
You held them out, palms up, trembling.
Bucky leaned forward, took your hands in his—rough thumbs stroking over your pulse—and then began winding the tie around your wrists, looping it deliberately, sliding the silk through his fingers like he was savoring it.
“Too tight?” he murmured.
You shook your head.
He smiled—sharp, satisfied—and leaned back again, arms spreading over the chair as he let his gaze rake down your body like he owned it.
“You’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he said, voice molten. “Months. Years. Since the first fucking meeting.”
You swallowed hard, breath already ragged. “Then stop wasting time.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” He beckoned you forward with two fingers. “Time’s the one thing I’m not wasting tonight.”
You climbed into his lap—knees on either side of him, your bound wrists resting against his chest. He reached up, undid the first few buttons of your blouse, then the rest, pulling the fabric open with slow reverence.
When he leaned in to kiss you, it wasn’t rushed.
It was ruinous.
All tongue and heat and restraint peeling away. He kissed you like he was starving and you were the first meal he’d let himself taste in years—like nothing else existed beyond the slide of your mouth on his, the gasp you made when his teeth caught your bottom lip.
Then he dragged his mouth lower. Down your jaw. Across the column of your neck. Over your collarbone.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured, nosing at the swell of your breasts. “You like being tied up for me?”
You nodded breathlessly.
“Use your words.”
“Yes,” you said, and it came out desperate. “Please.”
“That’s a good girl.”
His fingers pulled down the cups of your bra and he moaned—actually moaned—like the sight of your breasts did something to him he couldn’t explain.
He licked one nipple slowly, then sucked it into his mouth and grazed it with his teeth. His other hand kneaded the soft weight of the other, palm warm and possessive. You writhed against him, wrists tugging helplessly against silk, back arching as his mouth worshipped you.
“That’s it,” he praised, voice gone gravel-deep. “Let me hear how bad you need it. I want anyone left on this fucking floor to know who you belong to.”
You rocked against him—against the thick muscle of his thigh—and nearly sobbed.
“Already soaking me, baby,” he groaned, grinding his leg up into you. “Look at that. Gonna leave a wet patch on my thousand-dollar slacks, huh?”
You gasped as he flexed his thigh again, pressing into you perfectly.
“You want everyone to see me walk out with your mess on me? You want them to know what you did?”
“Yes,” you whispered, shameless. “Fuck—yes, Bucky.”
He slid one hand into your hair and tugged your head back, just enough to meet your eyes. “You’ve always been this filthy for me, haven’t you?”
You nodded. Helpless. Barely hanging on.
“You know that clause?” he said roughly, thumb dragging across your lower lip. “The original one I wrote into the employee handbook?”
You blinked, still grinding against him. “The no dating Clause?”
He smirked. “It was called the Secretary Clause. No fraternizing. No exceptions.”
You stared at him.
“That wasn’t to protect the campaign,” he said, voice like gravel and heat. “It was to keep you from dating anyone else. You knew that though.”
Your whole body clenched. “You asshole.”
He grinned. “You love it.”
“I should strangle you with your own tie.”
His gaze dropped to your bound wrists. “Might be hard. You look so pretty like this.”
Then he reached between your thighs and tugged your panties aside, just enough to bare you to the air—and to him. His metal fingers slid over your slick folds, slow and deliberate.
“Goddamn. Dripping.”
Two vibranium fingers circled your clit and you nearly bucked forward. He caught you by the hips and pressed you down harder onto his thigh, fucking you there until you were whimpering, thighs trembling.
“You gonna come on my leg like a needy little slut?” he growled. “You gonna make a mess right here, in the fucking office chair?”
“Yes—please, Bucky—”
He grinned, lips at your ear. “Then do it. Show me how ruined you are.”
You came with your face buried in his shoulder, hips rolling helplessly, slick coating his pants, your whole body twitching in his hold. And he didn’t stop—kept rubbing you, coaxing every aftershock from your core until you were boneless and shaking.
Then he unfastened his pants.
Freed his cock—thick, hard, already leaking—and aligned you over him with a low, broken sound.
“Put me in,” he rasped. “Slide down on it. Show me who it belongs to.”
Your hands were still tied. He didn’t untie them.
You lifted your hips, guided him to your entrance, and sank down slow—inch by inch—until you were fully seated, his cock filling you so deep you couldn’t breathe.
“Jesus,” he growled. “So fucking tight.”
He gripped your hips, rocking you over him. His chair creaked beneath you as you rode him, slow at first, then harder, slick and breathless and desperate. Every thrust had you gasping, every grind dragging another shattered moan from your lips.
“Take it,” he hissed. “That’s it. Take my cock like you were made for it.”
His hand slipped between you again—thumb pressing to your clit—and you came a second time, this one brutal, violent, clenching around him like a vice.
Bucky swore—fuck, baby, I’m close—and his hips stuttered, cock jerking inside you as he came deep, head thrown back, jaw tight, hands gripping your waist like you were all that kept him tethered.
When it was over, you slumped against him, wrists still bound, breathing hard into the crook of his neck.
“You untie me now,” you whispered, dazed and wrecked. “Or I’ll actually strangle you.”
He laughed. Kissed your shoulder.
“You’re gonna marry me someday,” he murmured. “You know that, right?”
You looked at him, wide-eyed.
And didn’t answer.
Not yet.
-
—one month later—
He didn’t take you out to dinner. Not for the first real date, anyway.
Didn’t send a car or make a reservation or ask you what you were in the mood for like this was something casual—like this was normal. Like it hadn’t already happened in whispers and locked offices and wet spots on a thousand-dollar suit.
He just showed up at your door.
No security. No driver. Just Bucky, in a dark wool coat with snow dusting his shoulders and two takeout bags dangling from his fingers. Hair a little windblown. His tie—your tie actually—peeking out beneath his collar like he didn’t have a single fucking regret.
“Hope you’re hungry,” he said, stepping inside without waiting for an answer.
You stared at him.
At the deep shadows beneath his eyes. The weight of power still curled between his shoulders. The quiet storm of him—always too much and somehow never enough.
“This isn’t a date,” you said.
“No,” he said. “It’s dinner.”
He dropped the food on the table, then turned and cupped your face with both hands. Just looked at you like you were the first thing he’d seen clearly in days.
“Can I kiss you now?”
“You already did,” you said, lips twitching. “Twice in the elevator and once against the wall.”
“That wasn’t kissing,” he murmured. “That was losing control.”
He kissed you anyway. Slow, soft. Reverent. Like he was trying to teach himself how to want you gently.
And when he pulled back, he nodded toward the couch. “Come sit.”
You didn’t sit. You curled. Your knees tucked under you. Your hands wrapped around the bowl of noodles he insisted were from the best hole-in-the-wall in D.C., and your thighs still ached faintly from the night before. From the way he kept you on his cock until you sobbed. From the way he made you come again. And again.
And again.
You just sat. Ate. Talked about the snowstorm coming. The taste of the ginger broth. The new desk he wanted you to help him pick out for the new office.
And when you were done, he didn’t ask for sex. He asked if he could stay. He held you against him, both of you stretched out on the couch in the hush of a winter night, his arm around your waist and your ear pressed to his chest.
His heart beat steady. You felt like you’d been listening to it for years.
“I love you,” he murmured.
You blinked. “Yeah?”
He looked down at you, blue eyes soft but serious. “Wanna hear you say it again. You haven’t said it since that first time, after the press conference.”
Your mouth went dry. You hadn’t forgotten. You just didn’t know if you should. Not in a world where things broke when you named them. But maybe you’d both earned the risk now.
You sat up slowly. Twisted so you were half in his lap, half curled against his chest. You placed one hand on his cheek, his stubble rough beneath your thumb.
“I did,” you said softly. “I do.”
His breath caught. You leaned in.
“I love you, James Buchanan Barnes.”
He pulled you into his arms like he was afraid you’d vanish. Like the words themselves were a doorway he hadn’t dared open until now.
And later, much later, when he was curled around you in bed, your bodies warm beneath the sheets and your ankles tangled together, he whispered something else against your skin.
Something quiet. Fierce. Like a promise.
“You’re still gonna marry me someday,” he said.
And this time you didn’t stay silent.
You just smiled, kissed him slow and said, “I know.”
Ooooh this is perfect! You hit the ‘they’re starving for each other and mutually obsessed’ on the fucking head! This was excellent and so exciting to read xx and the way in the end he just bares his love for her to the world? Chefs kiss!
summary: you and your boyfriend have been together for a strong nineteen months and counting. problem is, you’re starting to notice he’s hiding things from you.
warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, semi-public (?) stuffs, oral (f+m receiving), hair pulling, face grabbing, fingers in mouth, unprotected sex, backshots, fingering, window… sex…, soft dom bucky, slight sub reader, language, no use of y/n, alcohol consumption, bucky is the best boyfriend ever and loves you very much
word count: 15.2k
a/n: due to popular demand, here’s a second part! this is also my formal apology for whatever happened in love, persevering <3 please accept. // also if anyone saw this get prematurely posted with NOTHING attached you didn’t fucking see it. i wasn’t made aware until EIGHT HOURS LATER and the fic wasn’t even done yet!!! 😔 i always make my fic intro template things before my fics are done for motivation
masterlist
You almost lost your fucking job.
You expected it, honestly. With the amount of lines you crossed, boundaries broken, and toes you stepped on… Yeah. There was only so much that your boss could take from you— star employee or not.
Thankfully, your boss kept the whole thing quiet from the rest of your coworkers to spare you the embarrassment since you had the decency to come to her and tell her the truth.
It still meant you had to refund Sam Wilson the entire Ador Luxury Matchmaking Package, which your boss was not happy about.
Sam, on the other hand, was over the moon.
When he received the refund transaction, he called you almost immediately. You had to go into a private conference room to answer the call, away from your coworkers.
“Mr. Wilson,” you answered the phone, trying to keep your tone light.
“Hey, Ms. Matchmaker,” he said, suspicion in his voice. “Did Buck cancel his membership?”
“That is correct,” you said, clearing your throat.
“I thought we had an agreement. I paid you guys extra to not allow him to bully you guys into ending the program,” Sam said. You can hear the frustration in his voice. You don’t blame him. “What happened?”
“I can assure you– the refund is not due to Congressman Barnes just cancelling the service,” you said. “In fact, he is no longer in need of my services.”
“What? Then he’s been on a date?” Sam asked. “If that’s the case, then why the refund? If the date was successful, then doesn’t Bucky get the benefits or whatever?”
There was no response from your end for a good handful of moments. You were stuck, unable to respond. You couldn’t figure out how to say the words in the most professional way possible. You needed to find the right concoction, just in case there was someone walking down the hall at that exact moment, and overheard your conversation.
In the end, all you could think was that Bucky was a dead man walking.
You were going to kill Bucky. You weren’t sure how you were going to do that, seeing as he was the one with the years of experience of fighting between the two of you, but you would do it. You were hoping that he would’ve told his one and only friend that he had a girlfriend.
Then again, Bucky refused to answer any of Sam’s calls. You texted Sam back most of the time when you got ahold of Bucky’s phone, pretending to be Bucky. Bucky didn’t care that you were doing that– though you wondered if Sam would be heartbroken if he ever found out.
“Hello?” Sam asked, calling out your name. “Are you there?”
“Congressman Barnes terminated his membership with Ador as he and I have mutually decided to pursue a more personal relationship with each other,” you quickly answered him, cringing at your own words. You took a quick breath in before continuing, “The refund is due to my own oversight, and is serving as an apology to you for wasting your time on our service. I truly hope that you will forgive me for being unable to maintain a more professional connection with the client.”
It was Sam’s turn to fall silent. You had to check your phone to make sure that the call was still active. There was a slight rustle on the other end, letting you know that he was still there– that he was on the other end, dissecting your words, gears processing through his mind.
“The matchmaker I hired is dating my friend?!” he cackled.
“Mr. Wilson, I truly apologize for the inconvenience–”
“There is no inconvenience!” he cut you off, still laughing. “Holy shit, let me tell you– after that first meeting with you? I asked Bucky what he thought about you as his matchmaker and his only words? He thought you were pretty. Would not say anything else. Fuck, listen, let me call you back– or let’s all go to dinner. You, me, Buck, and my girl. I gotta head down to the office and harass Bucky right now.”
You went on an unpaid suspension for eight weeks after the refund transaction went through. The HQ of Ador had to undergo a full on investigation to figure out if you were worth keeping around as an employee or not, seeing as you ended up breaking client-employee conduct.
Your boss wasn’t awful, though. In fact, she was only pissed off about the refund because she knew that headquarters back in London would have been alerted. Either way, it was still the right thing to process the transaction. She promised you that she would be your biggest advocate during the investigation, and she would try to argue for you to get the time to be paid seeing as you were the best employee in the New York branch.
The second you told Bucky– who told Sam– you found money wired into your account the next business day. It was the same exact amount that you had refunded back to Sam. It was still more money than you would’ve made if you were working those eight weeks.
Neither man told you how they got ahold of your bank information. Neither man would look you in the eye when you questioned them.
So, you had eight weeks of basically overpaid, free vacation to do whatever the hell you wanted, and a new boyfriend. Which meant you spent damn near every single day in his office, cosplaying as some government worker– an intern or secretary. And you were helping him. You actually were.
“You really don’t have to do any of this, baby,” Bucky told you. You had been coming for an entire week straight at this point.
“If I stay stationary for two months, I think I might die of brain failure,” you told him, stealing a stack of his files from him. “Besides. You look like you need some help. You should really hire a secretary. Or someone to help you out. A personal assistant, maybe?”
“I can handle it on my own,” he sighed, shaking his head. Despite his words, he looked grateful as you took the files to the lounge area of his office and spread them out on the coffee table.
“Tell that to me when you sleep more than two hours a night, handsome,” you said, tucking your legs under you.
With less sensitive information that he was allowed to hand over to you, you organized and kept tabs on. You summarized documents for him perfectly that made his life easier. You helped train other onboarding interns that didn’t know what the hell they were doing. You managed his calendar when he looked like he was about to combust into flames. You got to spend time with him during his breaks, have lunch with him, eat dinner with him, and he would drive you home, and spend the night with you most nights.
Not that anyone knew that, though. They thought you were an actual employee of this official government building in New York. With the way that you walked side by side with Bucky every single day, holding files and looking down at his work phone– they really thought that you were working for him.
“Where’s your secretary today?”
You don’t know who asked the question, and you don’t really care. There’s about three other officials in this room that barged in out of nowhere, when you were on Bucky’s lap.
Both of you had panicked, and he had shoved you into the hiding space beneath his desk before any of them could see the scandalous position he had you in.
Unluckily for him, he had chosen the wrong place to put you.
“At a training session with other interns,” Bucky said, tone clipped and short. He was irritated at being interrupted out of nowhere, but also at the fact that you were ignoring his warnings.
You grinned, pressing an innocent kiss to the hand that gripped over your wrist. Tight, but not enough to hurt you. You continued to palm over his hardening length with your free hand.
You weren’t paying attention to any of the fancy words that were being thrown around over your head, but you were certain that Bucky wasn’t either. You rested the side of your head against his thigh, feeling the muscle tense and hardened at your touch as you continued to lazily play with him over the fabric of his dress pants.
Bucky’s metal hand slipped from your wrist to your hair, carding through it and stopping at the base of your skull– another cautionary message being sent to you as Bucky tried to focus on the sudden meeting thrown his way. Thankfully, these men loved the sound of their own voices. They couldn’t hear you slowly unzip him, and free Bucky from the confines of his slacks.
“Your thoughts, Congressman Barnes?”
Your boyfriend cleared his throat above you as your lips kissed the tip of his cock, wrapping your hand around the base of him to keep him in place as his dick twitched in response. You fought back the small hum that threatened to come forth as you licked up the small bead of precum that leaked out.
“It’s a very… worrying matter,” Bucky said slowly, clenching his jaw as he took in a slow breath. You licked a thin strip up from the base of his cock– focusing on the thick vein that you knew was sensitive. “That is very worrisome. And we’ll get to the bottom of this uh– worrying... issue.”
You paused at his words, unable to believe what you were hearing from him for a moment. You pulled away from him for a moment, hand still wrapped around his dick as you pressed your face to his thigh, trying to hide your laugh into his flesh.
Bucky’s hand tugged back on your hair roughly, pulling your head back and away from his thigh. Immediately, his metal hand shifted from your hair to clasp around your face, covering your mouth. His fingertips dug into the soft skin of your cheeks, daring you to make another noise. Surprise and excitement shot through your body in response.
You could test him. You could press it.
You decided against it, and licked his palm instead, closing your eyes. You could feel his hand twitch against your face— he told you once that his arm was calibrated to feel sensations. That he felt nerves like his other arm did. You smiled just a little, then kissed right where your tongue had just been.
All the while, your hand was still pumping at his dick in lazy strokes. Nothing too much, nothing that would alert anyone of your presence, nothing that would make him let out noises that were only yours to hear.
“Right,” one of the officials said slowly. “Well– we have lunch with some of the other representatives in ten minutes. You are welcome to join us, Congressman. If your secretary comes back from her training, she is more than welcome to join us as well. Lord knows we need a little more eye candy around here.”
A chorus of laughter rang around the room, but not from Bucky. In fact, he just stared at them until their laughter became uncomfortable, and they awkwardly excused themselves.
The second the door to his office shut, Bucky’s chair was rolled back instantly, and your hands weren’t touching him anymore.
You were still on your knees, looking up at him as Bucky stared down at you, hand still on your face to shut you up before you had been caught laughing at his inability to form proper words with your mouth on his cock.
“You’re so pretty like this, baby,” he murmured, hand shifting to cradle your face.
A metal thumb brushed against your lip slowly, a shiver running down your spine involuntarily. His touch was gentle. Reverent. He touched you like you were made of glass. Unlike the blown out, hungry look in his eyes, the gruff, low tone of his voice as he whispered to you.
From the corner of your eye, you saw his other hand tuck himself back into his pants. When your eyebrows furrowed in response, he let out a soft chuckle.
Bucky leaned down, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead. Then, he stood up tall. He rolled his shoulders back, but you couldn’t focus. Your eyes were on him, and the aching bulge above his zipper.
“I have to go to lunch, sweetheart. When I get back, you’re going to get exactly what you wanted from me, okay?”
Your boyfriend left you there. Left you partially under his desk, still on your knees. What was supposed to be you teasing him, quickly shifted into you being extremely hot and bothered. You didn’t know how long lunch would take, either.
You busied yourself with literally anything else. Not that it worked. Every footstep that came down the corridor, you were jumping in attention like some rabbit in heat.
Except, Bucky moved like a ghost. You wouldn’t hear his footsteps.
When he finally returned, you didn’t even hear him until the sound of the office door locking caught your attention. You barely had the time to turn around before he was all over you. Lips were on yours as he hoisted you upwards, wrapping your legs around his waist to carry you to his choice of christening.
An arm swiped his desk clear of any debris so no pens or other office supplies would be digging into your skin. He bunched your skirt up to your hips, and pulled your panties to the side. Bucky bent you over his desk with fingers shoved into your mouth to keep you quiet as he did what you wanted from the beginning. He curtained you, his chest pressed against your back as he whispered sweet nothings to contrast the punishing thrust of his hips— letting you know that he still very much adored you, but was also extremely annoyed by your little game earlier.
Afterwards, Bucky cleaned you up gently. Kissed you softly, held you tightly in his arms. Then presented you with food that he brought back for you– he ordered you lunch while he was out eating since he knew you wouldn’t have left the office while he was gone.
You almost jumped his bones again right then and there for how considerate he was of you.
So yes, you almost lost your job, but you weren’t necessarily upset about it. Not when you got to spend an entire month with Bucky, helping him out at work, cuddling with him at night, and waking up at whatever time you wanted the next morning. On the rare days that you weren’t at the office with him, it was because you were somewhere else– still with him.
Eventually, you were called back into work.
You convinced Bucky to hire an assistant to take care of his little things— stuff that you did for him to make his life easier so he could focus on more pressing things. It managed to ease his workload just a little bit, but not by a lot. Bucky still managed to bite more than he could chew, and you knew he was stressed from how slow the process was for passing bills and getting change to happen.
Despite it all, the two of you were content. Happy. Overjoyed, really. He was perfect, and he swore to the heavens that you were, too.
A cacophony of voices, poppers, music, and sparkles were blasted into your face as you pushed open the door to the office. Streamers were shot directly into your face, colors cascading directly before your eyes, showering you with colors of the pastel rainbow.
Your coworkers, all dressed to the nines, were cheering. A few of them held flutes of champagne. Two of them held balloons– together making the number twelve together. One of them held a cake that read congratulations.
There was a catering table set for the party that was clearly waiting for you. You saw the table set, ready for everyone to dig into. You knew your boss didn’t hold back when it came to celebrating any kind of achievements, especially not your own. You were the best at what you did here.
Your grin wasn’t smug, even though you had every single right to be. You shrugged your blazer off as you sauntered into the room, allowing the applause and cheers to wash over you. You dropped your purse and other materials off at your desk as your boss approached you with a grin, hands going to your shoulders.
“My star employee– our number one matchmaker!” she cooed at you, everyone shouting around you in response to our praise. “Tell me, with this wedding upcoming this weekend, how many will you be responsible for?”
You paused, only for dramatic effect. The ceiling looked suddenly oh so interesting as you smiled. Then, you guessed, “Twelve?”
“Twelve!” your boss roared, the girls around you jumping up and down with excitement and cheer.
“Do a speech, a speech!” your deskmate urged, and you only let out a small, playful sigh as everyone died down around you.
You were handed your own glass of champagne, led to the front of the room, and turned to look at all the girls. Girls that you worked with for the past six, almost seven years. Your boss had been doing this job for well over a decade now. There were a few new faces that had just started a few months ago.
With your glass lifted into the air, you smiled, “Love is all around. It’s easy to find the perfect match for someone.”
They squealed, toasting to you. The cake was brought to you, letting you blow out the candles as if it was your birthday or something– just a tradition your company had for good luck. Something to bring more successful matches and weddings to your clients.
Your two clients, Luke and Jessica, were tying the knot after twelve months of dating, and another four months engaged. One year and four months— which was a relatively short time, but who were you to judge? They both told you they knew the other party was the one after the first date. Who were you to stand in the way of them?
Just because you were fucking bitter, and jealous that you couldn’t spend time with your own boyfriend despite the fact that Luke and Jessica got together three months after you two did didn’t mean a thing. Not a single thing.
You masked your growing irritation well with your clients. After all, your performance margins had been going through the roof within the last six months. Your productivity has never been better, your clients have never been happier with your performance, and you have been churning out perfect match after match like you might as well have been Cupid himself.
Yet, you couldn’t find a single time for your own boyfriend.
When you had a free night, he didn’t. There was a dinner that he had to get to, one that required secrecy amongst government officials. You understood that. You didn’t hold that against him– especially not when he looked pained to tell you that you couldn’t join him when you offered to come with him the first time he said he had the work dinner. Because you didn’t mind joining him for work related activity. You just wanted to spend time with him, by his side.
But you were a fucking matchmaker. You didn’t have any business being in a government setting, and you knew that. He knew that. The entire government knew that.
Sometimes it wasn’t even dinner. Sometimes, he wasn’t even in the city. Or the state. Or even the fucking country. Bucky always let you know in advance when he had to travel for work, but there was usually never any chance for the two of you to meet for even a brief look at each other across the road. Just to see each other in person before he had to hop on the plane and head hours away from you.
On the rare occasions Bucky had a free night, you most certainly did not. You had a proposal to plan for. Not a policy or business proposal like he worked on. A marriage proposal. One that had you sneaking around parks in bushes, setting up trails of rose petals, hiring and arguing with musicians– things that you didn’t need your boyfriend around to trail you like a lost puppy asking you if there was something that you needed help with.
If it wasn’t a proposal, you had another work event. A client on the verge of a breakdown because their date cancelled on them, or some bullshit like that. You would be so close to finally being in your boyfriend’s arms, but you would have to cancel on your own lover to play therapist even though you were severely undereducated and underpaid for the position.
Bucky was understanding. Too understanding. So understanding that it made you want to bash your head into the wall.
The two of you had working hours that were strenuous, strange, and demanding.
Bucky hated his phone, but he still texted you often. Texted you good morning and good night every single day. He reminded you to eat at least twice a day knowing you were only running on the fuel of your own brain to make it through your work hours.
Absence definitely did not make the heart grow fonder. If anything, your heart was growing irritated. Angry. These happy couples around you were pissing you off.
Each and every single one of your clients that reported to you that they were falling in love with the person that you set them up with, was like another person setting you up for failure. You were a ticking time bomb just ready to explode, and the only one who would ever be able to defuse you is currently locked away in his office with his pretty fucking secretary that you know he doesn’t care about, but spends more time with than you do.
You’re not jealous of her perse.
You’ve seen them work together. It’s strictly professional. You don’t know if she has a boyfriend, and you don’t really care if she does or doesn’t– you trust Bucky, bottom line. He hasn’t given you a single reason to not trust him. You know he has eyes for you and you only. What you’re envious of is the time that she gets to have with him. She sees him every single day. She handles his schedule, hands him coffee, speaks to him face to face, sits with him during meetings, and discusses his fucking policies with him.
You’re jealous of the time that you don’t get to have with your own boyfriend. You haven’t seen him in over a week and a half by this point. Last time you saw him, it was for a brief lunch that lasted forty-two minutes before you both had to run into meetings. Before that, two weeks.
You scratch angrily into your notebook, then rip the page out. You crumple it up, throwing the wasted piece of paper into the bin with a frustrated groan before scrubbing a hand down your face.
The time on the clock reads 1:44am.
Bucky should be getting home by this time, you think. Your phone hasn’t rang otherwise. There’s no good night text yet.
This was easier before. Easier before you got so attached to him. Easier before your world got shifted on its axis, and started to rotate around him, just a little bit. Easier when you didn’t love the man so fucking much.
You couldn’t dwell on this though. Not when you had to go to sleep. You had somewhere to be tomorrow, and you couldn’t look like death itself. You sent off your own text to him, then let your sorrows and loneliness cuddle you to bed.
As much as you wanted to wait for him to text you back, you couldn’t. You had a battlefield to get to. A networking event. A bride to maybe convince that she wanted to marry her groom.
By the end of the wedding, your purse was full of business cards, and your lips were full of promises to call women on Monday to get them on your books as clients. Your face muscles hurt, your feet ached, and your heart was breaking.
Your phone was full of notifications, and not a single one of them was from your loving boyfriend. Did he get JFK’d somewhere? He couldn’t have. It would have been all over the news already if he did. Sam would have called you, too. Besides that, the serum in his veins would have him feeling the murderous intent from a thousand miles away.
You were pretty certain that he wasn’t joking when he said that he assassinated JFK, too. Except, you were drunk when he confessed that to you during a drinking game that you two were doing when you first started dating. You don’t know if you dreamt it. Bucky refuses to comment, like a true politician.
You make it through the rest of the wedding, get invited to the afterparty, decline, and step out into the street to wait for your Uber to arrive. A car pulls up to the curb that you know is not a silver hatchback like the app indicates, so you ignore it–
“What’s a pretty girl like you doing all alone on a Friday night?”
Your head snaps up at the voice. Bucky’s stepping out of the driver’s side, holding a colorful arrangement of fresh summer flowers for you, wrapped in kraft paper, tied off with a bow. He’s dressed in a formal suit– bowtie and everything. You vaguely remember him telling you that there was a gala event that was happening tonight the last time that you two had a chance to speak on the phone. He must have had a chance to slip away from there.
“Need a ride?” he asked, feet stopping just right before you.
You let out a laugh, looking up at him. You take a moment to admire him. Bucky’s smiling at you. There’s so much love in his eyes for you. There always is. In fact, it seemed as if there was more love there than there was than the last time he saw you. You were certain that there would be double the amount the next time you would meet.
“I have one,” you sighed, deciding to play coy with him. “Coming in about five more minutes.”
Bucky clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Five minutes? That’s too long. Shouldn’t make you wait out here for even a second.”
You couldn’t fight back the grin that makes its way onto your face. You close the remaining distance between the two of you, your hand resting on his chest as you lean upwards towards him to meet his lips. Bucky’s hand wraps around your back, holding you to him to stabilize you, a small sigh escaping through his nose.
“Hi, handsome,” you hummed, parting from him.
Your smile only widened a little more when Bucky chased after your lips instinctively, wanting more. Wanting another kiss. You gave him just a couple more pecks before you settled the heels of your shoes back onto the cement of the sidewalk. A laugh rumbled through you at the disappointed look on his face.
“How’d you know where my wedding was, Congressman?” you asked, looking back at your phone to cancel the ride.
“Oh you know. A birdie told me,” Bucky said, shrugging as he moved to open the passenger door for you.
“You had Redwing spy on me?’ you raised an eyebrow at him, stepping into the car..
“More like I had Sam send a trail on you tonight. Don’t know if he used Redwing,” he corrected, holding the flowers out for you to take.
You rolled your eyes at him as you took the bouquet. He was messing with you, and you knew it. You shared your location with him on your phone a long time ago, and he only just figured out how to use the function of it a few months back. He was even shocked to find out that there was such a feature so easily accessible on regular technology. Bucky even asked you if you had his location. You didn’t, and you told him that you didn’t want it. You figured he would be weirded out by that kind of stuff as a former spy, and you were right. He was more at ease after your reassurance.
However, he did enjoy the fact that he didn’t have to go through several satellite feeds and camera playbacks to find where you were.
In the car, the music is soft. Low. Something from the forties that you don’t really listen to unless you’re with Bucky. He’s tapping his finger on the steering wheel to the beat of the song, and you find yourself relaxing into the comfortable leather of the seat.
Neither of you are speaking, nor do you find the need to.
Bucky knows you. You’re exhausted after an event like this. He used to ask you how the job went, like a mission debrief. To you, it is a mission. This was your battlefield, and you just fought against enemies and kept your cool against a thousand different obstacles that could’ve made the mission go sideways.
He learned over time that you just wanted silence, the same way that he did. Bucky used to think that you wanted to talk after these events, which wasn’t totally wrong. You talked if the event went horribly wrong and you needed to vent your frustration out to someone that wouldn’t get you fired. You talked his ear off because you couldn’t say what you wanted to in front of your own clients.
Bucky misunderstood and thought you wanted to talk after every single event. Eventually, he realized that most of the time, you enjoyed the peace and quiet of a job well done. That you wanted to sit without having to force a smile anymore, to close your eyes, and feel the weight of his hand on your thigh comfortingly as he drove.
The sound of a text message coming through cut off the music momentarily. Your eyes cracked open, and on the center screen of Bucky’s dashboard, you saw there was a message from Bucky’s one and only friend.
Don’t Respond [12:08am]: Did she find out what you’re doing yet?
“What’s Sam talking about?” you asked, shifting to reach for Bucky’s phone that was in the cupholder.
Bucky was faster. His hand left your thigh, grabbing the device before you could. He looked at the small screen momentarily, taking his eyes off the road for just a second. Then, you watched as he long pressed the side of his phone, turning it off completely before putting it back in the cupholder.
“Nothing, sweetheart. I’ll text him back later,” Bucky said, giving you a smile before looking back at the road. His hand returned back to its rightful place on your thigh.
You stared at the side of his face, blinking at him. There was no more music in the car, since his phone was turned off. You were left in silence, just the low thrum of the engine and your thoughts being your only source of entertainment as Bucky turned into your apartment’s parking garage.
Bucky will text him back later? Bucky will text him back later?
No the fuck he won’t.
As much as Bucky loves new technology like a nerd loves Star Wars, he hates it all at the same time. He thinks it’s disgusting for any sane person to spend the amount of time they do glued to their phones willingly outside of educational and work purposes. He’s a man that had zero choice in life, and he prefers to see the world. If he has free time, there is no way in hell that he will waste it typing away on a tiny screen to text back anyone.
Except you, of course. He’ll only text and call you.
His reaction was even more strange. Bucky didn’t swat your hand away or anything like that. He didn’t scramble to get to his phone before you did– but he did react. He didn’t answer you. He deflected. He’s always answered your questions to the fullest.
Besides that, this wasn’t anything new between the two of you. You always texted Sam back through Bucky’s phone. When Sam texted, you would read it out loud, Bucky would answer, and you would type what Bucky said, but in a nicer… less aggressive way. In fact, 99% of the conversations Bucky had with Sam through text was done by you. Sam still did not know of that fact, and you were not going to be the one to tell him.
You’re still reeling in your own thoughts by the time you get to your apartment.
You shove your downward spiral for just a moment to accept Bucky’s extremely tempting offer to shower together– which is never anything sexual.
Bucky enjoys the intimacy of being able to hold you, bare, and help you get cleaned from your day. It’s one of his favorite things to do. You revel in the way he takes his time, hands scrubbing at your scalp slowly to lather up the shampoo. He’ll ensure that not a single part of your body goes untouched.
You do the same for him. You take great care in every part of his body. You remember the first time you touched his scars– paid close attention to them. It looked self-inflicted. Nothing like a surgery or done by doctors or scientists, like how he said the arm was attached to him. When you saw his face, you knew you were right.
Every once in a while, you can still see the dark shadow casting over his eyes when your hands run over his shoulders. You simply move to kiss against the scars to quietly remind him that you aren’t afraid of him, and you watch as the shadows fall mercy to the light.
You finish your own skincare routine faster than he does, as per usual.
“I don’t understand why the hell I have to do this, doll,” he grumbled as you left the bathroom. “I’m over a century old.”
“And I’m trying to make sure that you don’t look like it,” you replied over your shoulder.
Bucky huffed, but continued with the routine that you strictly put him on. He complained, but he never went against your words. You knew that he was still following it even when he wasn’t spending the night at your place, too. He’s always been a handsome man, but you would say that he’s been leveled up even more since you came around.
While he’s distracted, you move towards his bag.
You don’t distrust him, but you’re not stupid either. Turning off his phone, saying things out of character– yeah. Something is different. What’s even weirder is that he doesn’t have any of his usual things with him. There’s only his laptop. He doesn’t have any of his regular written notebooks or calendars that he usually carries around with him. The man loves his written, visual items. He likes to flip through pages and see things with his own eyes, to be able to edit with a pen instead of a tap of his fingers.
You hear the last cap of the bottle close, and shut his bag. You’re only left with more questions as you move his bag towards the hanger where your own purses hang.
“Ah– sorry,” Bucky apologized, seeing you move his stuff.
“It’s alright,” you hummed, thankful you were able to play off your snooping.
The two of you move towards your bed, sliding under the sheets. You settled into his arms naturally, assuming the position that the two of you had found most comfortable in the almost two years of dating. Your head rested on his bicep like it was a pillow, his metal arm coming around you to wrap around your waist to keep you cool against his furnace of a body.
“You ever respond to Sam?” you whispered into his chest, closing your eyes to snuggle closer into him.
“Fuck,” Bucky groaned, moving to grab his phone from the nightstand behind him. You immediately shifted, just slightly– to try and see the screen.
But so did he.
With one hand, he angled his phone so that it was distorted. The brightness was down low enough that you weren’t able to properly see the messages between both men. However, you saw him silence the chat. You saw the swipe of his thumb, and the icon that signified a silenced message.
Then, Bucky put his phone face down on the nightstand before returning to you.
“Good night, doll,” he murmured to you, hand moving to tilt your head up to him. He kissed you once, twice, a third time before settling back against the pillow. “I love you.”
“Night,” you whispered back, though your mind was everything but asleep. Suspicion was creeping up on you. You could feel it– the sign of something coming. You pushed your gut feeling down. “I love you, too.”
Bucky ❤︎ [2:48pm]: What days do you think are your most free days right now?
You paused, staring at the text on your screen. This is different. This isn’t a text that you normally received from Bucky. Especially not in the middle of the work day, either. Momentarily, you want to entertain the idea that someone stole his phone, but you were certain that someone would be injured or dying if they even got close to ever trying to rob Bucky.
Me [2:50pm]: Are you asking me on a date, Congressman?
Bucky ❤︎ [2:53pm]: I’m trying to plan one instead of our random spontaneous ones, yes. Can you let me know what days work best for you so I can look at my calendar?
Last time he ‘planned’ a date, the two of you went to Romania for your first year anniversary for a week. You didn’t even realize that’s what he meant by planning a date until you were at the fucking airport with no luggage. Except he packed for you, had your passport, and everything else you could possibly need. You were just completely oblivious to the entire thing.
Me [2:54pm]: Is this a trip kinda date?
Bucky ❤︎ [2:55pm]: No, but I do need two days of your time.
Me [2:56pm]: You’re asking for a lot, handsome.
Bucky ❤︎ [3:01pm]: I promise I’ll be worth it.
You smile at your phone at his words. Of course he’ll be worth it. You take a moment to go through your calendar, flipping back and forth between all your different events. You cross check between client meetings, event plannings, meetings with your coworkers and boss, and then text him back with your response.
Me [3:12pm]: Weekends are really bad right now. Mondays, too. Wednesdays are also surprisingly bad… Tuesdays and Thursdays are the best. Fridays are a hit and miss.
Bucky ❤︎ [3:25pm]: Tuesdays are bad for me. Rep. dinners on Tuesday nights and Wednesday morning debriefs. Can you block out Thursday and Friday for me two months from now? The 17th and 18th. I’ll give you more details about our date when it comes closer.
Two months? That’s more than enough time to block out. You’ll even take the weekend off for good measure, just in case. Still, two months is a long time to prepare for just a date. You can’t help but tease him a little bit.
Me [3:27pm]: You don’t plan on seeing me for two months? :(
Bucky ❤︎ [3:30pm]: You’re funny. We’ll still have our random and spontaneous dates. Like tonight. I’m picking you up for dinner. Don’t call a ride after work.
Excitement flutters in your chest. You saw him four days ago, but you’re still happy.
Time is thankfully on your side today, and he’s waiting for you outside your company’s building. You’re starved for food, for his affection, attention, and everything in between.
Except all of that dies once his phone rings in the middle of dinner. Bucky silences it, and you see the screen. It has a name that you don’t recognize, then his phone goes faced down onto the table. A few moments later, it buzzes, indicating there was a voicemail left. Bucky swipes the device, pocketing it safely away.
You’re really trying to not let this bother you. But change doesn’t just happen overnight, and this is Bucky’s personal phone. This isn’t even his work phone. He leaves his work phone in his bag, permanently silenced when he’s not working. This is his phone that he carries with him that he purposely ignores, that is only supposed to have two contacts in it– yours and Sams.
Bucky drove back to your apartment, even though his apartment is closer to the restaurant that he chose for the two of you to eat at tonight.
You’re lying awake in his arms that night, listening to the sounds of Bucky’s soft snores as he sleeps beside you. It took him a long time to be able to sleep first between the two of you. You used to see how long you could stay up, to see if you could fall asleep after him. The first time he fell asleep on your lap, you almost cried.
Now, you’re staring at his sleeping face wondering if he thinks you’re a fucking idiot.
The signs are right there. All the blaring signs are screaming in your face, loud and angry. The hidden phone screen, calls, and texts. Hiding his calendar, and all his written notes from you. The sudden trip planning, even though there was nothing special about two months from now. Two months was your twenty third month together. Not even the second year anniversary.
Yeah, Bucky thought you were stupid.
The biggest sign? You’re currently sleeping in your own bed, and not in his. He’s hiding something in his apartment that he doesn’t want you to find—
An engagement ring.
You go through Bucky’s drawers like those are your own clothes to wear because they are, and he loves to see you in his shirts. You once spent an entire weekend properly organizing his apartment in a way that made sense because his junk drawer consisted of bullets and lego pieces from when Sam’s nephews came over.
You once found guns and daggers in his apartment just by dropping pens and searching for them. There’s absolutely no way that Bucky can hide a velvet box anywhere in his apartment from you that you won’t accidentally stumble across. Hell– you found a loaded nine millimeter in your own apartment, and asked what the hell it was doing there.
“Safety,” is all he answered with.
This was your job. This is what you did for a living. You helped other boyfriends hide proposals from girlfriends like this. This is exactly what you did– this is how you told them to do it, though you were a little more slick with it. You definitely made sure your clients weren’t hiding their phones from their potential fiance’s, that’s for sure.
You made sure that your clients did not know that they were being proposed to. It was your mission, honestly. You saw enough of those TikTok’s where women truly had that gut feeling where they knew it was happening. You refused. It needed to be a surprise. You scouted out every single person in your client’s lives to ensure that every single moment would come to be a surprise. From ensuring that their nails would be done to the ring itself- everything would be perfect.
Your boyfriend of almost two years was planning on proposing to you in two months, and he thought you wouldn’t find out? Jesus Christ– what were you going to do with him?
Marry him, you supposed.
If you were anyone else, if you were any less stable in your emotions, you would’ve thought he was cheating on you. Hiding his phone definitely made your eyebrow twitch for half a second, if you were being honest. Thankfully, you were able to maintain a rational and sane mind.
Sane was an overstatement. You were now planning an entire wedding in your head without the engagement ring on your finger. You were anything but sane. Insanity was taking over every single cell in your brain as you stared at Bucky, imagining your future. The thought made you extremely giddy.
A smile crept up on the corner of your lips as you moved into the warmth of his embrace. His arms tightened around you instinctively, and he let out a soft, contented sigh.
You can’t keep it to yourself as the date starts coming closer and closer.
Mel, who has graduated as your client and now has become your friend, is sitting in your apartment, telling you about her most recent date with her boyfriend of six months. Not in a way that she would when you were her matchmaker, but as friends would. You find yourself liking this arrangement much, much more.
“Enough about me though,” she grinned, swirling the wine in her glass. “Tell me about you and Bucky. How are things going?”
“You really wanna talk about the guy that your boss hates?” you asked, raising an eyebrow at her as you take a sip out of your own glass.
“I can separate work from girl talk,” Mel said, smiling at you.
“Well,” you said, smiling at her, “If you’re free the rest of the evening, I was wondering if you wanted to get your nails done with me?”
“Nails?” Mel repeated, raising her eyebrows at you as she brought the glass to her lips.
“Yeah,” you nodded. “I think Bucky’s gonna propose to me on Thursday.”
Her eyes widened as she choked on her wine, the alcohol spluttering back into the glass. You couldn’t hold back a laugh before you jumped to your feet. You turned, rushing to grab paper towels from your kitchen to wipe off her face before it dripped, and stained her clothes.
“Shit– shit! I’m so sorry,” she coughed, patting her face.
“It’s okay,” you said between laughter, desperately trying to compose yourself. “Do you– do you want more wine?”
“Do I want– No! What? We need to go to the salon now! One of us needs to drive! Why the hell don’t you have a car again?!”
“Uh… I just… order a ride everywhere, or Bucky drives me,” you answered her, sheepish. “I’ll just order us a ride, we’ve both had a glass already. We don’t need to drive there, Mel.”
“Must be nice–”
A knock on your door makes you both pause. You move, going to check the peephole and find your boyfriend standing there with a box in his hands. You rip the door open, shocked.
“Bucky?” you asked, surprised. “Don’t you have a dinner to get to soon? It’s Tuesday.”
“Yes, but I wanted to drop this off to you,” he said, giving you a smile. He leaned over the box, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. “Just a present. Saw it, thought it would look nice on you.”
“What is it?” you asked as he transferred over the gift box to you.
“A dress,” he shrugged. “What are you up to today?”
“Mel’s here,” you said, opening the door further so he could see her. He looked past you, giving her a small wave that you’re certain that she returned back. “We’re about to go get our nails done. I was about to order a ride.”
“Oh? Don’t do that. I’ll just drop you two off. You’ll go the place you always do, right? It’s on the way to the dining hall,” he said.
“What? I don’t want you to be late,” you said, frowning at him.
“It’s fine,” Bucky insisted, shaking his head. “They can start without me. Talbot is late more than a few times anyways.”
“It’s true,” Mel said from behind you. You turned around to look at her, finding that she was gathering her jacket and purse. “Talbot is always late.”
“See? Thank you, Mel.” There’s a bit of a gloating tone to his voice that makes you smack his arm. Bucky chuckled in response, a smile settling over his face. “Come on now, grab your stuff so we can get down to the car so I’m not too late for the meeting.”
You sighed, knowing that you wouldn’t be able to change his mind and get him to leave you. You put the box on the counter to inspect once you return later, and snatch your purse from where it’s resting on the table. Both you and Mel follow Bucky down to the car. He holds open the back door for both of you to climb into the backseat like he’s your chauffeur, and not your boyfriend.
Bucky drives in silence, you and Mel scrolling through pinterest hurriedly during the car ride for inspiration pictures for your nails while trying to be subtle about the fact that you know that you’re getting proposed to. Your boyfriend doesn’t seem to notice that you know, though.
Once he pulls up to the salon, Mel thanks him for the ride and slides out. You lean over the console to give him a kiss, and he grabs your hand, stopping you.
His card is slid into your palm, and his lips are pressed against your knuckles.
“I’ll pay for you and Mel,” he said, giving you one more smile.
You want to race down the aisle right at that moment.
Instead, you get your nails done with Mel, swallow down butterflies that are forcing their way up your throat, and get to the restaurant that Bucky told you to meet him at while he runs late at his last meeting before your date.
It’s a beautiful skyline restaurant in the middle of New York that your own company can’t even secure a date at. You’ve tried multiple times. In fact, your own clients have wanted to get proposals done at this restaurant. It just couldn’t be done. Reservations were booked out at least a year in advance, and somehow Bucky was able to secure the two of you a spot with two months to spare.
There’s live music playing here by world renowned musicians. The chefs are even more well known. The lighting was low so that it wouldn’t take away from the view outside the windows. The time of night that Bucky chose was perfect– New York was lit up like stars on the ground from the table that you were sitting at.
You were dressed in the gift Bucky bought for you. A backless, square neckline gown. The straps came up and wrapped around your neck like a halter top would, and tied around the back in a thin bow, the long straps kissing down your bare spine. It was soft and airy against your skin.
Bucky arrived earlier than you expected, but you were sure he was still later than he wanted to be. Either way, he still had another bouquet of fresh flowers in his hands for you that you two had placed under the table. Of course, he didn’t take a seat before giving you a kiss for a greeting, and murmuring his apology for not being able to pick you up.
“You look beautiful,” he said, smiling at you. “I didn’t think you would wear it tonight.”
“I thought you bought it for me to wear tonight?” you asked as he placed the flowers under the table. You watched as he sat down across from you.
“Mm… Well, I bought it for you to wear,” he said, reaching his hand across the table. You easily slipped your hand into his, watching him bring your hand to his lips to press a kiss to your knuckles. “When you wear it doesn’t matter to me. I just wanted to get you a present.”
“A present?” you echoed, unable to stop smiling. “Even though you already do so much for me?”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t want to do more for you, sweetheart,” he hummed.
The waiter came by not a moment later, letting you know that the first course would be coming out momentarily. You both thanked him, and returned back to each other.
“I feel like I don’t see you as much these days,” Bucky said, thumbs brushing over your knuckles.
“It’s been really busy for the two of us,” you agreed, releasing a soft sigh.
“I even contemplated hiring you as a matchmaker again, just so I could block out meetings and have you in my office again,” he joked, making you laugh.
“That would be fraudulent, Congressman,” you teased, shaking your head. “For you and me.”
“What are they gonna do? Threaten to fire you again?”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face is firmly planted, and isn’t moving anytime soon.
“You know our dates don’t always have to be somewhere big or fancy, right?” you tell him, your voice softer.
“So you keep telling me,” he hummed, squeezing your hand a little bit. “I know, sweetheart. You said this to me. Several times. I just want to do this for you. For me, too.”
You soften a little bit at his words. You’re gently reminded of a previous confession he told you from when you first started dating.
You told him that you were more than happy to just get takeout with him on busier days. To get fast food or something quick, if it meant that you two would have more time to spend together. You didn’t always have to sit down and eat somewhere nice. He said that he knew that, and he liked doing that, too. But as a kid in the forties, he always wanted to be the kind of man that was able to spoil his girl rotten– to bring his woman to the best places and sign the check without batting an eye.
This kind of thing was healing for him, too.
“We can get burgers tomorrow,” Bucky said, giving you a smile.
“Deal,” you grinned at him.
The first course of your meal was brought out to the two of you. You two never spoke about work over food. It was your rule. You talked about everything else. Sam. Mel. Your parents and siblings. The conversation Bucky overheard while he was in line getting coffee the other day.
There was always a lot to talk about when you two never saw each other. Then again, you were certain that you would ever run out of words even if you spent every waking moment with him. If there ever came to be a time when that was the case, you were more than happy to spend the rest of eternity in a peaceful silence with him, as long as you were able to hold him.
Topics never ran dry between the two of you. More than once, you two needed to remind yourselves to shut the fuck up in this fancy establishment because there were sophisticated people around you having very nice meals.
“I’ll book a private room next time,” Bucky said under his breath.
“I don’t think they’ll let us come back, babe,” you whispered between soft, gasping laughs. “The host is glaring at us.”
That only made Bucky snort, which made you have to cover your own mouth in return before another fit of giggles wrecked through your body. It took everything in the both of you to compose yourselves before dessert was brought out.
Once your table was cleared off, and you were left with just your wine glasses and the centerpiece on the table, you and Bucky smiled at each other. You were strangely reminded of your first date with him. So you told him that.
“This reminds you of our first date?” he said, his nose crinkling just slightly. “How so?”
“Mm… The ambiance,” you said, shrugging just a bit. You rested your chin in your palm. “You. Me.”
“It’s always you and me on our dates, sweethearts. Who else would it be?” he sarcastically joked, rolling his eyes at you.
“You know what I mean,” you scoffed at him, watching him smile a bit. “I just… feel a bit nostalgic. Just a… who knew, kinda thing.”
“I knew,” Bucky said, making you pause for a second.
“You knew?” you repeated his words, raising an eyebrow at him. Your heart picked up speed just a little bit. This felt like the start of a speech– the start to the speech.
Bucky cleared his throat, and your chest grew tighter at the sound. He shifted in his seat, and you watched as his hand dipped into his pocket. Oh, shit. It’s coming. Your eyes shot back to his face, and your mouth went dry.
“I thought you were the matchmaker, sweetheart. You didn’t know that we would end up together?” he clicked his tongue at you. “I knew I couldn’t trust a matchmaker that didn’t have a boyfriend of her own.”
“I have a boyfriend now, don’t I?” you asked, but thought– Not for long.
He smiled, eyes meeting yours. Then, a velvet box is produced. Placed right on the table in front of you. You can’t bring yourself to look down at it, not when Bucky is still looking at you.
“I want to spend the rest of my days with you. And it’s getting really fucking hard when I can’t see you all the time because we both live on opposite sides of the city, and have awful work schedules that keep us apart. Even so, I love you so much and I can’t imagine being with anyone else,” he confessed to you. Bucky takes in a deep breath that slightly shakes before he whispers out your name, nervous, “Will you move in with me?”
You freeze.
What the fuck?
“Move in with you?” you echoed, blinking.
Bucky opens the box. It’s a key. A shiny, silver key.
“I bought a penthouse in Manhattan,” Bucky said, sliding the box over to you to inspect the key even closer. “I want to see you more often. Not just the random dates when we both have time– I want to sleep next to you every night, and wake up to you in the mornings.”
“A penthouse… In Manhattan,” you said slowly.
Your brain was short circuiting. In fact, it was fried. Gone. You were still staring at the key, lips parted. He… wasn’t proposing to you tonight?
“I’m sorry. Am I– Are we moving too fast?” Bucky suddenly asked you, and you could hear the panic in his voice.
Your head snapped up to look at him. His eyebrows were furrowed in worry, eyes scanning all over your face. You slapped yourself mentally. You could only imagine how you looked just now– staring at him and the key with a blank look on your face, and giving him no answer.
“What? No! No, Bucky– we’re not moving too fast at all,” you reassured him, hands darting across the table to take his hands in yours. “Most couples our age move in together by the first year or so. Mel and her boyfriend are already planning on moving in together when Mel’s lease breaks in a couple months.”
Bucky lets out a breath of relief, and you watch as his shoulders drop. You feel guilt surge through you at the pure stress that is released from his body at that moment.
“God– I just… You know, the penthouse… It’s fully furnished. I’ve been– Sam has been helping me out, actually. He helped me meet with some realtors, get the place fully furnished and decorated,” Bucky said, dragging a hand down his face. “I’ve been living there for the past two and a half months while waiting for all the furniture to come in, and it’s finally all finished as of yesterday and it never occurred to me that you could possibly say no until just now.”
“You’ve been– Is that why you take me back to my apartment after our dates? Instead of yours?” you asked, surprised.
“I already got rid of my other place, sweetheart,” he said, giving you a small, anxious smile. You can see him bouncing his leg up and down just slightly. “Got the penthouse so that we could have enough space for your stuff and mine.”
“You took me out to a fancy dinner, and prepared a speech for me to ask me to move in with you?” you whispered, your heart feeling fuller by the minute.
“I grew up in a time where couples didn’t move in together until after they were married, doll,” Bucky reminded you, his voice small and soft.
You’re speechless, for just a moment. You take your eyes off of him, to look down at the key in the box, a smile finding its way on your face. You look back up at him, watching as he mirrors your own smile.
“I think it’s time to head home, Congressman.”
Bucky trails behind you quietly as you step into the penthouse. The elevator directly leads to your home– something that you had only ever seen in movies before. You barely took a step into the rest of the home before you were running numbers into your head.
“What’s my share of the bills?” you asked, heart racing as you look up at the high ceilings. “And don’t you dare tell me not to worry about it, Bucky. If we’re living together, then we’re splitting bills. I don’t care that you make more money than me–”
“We’ll talk about finances later, baby,” he cut you off, hands rubbing your shoulders to soothe you. “We’ll split it equally based on our incomes. Just go explore for right now.”
“I don’t know if I can afford this, Bucky,” you said, turning around to look at him. You were freaking out.
“Your salary was put into play when I got this place,” he said, cradling your face. “Sam and I met with the banks. We met with financial advisors to ensure that this would be feasible for both you and me. Please don’t ask how we got your information.”
“Is there a loan–”
“There’s no loan,” he assured you. “Do you trust me?”
“I do,” you answered instantly.
Bucky gave you a smile, then pressed a kiss to your lips. You melted into his embrace, feeling your worries wash away with just one touch. He wrapped his arms around you, rubbing your back comfortingly. When he pulled away, another kiss was pressed to your forehead.
“I’ll give you all the documents later to look over. If you still hate it, then we’ll break the lease, and we’ll find somewhere else. I don’t care where we live. I just want to be somewhere that’s with you,” he promised.
“Okay,” you breathed, nodding.
Bucky’s hands leave your body, and he steps away from you. He’s quietly urging you to take a look around.
You had two floors to explore. The elevator opened up the first floor, where there was an open concept condo. You were staring at a living room, kitchen, floor to ceiling windows, and there were built-in shelves on the wall that held Bucky’s books– and had empty spaces for your own books. Down here, there were two doors– one leading to a half bath and the other leading to a home office.
You saw two desks, separated by a bookshelf. Bucky’s desk was already occupied with his things, while yours was empty and waiting to be used. On the shelf were pictures and other momentos collected by Bucky over the duration of your relationship so far. There was space for you to decorate with whatever you pleased. On the other end of the room was a daybed and some other furniture to cozy up the area.
Upstairs, there was a platform for another lounge area. Also furnished to hang out in case the two of you ever had any guests come over. Here, your bedroom was behind a closed door.
A king sized bed was in the middle of the room, along with two nightstands on either side of it. There was a full walk in closet, Bucky already having his stuff hanging on his side with yours waiting to be filled. The windows are touching the floor just like they are outside, and Bucky has the curtains pulled back so you can see the city lights from your bedroom window.
“What if I get fired?” you whispered, Bucky’s arms wrapping around your waist from behind. “I won’t be able to pay my share of the bills.”
“I’ll pay then,” he said, pressing kisses to your bare shoulder and neck.
“What if you get fired? Or what if you quit? Join Sam and return back to action?” you asked, heart racing.
Bucky chuckled against your neck, squeezing you against him.
“Iron Man’s late wife donates a large portion every year to the heroes that do the work. If that’s me, then we’ll be fine,” he promised you. “It’s how Sam gets paid right now.”
“Oh,” you breathed, nodding a little dumbly. You tilted your head to the side, allowing him more access to more skin. You felt him smile against you.
“You like the place then?”
“I can’t believe you hid this from me.”
“I hide you from the entire American government so you can continue to walk the streets of New York without being asked about politics that you don’t care about. I hid Romania from you. I think I can hide an apartment,” he listed off, scoffing softly at the end.
All of your hair is gathered in one of his hands to get it out of his way as he continues to press dizzying, nipping kisses against your body.
“A penthouse,” you managed to correct.
“Same thing,” he muttered, and you felt him tug on the string of your dress. A moment later, the soft fabric was sliding down your body, and pooling at your feet, “C’mon, sweetheart. We gotta christen the place.”
You’re being turned around to face him, and your arms move to slide up his chest and wrap around his neck. Bucky’s lips met yours in an opened mouthed kiss halfway, tongue gliding over yours easily.
Your eyes fluttered shut, and you sighed into his mouth, feeling his hands glide up and down the sides of your body. Something about him being fully dressed, and you with nearly nothing at all did something to the both of you.
Your fingers grabbed onto the collar of his dress shirt, tugging him into a deeper, needier kiss. Bucky groaned into your mouth in response, hands finding purchase on the flesh of your ass. His fingers dug into the supple skin, making you moan softly as he groped you.
Your boyfriend gently pushed you until your back was pressed against the window. Once you were situated where he wanted you, Bucky parted from your lips, only to attach himself to your neck once again. He kept shifting, moving down to your collarbones, your chest, your sternum. Lower.
You watched helplessly, every inch of you thrumming with desire and need as Bucky slowly shifted to his knees in front of you. His hands moved down your body, dragging your underwear down your legs as he positioned himself to sit back on his feet, thighs spread just a bit for comfort. You’re certain your breathing was erratic as you stared at him.
Usually, you were the one on your knees for Bucky. This was different– this was new. You were more than certain that you would still be the one at his mercy.
“Don’t your feet hurt in these heels?” Bucky asked, hand closing around one of your ankles to lift your foot off the ground slightly. “They look uncomfortable. Very tall.”
“It’s not too bad,” you whispered, unable to trust your voice to speak any louder. “I like these shoes.”
“I bought them for you,” he said, tilting his head as he examined the design a little closer.
“That’s why I like them,” you murmured.
Bucky chuckled just a little bit, shaking his head. He moved slowly on purpose, undoing the strap around your ankle and slowly pulling it off of your foot like you were some sort of princess. He gently led your foot back down to the floor, keeping an eye on your posture to make sure you didn’t suddenly fall from the shift in height. When he was certain that you were stable, he switched over to the next foot, repeating the same process.
Except, he didn’t put your foot back onto the ground. Bucky lifted your leg higher, pressing a kiss to the inside of your ankle, eyes closing as he did. When they opened, he met your gaze, never looking away as his kisses went higher and higher up your leg. He settled your knee to hook around his shoulder, moving to fully kneel before you as his hands went to grab your waist, keeping you pressed against the glass behind you. A firm, tight grip.
You wouldn’t be able to run from whatever he was about to do to you. Not that you would ever want to.
If he wasn’t holding you up, you were certain you would’ve folded over and collapsed the second his tongue met your heat. The vibrations from the groan sent shockwaves through your entire body that made you tremble above him, hands darting to grab onto his shoulders for an extra form of stability as his tongue parted your folds and flattened against you.
“Shit, Bucky,” you moaned, your mind going blank. All you could feel was him.
His tongue dipping just slightly in and out of your aching hole, only to drag up to your sensitive clit to swirl figure eights around the nub. Bucky’s hands on your torso, his thumbs drawing circles into your skin to soothe you against the stimulation he was giving you. The heat of his body radiating against yours from where he was positioned beneath you.
“Your pussy is squeezing around nothing, baby,” he murmured, pulling away from your core for just a moment, a whine ripping through your throat in response. Bucky clicked his tongue at you, and kissed the inside of your thigh to subdue you. “Have I been neglecting you? Not fucking you enough for you to be so needy?”
Definitely not. Maybe it was the fact that everything was crashing down on you. The fact Bucky went so far to secure the two of you an entire home without you knowing, furnishing the whole place, meeting with financial advisors– all of it made you incredibly desperate for him.
It was like that one time when you watched him do the dishes for the first time at the beginning of your relationship. He was at your apartment, doing your dishes that you were too lazy to do before he came over. You don’t know what the hell happened to you at that moment, but you just watched him. The second the water turned off, you were unzipping his pants and giving him head. It confused him, but he also wasn’t complaining.
“I’m always needy for you,” you barely managed to answer him.
Bucky’s lips parted, eyes scanning your figure above him for a few moments. Then, one of his hands left your waist, and two fingers were shoved into you without a single warning.
A moan ripped through your throat, and you weren’t given a chance to even recover before his mouth was back on your clit, sucking and flicking at the sensitive nub. His fingers entered and exited you at a delicious speed, and he could feel you coming apart around him. Your body was beginning to tremble, walls beginning to shake– and he curled his fingers the way he knew you liked.
You came undone, Bucky’s hand moving to press against your stomach to keep you from collapsing forward. Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths as you whimpered his name, tugging on his hair weakly to pull away from your overstimulated body.
Reluctantly, he released you. Bucky’s hands never left you as he stood, keeping you upright. Your legs were still shaking when you had both feet on the ground, but fuck if you were going to let Bucky stay dressed.
You had every intention of returning the favor once Bucky was just as bare as you were. Bucky saw it in your eyes, too. The way your gaze dropped down his torso to his cock that was stiff and high up against his stomach, waiting for you. You barely moved your hair to the side before you were being spun back around, chest pressed to the glass– eyes to the view of the New York city skyline.
“Next time, doll,” he promised, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade that made you shiver. You let out a small moan as you felt him drag the length of his dick through your folds, coating himself in your slick to get him ready to enter. “Gotta be inside you right now or I might go insane.”
“Hurry up, then,” you whined to him, pressing your ass back further into him. A mistake, and you knew it. Not that it really was a mistake on your end though.
His hand came around from your stomach, gripping your throat and jaw, pulling you back into him. Your back was arched, hands resting on the glass for some sort of security in the position he had you in. Bucky forced your head to turn, to look at him.
Bucky wanted to watch your face contort with pleasure as he finally slid in, watch as you fell apart as he speared you full with his cock. There was a look of satisfaction and fucking arrogance in his eyes with the way your mouth fell open in a noiseless moan. Bucky took advantage of it, shoving his tongue into your mouth to swallow up any of the noises that he knew would start coming once his hips started moving.
You couldn’t keep up– not with his kiss, not with the pacing– not with anything that was happening right now. His hips were snapping into yours at such a brutal pace, his metal hand gripping your hip to keep you in place, and you barely managed to pull away from his lips to breathe.
“So good– so good,” he groaned as you turned back to the glass, chin falling to your chest for a moment as you moaned in response.
Bucky didn’t let your head hang for too much longer. He pulled your head back up to look out the window, and you could feel his breath against your ear as he continued to pound his hips from behind you.
“Isn’t the view so nice, baby?” he whispered to you.
“Wh… what?” you moaned, mind spiraling for just a moment.
“It’s so nice,” he continued, grunting behind you, “I know your pussy loves it– loves it when I fuck you in front of all of New York to see.”
Excitement shoots through you, and you unexpectedly clamped around him. Bucky’s hips stuttered as he cursed softly. You were close– again– and Bucky wasn’t making this any better for you. Then again, you almost just brought Bucky over the edge with you.
“Shit. I knew you were a fucking freak when you tried giving me head in front of my coworkers,” Bucky muttered, a small laugh falling from his lips.
“Bucky,” you whimpered. “I’m so close–”
“It’s too bad. New York can’t have you,” he cut you off, pulling out of you.
The sense of loss is immediate, but not for long. Once more, he’s spinning you around. This time, he’s hoisting you up like you weigh nothing at all. Your legs are wrapping around his waist immediately, and he’s sinking you back down on his length within seconds.
Your lips are collided with Bucky as he’s fucking you against the window now, holding you up in his arms as you hang onto him for dear life. Your fingernails are digging into the muscles of his shoulders, scratching down his chest in a way that he once admitted that he loves, and you’re moaning into each other’s mouths.
The thrusts are growing sloppier as the kiss grows messier– there’s no need for words between the two of you anymore. You both know your tells at this point.
Bucky angles his hips just slightly to hit that one spot in you, forcing you over the edge as his own orgasm threatens to take him. Your body seizes, and you can’t kiss him back anymore. Bucky busies himself with your neck, leaving marks on your skin as he fucks you through your high, chasing his own that comes just moments later, coating your walls and dripping down onto the new floors of your new room together.
You’re still panting and trying to catch your breath, head dropped onto his shoulder when Bucky moves, carrying you to the bathroom to clean up. His kisses are softer as he walks over, his words more gentle. His body separates from yours as he rests you on the edge of the bathtub so he can start the water to fill the tub.
“How’s the view?” Bucky asked you, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
A soft laugh rips through you, and you can feel him smile against your skin.
“The view is perfect, handsome.”
You didn’t find a single number out of place in the documents he presented you either. You took an entire weekend going over the numbers while Bucky watched you quietly. He didn’t bother you while you did so. In fact, he just stayed nearby and took the days off work, too. Bucky answered any questions that you possibly could’ve had for him, already knowing what you would’ve thrown his way.
Which only made your heart grow fonder for him, if you were being honest. He knew you like the back of his hand.
Once you were satisfied with everything, he helped you move all your stuff from your previous apartment over to your new home. Bucky timed the move in perfectly– your lease was about to break the following month, so you had just the right amount of time to tie up all your loose ends.
All you really had to move over to the new place was your wardrobe, books, and sentimentals. You found out very quickly that during your random dates where Bucky would come home with you, he started taking stock of all your little things around the house. Anything that was running low, he just went ahead and bought so it was already at your new home, ready for you to use.
The last couple weeks were spent with you listing all your unneeded furniture up on the marketplace for an extra few bucks. Things like your dining table, sofa, coffee table– everything that Bucky had already bought and decorated for your home together.
“You know this couch?” Sam asked you as he flopped down on it. “And the coffee table? The rug? Those barstools? The fucking light fixtures?”
You and Bucky invited him and his girlfriend over for dinner for a small celebration– a little get together to commemorate the fact that you and Bucky were officially fully moved in together now.
“What about it?” you asked, handing him a bottle of beer.
“I picked it. Me. Bucky just swiped his card. You’re so fucking lucky, matchmaker. Your boyfriend sucks. If I wasn’t there– shit. You would’ve had clashing colors and patterns in this luxury penthouse,” Sam scoffed, taking a long swig. “I had a fucking headache just standing there. The sales associate thought we were married the way I was arguing with him in the store.”
“You two basically are,” you said, grinning against the rim of your own bottle.
“Don’t say that,” Bucky muttered, a shudder running through his body. “I’d rather die than spend the rest of my life with that idiot.”
“God, I’m glad we agree,” Sam groaned, shaking his head.
“We picked more neutral stuff,” Bucky told you, sitting beside you on the couch. An arm draped over your shoulders, pulling you into his warmth. “We thought it would be easier for you to add whatever additions or colors you’d want in the future.”
“Oh, so you did think about me when you purchased an entire penthouse and furnished the whole damn thing without telling me,” you teased.
Bucky rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t fight the smile on his face. “Yes, sweetheart. I thought of you.”
With the two of you living together now, it was easier for you both to see each other. You reveled in the fact you could fall asleep every night in his arms, even if you went to bed first. He didn’t want you waiting for him if he had an event that had him staying out late, but you would often wake up to him pulling you into his embrace.
In the mornings, Bucky would usually be the one to wake up and leave first.
You no longer set an alarm on your phone. Bucky’s sweet kisses were your wake up call every morning. He wouldn’t leave until you kissed him back, no matter how long it took you to wake up.
“Morning,” you would whisper to him.
“Morning,” he’d reply, kissing you one more time for good measure. “I made you breakfast. It’s on the table.”
“Wake me up earlier tomorrow so I can eat with you,” you whined to him, though you just rolled over on your side, closing your eyes again.
Bucky chuckled, leaning over your body to press a kiss to your temple. You sighed, letting the morning wash over you for just one more moment before you pushed up off the bed. You’d follow him downstairs, watch him grab his blazer off the seat of the dining table, and you’d tie his tie for him at the door.
“I’ll be home early tonight. I don’t have any events today,” you said, smoothing out the fabric on his chest.
“You’ve been coming home early every night,” he said, raising his eyebrow at you.
“So have you, Congressman. Almost like there’s something you’re running from. Something you’re avoiding at work?” you teased, smiling at him.
“No. Just trying to get home to you,” he hummed, smoothing out your bedhead with both hands before he held your face gently to kiss you one more time before he went off into the world.
This was your new daily morning routine.
The trade off on coming home early meant that you still had to do work when you came home. Both of you. However, Bucky seemed to plan for that, which is why he had a room specifically made for a home office for the two of you.
You two would spend your evenings there before dinner for a few hours, finishing up any work that you weren’t able to do at your respective offices. You two would be silently working on your own jobs.
You, researching your clients preferences and trying to match them up based on their profiles. You would also be looking up the best date spots, trying to keep up with the latest trends for dating, and making sure that you weren’t falling behind on anything else.
Bucky would be going through packets upon packets of different meetings that he would have attended. There were several different duties that he had acquired since you first started dating, and there were a lot of responsibilities that he had started shouldering. You were certain that he was also helping Sam on the side, though he couldn’t tell you full details as per usual.
Usually, you would stop working when you heard Bucky stop working and open the door to the office. He normally ordered food for the two of you, and would go out to the lobby to pick it up, and bring it back for you two to eat.
It was your signal to put everything down, and relax with him for the rest of the night.
You heard him close his binder, heard the wheels of his chair roll backwards, but you didn’t hear the elevator open and close to signify his departure down. You shook it off– wondering if he just went off to the bathroom or something.
Then, you felt him behind you.
Bucky’s chest was pressed against your back, enveloping you in his warmth. His hands were on your shoulders, and as always, the left side of your body was colder from the touch of his metal prosthetic.
“Hi, handsome,” you said, a smile coming onto your face. “Is it time for dinner?”
“Almost. Delivery is on its way,” he answered you.
His hands slid down your shoulders, goosebumps rising on your bare skin as his hands moved all the way down to cover your own hands. He left his hands on top of yours, and you hummed, happy to feel him all over you for just a moment. Bucky’s head pressed against the side of yours, then he dropped his forehead into the crook of your neck.
“Are you okay?” you whispered, tilting your head to the side to give him more space to rest. He took it, burrowing deeper into you.
“Yeah. Just a little nervous,” he murmured into your skin, taking a breath.
You were about to ask him what he was talking about, to turn around and look at him properly. Then, you felt his hands slide up just a little bit, resting now on your wrists instead of covering your hands completely. Except, there was a weight he left behind that wasn’t there before. Your eyes shifted downwards, and your breath caught in your throat at the ring he slipped onto your finger– the cool metal that he masked with the metal of his own arm.
Your breath is caught in your throat, your eyes widened at the sparkling star on your finger. Bucky plucked this thing out of the fucking sky– he had to. There was no way.
“Marry me, sweetheart?” he asked softly. There was a slight tremor to his voice that you caught. A slight shaking in his right hand that you could feel.
You couldn’t repeat what you did at the restaurant, make him freak out with worry over your quiet shock and silence.
Your sudden jolt into standing surprised him, but he didn’t seem to mind when you wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing his lips, then his cheeks, his eyes– everywhere you could as tears were beginning to well up and spill over. You couldn’t help it. You felt Bucky’s anxiety release with each kiss, his hands resting on your waist to hold you against him.
“Is that a yes?” he asked, smiling at you.
“Why would I ever say no to you?” you demanded, making him laugh. “Fuck– I thought you were going to propose to me at the restaurant when you asked me to move in with you!”
“The restaurant?” Bucky asked, blinking. “What– really?”
“Yes!” you nodded, wiping your tears away roughly. Bucky caught your hands, putting them down to your sides so he could wipe your tears away in a more gentle way with his thumbs.
“I wouldn’t do that to you,” he said, looking appalled. “Do you know how many times you have ranted to me about the fact you hate restaurant proposals? You hate planning them, and you hate watching them. Why would I ever propose to you in a restaurant?”
“If it was you, then I would have changed my mind about it right away!” you argued with him, stubborn. “If it was you, you could’ve proposed to me with a candy ring, and I still would have said yes! We can elope– I don’t need a fancy wedding or anything. I just– just you. I just want you, Bucky.”
You watched as his eyes softened for you as he looked all over your features. You were certain that you looked like a mess right now, but you were finding it harder to believe that with the way he was looking at you right now. He looked as if you were the one that created the universe, and solved all his problems. There was nothing but admiration, love, joy. These were eyes that only you had the privilege to see.
A smile came onto his face, one that you adored. A smile that you were going to be able to have for the rest of your life.
“Well, I’m your fiancé now, but you’ve already had me from the beginning, doll,” he said, “I’ve had this ring for over a year now, actually.”
“A year?” you whispered, eyes wide.
“I’ve been trying to find the right time to ask,” he admitted, a bit sheepish. “And just… right now. It felt right.”
“Me working in the same room as you felt right?”
Bucky rolled his eyes at your blatant sarcasm. Except, he’s still smiling. He never gives you a real attitude. He wouldn’t dare. He loves you too much to ever do that.
“The fact that we’re both able to do our own thing in silence, but still be together felt right. We don’t need to speak. We don’t need to be touching. Don’t get me wrong, I love all those things, but… When I looked over at you just now— I felt at peace. Peace that I never thought I was ever allowed to have. So yes, it felt right.”
You’re about to cry again. You’re about to start fucking ugly sobbing in your boyfriend– your fiancé’s arms. You have a thousand things to say, but you know none of them will make sense right now. So, you bury your face in his chest and hug him tight, his arms coming to hold you even closer to him.
“I love you,” you settled with, your voice breaking slightly.
“I love you, too,” he chuckled in response.
You listened to his chest rumble with laughter under your ear, felt his head rest against the side of yours. He led your bodies in a gentle sway, rocking the two of you back and forth. He took in a breath, releasing it slowly in a contented way.
Your mind is racing still, and you ask one single question– just one to get his opinion.
“Where should we get married?” you whispered to him.
Bucky’s quiet for a few moments. A few moments too long. You pull back from him to look at his face, finding a smile on his lips, and a small sparkle in his eyes.
“I have some friends that want to meet you. Do you think you’re up to traveling to Wakanda?”
masterlist
taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla @simp4f1 @its-in-the-woods @lvrrinx @herejustforbuckybarnes @djotummy @star-yawnznn
let me know if you would like to join my general bucky taglist for whenever i post a fic!
no one asked for this, but this is a dissection of my own fic bc i love this characterization of bucky x reader and tbh i might just do this to other fics that i adore. <3
Bucky hated his phone, but he still texted you often. Texted you good morning and good night every single day.
guys bucky wrote reader a LOVE LETTER in the first fic and told her during their first date that he hated his phone and everything about it. however?? bro still texts reader like its his job. like its the only thing he knows.
You were pretty certain that he wasn’t joking when he said that he assassinated JFK, too. Except, you were drunk when he confessed that to you during a drinking game that you two were doing when you first started dating. You don’t know if you dreamt it. Bucky refuses to comment, like a true politician.
bucky tells reader everything. he told reader everything about his past. and obviously, she took it like a champ. this was part of his non-negotiables that he quietly hinted at during match made that he was kinda scared to actually say out loud. someone to accept him and his faults. the reason why he fully accepted reader to begin with was because during the first date she said:
“Well, you can’t run from me,” you smiled at him, “I already know your past. There’s nothing that you need to hide from me that I’ll be scared of.”
(this is from match made not locked in lols)
AND SHE DIDNT EVEN KNOW THE EXTENT OF IT she js knew what was put online as the backlash bc of the mfs that were like ?? congressman assassin???!?!?
extra: bucky once asked her what she thought abt that and she said she still thinks he's better than the other politicians by a loooooonnnnggg shot so she rly doesnt care
extra extra: she's worked with clients that are way worse than him and never elaborated. bucky is confused on what that could possibly mean
You finish your own skincare routine faster than he does, as per usual.
“I don’t understand why the hell I have to do this, doll,” he grumbled as you left the bathroom. “I’m over a century old.”
bucky complains, but does he ever mean it??? no. bro is whipped. always whipped. do not forget man is the same man that did not understand reader when she said people generally have one love language. he has all five.
- “Just a present. Saw it, thought it would look nice on you.”
- His card is slid into your palm, and his lips are pressed against your knuckles.
“I’ll pay for you and Mel,” he said, giving you one more smile.
- “I bought [these shoes] for you,” he said, tilting his head as he examined the design a little closer.
... he always wanted to be the kind of man that was able to spoil his girl rotten– to bring his woman to the best places and sign the check without batting an eye.
and the influx of flowers after reader confirms that she loves flowers teehee. he's always getting her flowers. there's always fresh flowers somewhere. always. if he sees the flowers he last got her wilting?? oh lord. someone's dying
- He learned over time that you just wanted silence, the same way that he did.
- Bucky answered any questions that you possibly could’ve had for him, already knowing what you would’ve thrown his way.
- ... you still had to do work when you came home ... Bucky seemed to plan for that, which is why he had a room specifically made for a home office for the two of you.
- “Do you know how many times you have ranted to me about the fact you hate restaurant proposals? You hate planning them, and you hate watching them. Why would I ever propose to you in a restaurant?”
the wording was very deliberate- bucky learned over time. do you know how many times.
there was trial and error in the beginning of their relationship bc bucky still wasn't up to speed with modern dating (and obviously still isnt with how nervous he was about asking to move in) but reader was very patient with him throughout all the speed bumps bc she understands his struggles and his past, which is exactly what he was looking for from the very beginning of this whole matchmaking shenanigans
idk this entire fic was just a love letter to reader because i didn't feel like writing an actual
dear y/n,
blah blah blah
love, bucky
kinda thing.
someone did ask me what the love letter did entail and i rly did entertain the idea of writing the love letter... but i felt too lazy. so this fic if what came out of it. which honestly. feels like the opposite of laziness.
Oh my god, you are like so talented? Your fics are entire novels and the dynamic between the reader and Bucky is al always captivating! I have spent the past two days going through your masterlist and I’m making you responsible for my renewed passion in Bucky fics 🔥 I’d love to be added to your Bucky Barnes Tag list, please?
The truth is stranger than in all my dreams. Oh, the darkness got a hold on me.
Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky x Ex-Avengers!F!Reader
Synopsis: He left you behind to keep you safe, but safety never stopped the heartbreak. Now, a year of grief, silence, and sleepless nights unravel the moment he shows up at your door with his new team—bruised, breathless, begging. You’re angry and he’s sorry, but the love is still there. It always has been.
Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, y/n is mean & angry (for a bit), bucky is guilty, swearing, ft. thunderbolts, bleeding/injuries, sambucky break-up (mentions), yearning, not dating but a secret third thing, mentions of natasha & her death, y/n is “team sam”, mentions of tfatws (briefly), mentions of hell/religious imagery, violence/blood, SMUT, MDNI, kissing, oral (f), spit, p in v, creampie, unprotected sex (don’t), happy ending / WC: 13.5
A/N: Bucky in Thunderbolts….mind goes brrr. Not helping the SamBucky divorce allegations but alas, anything for the story. Ignore any choppiness in the timeline or story, I wrote this with the worst migraine.
The forest was bleeding.
Not with colour—but silence. With snow falling slow and heavy, catching on branches and burning footprints as fast as they were made. The trees stood like sentinels, black-limed and reaching. Nothing but white, wood, and blood.
Bucky’s breath came ragged through the hush, fogging the air. His gloved hands were soaked red. Yelena was slung between him and Walker, unconscious but breathing, the warmth of her body slowly seeping through his coat.
They weren’t going to make it.
He should have known. He should have been prepared for it, but he hadn’t been.
Bob—still limping, still glassy-eyed from the explosion—nodded and trudged forward, boots crunching through the snow. He wasn’t built for this. Not yet. Not like this. Val had shoved him onto the field too soon, too eager.
Bucky had tried arguing, tried telling her that he was still fragile—a liability—but she hadn’t listened. And Bucky didn’t need more on his plate, but he’d take care of him. Or, at least, he’d try.
Ava phased in and out ahead, scanning, ghostlike. When she disappeared for a moment too long, Bucky felt the silence of the clearing, tenfold. She was trying to stay ahead of whatever might still be behind them.
But, Bucky could feel it. He could taste it.
They were done. Just miles of snow and trees and nowhere to go.
Yelena was bleeding out and Walker wasn’t any better, wobbling on his legs as he tried to stand up straight. They wouldn’t last long out here, certainly not while dragging each other.
“Shit,” he muttered, stopping long enough to fumble with the tablet in his pouch. His hands shook—exhaustion, adrenaline, guilt—never ending guilt, swimming in his veins. He tapped into the satellite overlay, breathing hard, as their current location pinged into view.
Grid 48-F.
The North woods. Nothing but a snow storm. Cold, empty—remote. No outposts for miles.
These weren’t woods happy campers visited. Untouched land, ridged and slanted, surrounded them. A perfect place for illegal activity but not so perfect to do the right thing.
But—there—just there—barely on the edge of the map.
A single black dot, beeping in and out existence, almost as if a trick of the light, like it wasn’t meant to be found.
His chest caved in around it.
The coordinates suddenly looked familiar, as did the landscape. He narrowed his eyes, held the tablet up, heart slowing down.
He knew these coordinates.
Bucky stared at it for a long, frozen second.
A place he hadn’t let himself think about in almost a year.
A place filled with half-buried memories—laughter over old vinyl records, the sound of boots on the porch, a sweet voice telling him to sit as he was cleaned up. Steam curling from a mug handed to him without a word.
Nights too quiet and long to pretend the tension wasn’t there. That the affection, curling around the wood and into the floorboards, wasn’t there. That the flicker of love, of want, wasn’t soaking into his skin.
Your eyes, warmer than firelight, watching him with a softness he’d never be able to find anywhere else.
He hadn’t been able to go back.
Not after deciding to leave you. Not after ignoring your calls when you got back from your mission. Not after telling himself it was for your safety—for your distance, from him and the darkness and chaos that seemed to follow him.
He’d convinced himself that cutting the cord meant saving you.
But now?
Now the cord was pulling him back, wrapped around his neck and tugged, and he couldn’t rip it off even if he tried.
“Bucky?” Bob’s voice small, nervous. He glanced at Bucky before focusing ahead, cold and wet.
Bucky looked up, snapped out of it. “We’re not going to the evac point,” he said, voice low yet carrying. “We won’t make it. We’d freeze before the rendezvous got here.”
“Then where?” Walker grunted. “We’re going to die out here.”
Bucky hesitated, eyes on the trees, on the white mist curling through the frozen pines.
Finally, he said, “There’s a cabin.” He paused, like it hurt to admit. “It’s not far.”
He didn’t say who it belonged to. He didn’t say it was the one place in the world he’d once felt safe and at peace. Didn’t say he hated every second of his life since they landed in this cold hell a few hours ago.
Instead, he just adjusted Yelena’s weight on his shoulder and started moving.
They reached the edge of the clearing an hour later.
The sky was bleeding to black now, dim with twilight, blue shadows sinking low between the snowdrifts. The cabin stood half-hidden beneath a thick layer of frost and pine, smoke curling softly from the chimney. Warm light flickered behind the frosted windows.
It felt like a punch to the gut.
Bucky paused at the treeline and held up a fist. The team crouched, quiet, bodies stiff from cold. He scanned the clearing, fingers twitching at his side. His mouth and eyes went dry.
He didn’t think you’d be here.
You hadn’t been the last time he checked. A year ago. After he stopped answering your messages. After he told himself staying away was the only way to protect you from the mess he was about to wade into with Val.
Just once, last year, in a moment of weakness, he looked for you. Actively searched for you. He just needed to know, just needed to make sure you were okay, safe. He couldn’t find you. Sometimes, he can still feel that raw panic, the way his heart had stopped breathing when he came up empty, the way he had fallen to his knees and clutched at his chest like someone had ripped his heart out of him.
The smoke was fresh. The path to the shed was shoveled. There were footprints.
His stomach dropped.
You were here.
He turned, eyes on the snow. “Stay put. I’ll clear it.” His voice was low.
“What if someone’s inside?” Ava asked, curious at Bucky’s shift in behaviour.
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Then I’ll handle it.”
He crossed the snow like a ghost.
Every step was agony. Every crunch of ice beneath his boots cracked open another memory.
The porch creaked under his weight.
His hand slid along the doorframe. He knew exactly where you kept the spare key, the trick to the lock. He’d fixed it once, after you kicked it shut too hard. He remembered the way you’d rolled your eyes and offered him a beer while he worked.
He didn’t want to break in.
He didn’t want to disrespect this place, the peace that surrounded it.
He didn’t want to hurt you again.
He just—
He just needed somewhere to hide.
His fingers curled around the doorknob, heart in his throat. You wouldn’t have been able to tell that he was once an assassin, once a killing machine.
And then—
Click.
“Don’t move.”
He froze, muscles stilling.
The cold metal of a rifle barrel touched the base of his skull. It was the first time it had in years. He forgot how hard it was, how chilling.
“Turn around. Slowly.”
The voice behind him was sharp, cold, measured—devoid of any emotion and warmth.
Your voice.
Bucky turned.
And there you were.
Wrapped in flannel and fury. Face hard as ice, sharp eyes, steady behind the sight of your rifle. Your finger on the trigger didn’t even shake. It was steady, pressing. He felt a sliver of fear, something foreign and familiar all at once.
He drank in the sight of you like he was breathing for the first time, like he had been drowning at the foot of an altar and hadn’t known peace, hadn’t known salvation until this moment.
Your hair was a little longer, circles under your eyes. New, faded scars on your face, under your eyebrow and lips. Same old boots.
Still exceptionally beautiful as the day he lost you.
The only thing different was your expression.
New.
You didn’t look surprised. Not the way he was. You weren’t drinking him in.
You looked furious, angry, murderous.
That, he decided, was the worst part.
“...Y/n,” he breathed, voice cracking.
You stared at him, eyes like knives. Finger pressing the trigger harder, like you were going to pull.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Barnes?”
The barrel of your rifle didn’t drop.
Even as the snow clung to his hair, melting down his jaw. Even as his expression cracked open into something half-empty, half-anxious.
Even as his lips parted like he might say something real, something soft, something that would make you pull the trigger.
You didn’t let yourself care, didn’t let yourself even entertain the thought of anything except the press of the barrel into his skin. You couldn’t—couldn’t even take a moment to comprehend that he was in front of you, alive.
“You’re trespassing,” you said, voice ice-edged and flat, and dangerous. “So either tell me who’s bleeding in the trees or I put one in your leg and call Sam.”
That hit him.
It hit him.
He flinched—subtle, almost imperceptible—but you caught it. Just like you used to catch every other shift in him. The way he’d crack a knuckle when he was anxious. The way his jaw would tighten when he was lying. The way he could never look you in the eyes when he said goodbye.
You clicked the safety off.
He didn’t even raise his hands.
“Yelena’s hurt. So is Walker,” he said, voice lower now. Rougher. Sandpaper. “Bob’s with us. We just needed a place to—”
“You think you can just show up here?”
It came out sharp. Too sharp. Quick, something prickling.
Something behind your ribs cracked open. A dam you didn’t even realize you were still holding back. You stepped forward, closer, gun still pressing against his forehead. Snow on your boots, fury in your chest, your heart pounding so loud it echoed in your ears.
He was still standing on your porch.
Your space.
A sacred, secret spot you had once shared with him, but no longer.
You were seething. How fucking dare he?
“I ought to shoot you, you know that? Put a bullet in your arm, maybe your shoulder.”
“I didn’t know you were here,” he said quickly, eyes on you, like it made it better. “I wouldn’t have—I wasn’t gonna stay. I just—”
“Just what, Bucky?” you snapped. “Thought you’d break in? Treat it like another asset to use up and leave behind? Like you did with me?”
He could feel his heart crack, his resolve, all the effort he’d put in himself to forget you, all came crashing down. He felt small, guilty.
He didn’t even think about his team, the ones watching him from the treeline, taking in this new version of him. They’d never seen him stand so still, so disarming.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed thickly.
His shoulders curled in just a little. Like he’d been waiting for this. Like it still hurt more than he expected.
Your hands shook, once. His eyes fell on them before lifting, piercing into yours. You lowered the rifle only because you didn’t trust yourself not to pull the trigger on accident.
And then—movement. A shuffle behind the trees.
Bucky turned his head slightly, called out, “Come on out.”
You watched as Bob stepped into view first, arms braced under John’s weight. Blood stained the sleeve of Walker’s coat, and his jaw was clenched with pain. Ava phased beside them a second later, hauling Yelena, unconscious and pale, her forehead slick with blood.
Your stomach turned. You swallowed the bile. You knew them, or, knew of them. Although you had removed yourself from society as best you could, you still kept in touch. Listening, watching.
They looked like shit, like they’d been through hell.
But you didn’t look at them, not really.
You looked at Bucky. Watched the way his lips turned down at the sight of them in concern.
It made you sick that part of you still cared.
That the sight of Yelena’s crumpled form made you shove the pain down into your gut. That instinct took over and you stepped aside, jerking your head toward the door.
“Inside. Now.”
Bucky didn’t move, not right away.
Maybe he was stunned, or trying to think of something to say.
But you didn’t wait. You turned your back on him—on all of them—and pushed the cabin door wide.
The warmth hit you like a slap, familiar and inviting yet surprising.
The fire was still crackling in the hearth. Your mug of half-finished tea sat forgotten on the windowsill. The cabin smelled like pine and old wood and the lilac cleaner you used on the floors just that morning.
It smelled like you.
And then they all stumbled in, dragging the snow and blood and silence behind him.
Ava pulled Yelena onto the couch. Bob dragged Walked across the carpet, propped him up somewhere. He hovered close, face pale, eyes wide. You moved fast—medical kit from the cabinet, extra blankets from the trunk, towels tossed in the sink.
Your movements were sharp, precise. Practiced and automatic.
You didn’t look at Bucky.
You didn’t need to.
You could feel him behind you, like a storm gathering behind your spine. Like a memory clawing up your throat.
Your voice was low when you finally broke the silence.
“This place isn’t a fucking outpost.”
“I know,” Bucky said quietly. Almost like he couldn’t believe you’d think he’d disrespect this place, one that had once been so kind to him.
“Then why the hell are you here?”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
You snorted. “There’s always a choice.”
His voice cracked, desperate. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”
“Yeah?” You turned, eyes meeting his briefly, hard and angry. “You make a habit of not thinking and being an idiot?”
The silence after was thick enough to drown in.
And he felt it. Drowning, deeper and deeper.
“They’re good people.” It’s all he could say.
“Don’t care.” You did. You couldn’t help yourself, because they hadn’t done anything to wrong you—except Walker—but even then. Their past had no relevance to you. You’d take care of them. It was who you were.
“I just… I thought—”
“What, Bucky?” you snapped eyes narrowed, voice shaking. “What did you think would happen? That I’d open the door and thank you? That I’d be so grateful for the ghost of you showing up on my fucking doorstep that I’d forget everything else?”
He flinched again. Didn’t try to defend himself.
Good. He shouldn’t.
You stepped toward him, close enough that he could feel the heat of your fury.
“I waited, you know. After I got back. I waited. Every goddamn day. Thought you’d call. Thought you’d explain. But you didn’t. You just disappeared. Like none of it meant anything.”
Bucky’s eyes burned.
“It meant everything,” he said, voice low. Raw.
You shook your head. “Too late.”
He wanted to say something else—there was so much to say, so much to apologize for, but you moved away from him, left him standing near the kitchen. He felt something crack at the distance, which was funny, he mused painfully.
For a year, he spent thousands of miles away from you, but he hadn’t felt the distance—the loss—till now. Everything inside him was aching and his hands curled into fists as he watched you, eyes burning into your back.
You worked in silence.
Yelena’s breathing was shallow but steady, her wound cleaned and wrapped beneath layers of gauze and tape. She hadn’t woken yet, but the colour was beginning to return to her face. You tucked another blanket around her, brushing damp hair back from her forehead with a gentleness that surprised even you.
There was something about her, something so achingly familiar in the way she held herself, even unconscious. She had a scar, a small faded one right on her chin. Briefly, your mind flashed to Natasha, of a story she told you years and years ago about her sister and a stapler.
Bob hovered nearby like a kicked dog—wide eyes, oversized hoodie stained with someone else’s blood. His hands trembled as he offered a clean towel, his lip caught between his teeth.
You took it from him carefully, fingers brushing his.
“Thank you,” you murmured. Your voice dipped, just for him, something softer and inviting, like you knew who he was, what he had done, and decided he deserved kindness anyways.
His face lip up like a spark had caught in his chest and he smiled bashfully before he looked away.
Ava sat perched on the arm of a chair, arms crossed. Her eyes tracked every move you made, sharp but not hostile. Just watchful, trying to familiarize herself with you. You caught her eye and nodded at her. She nodded back. Quiet understanding passed, soldier to soldier.
Then you turned to Walker.
He was half-reclined on the floor near the fire, jacked peeled off, blood soaking the side of his shirt. Bob had done what he could—pressure, bandages—but the bleeding hadn’t fully stopped.
You knelt beside him, jaw locked. You didn’t speak at first, rage bubbling in your throat. Just the sight of him, of his battered face made you angry, made you remember the way things were, back when Walker was the biggest pain in your ass, before Bucky had left.
He winced when you pressed against the gauze.
“You know,” you said, voice low, steady, “I ought to let you bleed out. If it were up to me, you’d be lying in the snow somewhere, half-dead.”
He didn’t respond, just looked at you through gritted teeth.
You didn’t look away. You wondered if he was remembering it—the violence, the hatred. The man he was, and very well may be. Growth can’t be disguised under darker clothes and new management.
Resentment lingers—you’d know.
“You’re lucky I give more of a shit about him,” you added, nodding toward Bob. “And Yelena. That’s the only reason I haven’t thrown your ass back into the cold.”
Walker’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. I got that.”
You peeled back the soaked bandage with clinical detachment. You didn’t even bother to be gentle.
Across the room, Bucky flinched.
He was leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, a storm in his eyes. He felt a flicker of something—regret, guilt—familiar, so fucking familiar, as he watched you. Your shoulders were rigid, tight with restraint.
You disliked John, you always had. Before, you had fought with him about his morals, about the way he held himself and the shield. Bucky had stood behind you, behind Sam. He had agreed.
There was something borderline repulsive about the scene in front of him, of you cleaning up John Walker as Bucky watched with mild concern and his friend—Sam—was nowhere to be found.
He wondered if you found it disgusting, who he had become and who he had decided to work alongside. He’d understand. He hated himself most days, too.
You handed Bob another towel.
“Keep pressure here,” you instructed, something softer in your voice as you addressed Bob. “Don’t let him bleed through it again.”
Bob nodded, instantly obedient.
You turned away.
Bucky followed you with his eyes like he couldn’t help it. Like he hadn’t been starved of you for too long. Like he had any right.
You moved past Ava, brushing her shoulder. “You hurt?”
She shook her head. “Just bruised.”
“Bathroom’s through the back,” you said. “Towels under the sink. You can clean up.”
She looked at you, eyes narrowing like she wasn’t sure how to read your tone. But she nodded once and stood, disappearing down the hallway.
And then—silence again.
Except for the fire. And Bob whispering something to Walker, Yelena’s slow, shallow breaths.
You turned, arms crossed, lips turned downwards.
And finally—finally—you looked at Bucky. You silently begged your heart not to give out.
He was bigger, healthier. Gaunter around the eyes. His hair was longer, curling at the ends, damp with snowmelt. His coat was torn. Knuckles scabbed over. Metal hand twitched like he wanted to reach for something—someone.
You didn’t let yourself soften—not at the look in his eyes, not at the way his entire body looked like it was a second away from giving out.
“You can take the cot,” you said, jerking your head toward the corner. “If you think you’ll sleep.”
It was a low-blow, something petty and mean, bringing attention to his trouble with sleeping, but it was all you had. Just these quips, the coldness in your voice. It was all you could throw at him, all you had since he had taken everything else—your trust, heart, and smile.
“I—” He cleared his throat, hoarse. “I’m sorry.” It wasn’t enough, and came out too quickly, too quietly. It was too heavy, too weightless.
You scoffed, eyes shifting to the floor before meeting his. “Fuck off.”
Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed again.
You turned your back to him.
It was past midnight when Yelena stirred.
You were sitting at her side, fresh gauze in your hands, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. It had been steady for hours—but now, her fingers twitched, lashes fluttered. Her body went still before she relaxed.
“Yelana?” you murmured, trying to keep your voice soft, safe.
She blinked slowly, disoriented, as her pupils adjusted to the low light of the fire. Her mouth moved, cracked lips forming words you couldn’t hear.
“Hey,” you leaned in. “You’re okay. You and your team are safe.”
Her gaze drifted, found your face. Her eyes drifted along your skin, taking in your features. Recognition flashed in them before they moved to the room behind you.
“...we made it?” she rasped, voice hoarse and dry.
You nodded, features softening a bit at the slight accent in her voice. It reminded you of Nat’s, the way it slipped out sometimes, because of certain words, when she felt safe.
“Bled all over my floor, but yeah.”
A small, broken laugh escaped her and she winced immediately, bringing a hand to her ribs.
“Try not to move,” you said gently. “You’ll ruin my fine patch job.”
She was quiet for a beat before she lifted her eyes, lips curled downwards. “You were her friend, weren’t you?”
You blinked in surprise, lips parting. You had heard about Yelena from Nat, near the end. During the blip, when she had decided that she had kept enough to herself, she told you about her little sister. You never thought you’d get to meet her.
“I was,” you swallowed. “We were good friends.”
“She told me about you,” Yelena said, quietly, like it was a secret. “Just once. Told me I could come to you for anything.”
Your heart tightened in your chest and you nodded, trying for a smile. “Yeah. You could—can.”
Something dark, a mixture of grief and anger bubbled in Yelena’s chest and you saw it, saw the way it pulled at her from her hair. It was familiar, a feeling you knew well. “She talked about you,” you offered, trying to pull her out of her own mind. “She loved you.”
“Yeah,” Yelena swallowed, “I know.”
You patted her shoulder gently before pushing yourself up. Her hand caught your wrist and you looked down, eyebrows raised.
“I didn’t know,” she whispered.
You crouched down. “Know what?”
“That you’re her.”
You frowned, tilting your head in question. “Her?”
Yelena’s eyes lingered on your face, tracing your scars and the bridge of your nose. “The one he never talks about.”
Your breath caught, and your eyes widened, just a bit, but enough. You said nothing.
“He’s in love with you, you know.” She winced as she tried to sit up. “He doesn’t know how not to be.” She paused, glancing at your trembling fingers. “It leaks out of him.”
Your jaw clenched and you looked away, heart falling to your stomach and fingers curled. She watched as you kept your eyes on the fire, hating how dry your throat had gotten.
“I’ll check on you in a bit,” you said finally, quietly. “Try to sleep.”
She didn’t protest, just smiled softly before shutting her eyes.
They were all asleep by two, or pretending. But it was quiet, tense, something weighed.
Walker was sprawled ungracefully on the rug, arm bandaged and elevated, snoring softly. Bob had curled up in the armchair, long limbs tucked close, face peaceful. Ava took the cot near the back wall, one leg bouncing softly until it stilled.
And Bucky—
Bucky sat in the kitchen, silent, staring into the dark like it held answers he hadn’t earned. It was too overwhelming—being here. There were memories, soft laughter and lingering touches that had crawled into the crevices of the wood, peeled the stains back until the entire cabin felt smaller, haunted. In the warmth of the kitchen, the wood groaning under his weight, he felt like he could have done it.
He could have stayed. Could have fought off Val for you, kept you out of the limelight.
He could have fought harder.
He should have fought harder.
He doesn’t know what that made him—a coward, maybe. Someone afraid. He had grown, gone to therapy and made friends, but the fear, the curling of unworthiness in his bones would never leave. He knew that.
He stared down at the table, eyes focusing on the swirls and edges of the wood. His herbal tea, the one you had forced them all to drink, was sitting cold in front of him. He was glad you hadn’t given him the one he used to drink—the exotic ones, ones he’d never heard of and couldn’t imagine. It would have felt like holy water in hell, something condemning and horrid, but sweet all the while.
You slipped on your boots and coat and eased the front door open, letting the cold bite at your face. The stars above were clear, silver on black. The trees whispered in the distance, inviting.
Bucky heard the door open and froze, stilled as he stared into the open space.
You sat on the porch steps and pulled the knife from your side pocket.
It was old now, worn. The handle smooth from your thumb, the constant rubbing and brushing.
You’d never stopped carrying it.
Sam had found it at a vintage store. “Some kind of weird sentimental symbolism,” he’d said, when he gave it to you. “Sharp. Pointed. Quiet. Soft around the edges. Like you.” Bucky had added your initials to the leather sheath in his own careful scrawl.
You used to carry it just to remember the two of them. When you were on long missions, when they had stumbled into some trouble far away—when it was quiet.
Now, you carried it because it was all you had left.
You pressed your thumb into the base of the blade, not enough to break skin, but just enough to feel something—to wake you up if this was a bad dream. It felt like one. It felt strange, like you could guess the ending but it changed every time you searched for it, when the flicker of want, of fear, grew larger.
The cabin behind you creaked softly, weight shifting and the wind howling.
You didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.
His footsteps were heavier now. Not loud, but familiar—measured, hesitant. A bit like when he first arrived here, years ago. The way he never pressed his full weight into the wood until he grew comfortable, until he was sure that the wood—that you—could support him.
He sat beside you.
Not too close, but closer than he had been in a year. The porch was old pine and groaned beneath his weight, like the cabin couldn’t help but mimic the sadness that dwelled in you—in the absence of him.
You stared at the trees, eyes fluttering shut briefly as the cold wind brushed against your skin. The moonlight was sharper now, illuminating you both perfectly, a silent spectacle for the Gods.
The knife gleamed in your palm like it could split you open. Something was tearing apart.
“It’s…colder than I remember,” Bucky said, after a long silence.
You said nothing.
A part of you wanted to lunge at him, plunge the knife into his heart and ask him if it hurts, if the pain measures to your own. You gripped the hilt of the knife tighter, looked at a tree where a gun was hidden.
He exhaled slowly, white breath curling in the air as his nose twitched. “I didn’t know you’d be here.” He said it like it made it better, like he knew you were bleeding out and these words were all he could offer, little bandaids he kept on hand.
“Yeah,” you said, voice sharp and bitter. “You’ve mentioned that.”
He rubbed his hands together, flesh and metal and yet he hadn’t felt warmth in months, years—whenever he touched you last. A brush against your shoulder, knees bumping under the blanket.
“You shouldn’t’ve been.”
You turned sharply, eyes narrowed into slits. He almost moved back. “You think you get to decide where I go now?” Your hold on the knife tightened, slipped into place.
“No—”
“Because last I checked,” you interrupted, “you lost that right. When you ghosted me. When you walked away from Sam and into fucking politics. When instead of taking her down, you joined up with Val fucking Fontaine and turned into some New Avenger.”
You were seething, jaw clenched as the words came out like bullets. Your fingers twitched around the blade and you almost, almost, lifted it, just to see what he would do. You were angry, so fucking angry, and hurt, and worried, and—God—Why was he staring at you like that?
“I was trying to protect you,” Bucky said quietly, a whisper that floated into the wind.
“Don’t,” you snapped. “Don’t you dare say that to me.”
He looked down, hair falling across his face as his fingers curled into fists.
“Do you know what it felt like?” You whispered, voice cracking, mentally blaming the cold. “Coming home after six months to find no one there? I saw Sam. He looked at me like I’d been buried alive. And then I had to ask about you and he just—he looked so tired. Like he didn’t have any energy left.”
Your grip on the knife loosened but his shoulders tensed, pinched together like he was trying to keep himself still.
“Sam was busy with the government and he had Joaquin and I…I had no one.” You inched forward, wanting him to see the look in your eyes. “I called you. Every day. Texted you, sent voice messages. I got nothing. Nothing, Buck. Not even a fuck-you.”
Bucky couldn’t breathe, he was sure he had stopped breathing the moment he sat down but now his chest hurt, his eyes stung and his fingers twitched. “I couldn’t,” he said, almost begging, his voice cracking.
“I couldn’t.”
You finally turned your full body toward him. If this conversation was finally happening, maybe for the last time ever, you wanted to be present for it. If he was truly going to rip your heart out of your chest, you wanted him to have a clear shot. “Why not?”
He met your eyes—red, bright blue, and so exhausted.
“Because Val knew about you.”
Your stomach twisted. The way he said it—haunted, like it was the worst thing in the world, like he’d never been more shaken.
“She knew everything. She had a file, your name. Where you trained, where you came from. She knew. And she told me…if I didn’t cooperate, if I didn’t step in line, she’d make you vanish.”
You stared at him, lips parting in surprise. The air thinned around you. It was less about what he said and more about the way he said it, the way he panted out the words, like they’d been taking so much space in his body.
“She said it like she was doing me a favour,” he whispered. “Like she was giving me an option. I knew what she was capable of. I’ve seen what her people do, Y/n.”
“So you left,” you breathed out. “Without a word.”
“It was the only way to keep her away from you,” he said, his eyes pleading. You had to understand—understand that he’d do anything to keep you safe. “I had to disappear from your life. I thought…if I stayed gone long enough, she’d think you didn’t matter.”
Your throat closed, anger bubbling into something colder—grief. “I did matter.”
“I know,” he said, eyes piercing into yours, pink lips pulled into a frown. “Christ, I know. Don’t you think I’ve thought about it every day? Don’t you think I regret it? I thought I was saving you. But I was just…just a fucking coward.”
Silence—the woods watched, trees listened.
The stars did not blink, just stayed still, offering as much comfort as they could.
You breathed in the fresh air, trying to get your blood circulating. Your pulse pounded in your chest and you wiped at your face, angry and so fucking sad. All you wanted was to live in your anger forever, to keep it at the surface and present, but here he was, hands trembling, telling you how far he had gone to keep you safe.
“I missed you,” you admitted, softly. “Every day. Even when I was angry.”
Bucky turned toward you, jaw clenched. His hand reached out before he dropped it. His eyes were wide and bright and sorry.
You looked down at the knife. “I came here, once. After you left. I thought maybe being here would help. That I could feel close to you.”
He swallowed hard, dug his nails into his palm.
“But it just…just made it worse. Every corner. Every stupid crevice. You’re in all of it.” You paused, a small smile, filled with everything but warmth. “Ended up staying. What does that say about me?”
He looked small, like he might shatter. Like the weight of your words was too much, like his superhuman strength was nothing against them.
“I wanted my best friend,” you said, voice small. It was easier to be like this—sad, fucking pathetic, and angry, with him. It always had been. “I needed you, Buck. And you weren’t there.”
“I wanted to be,” his words came tumbling out, hurried and harsh. “You think I didn’t want to break every fucking rule and come running the second I saw your name pop up on my screen? I wanted to call, to explain. But Val—she had eyes. I thought if I held out long enough, she’d lose interest.”
“She didn’t,” you mused. “She sent you here.”
Bucky looked startled, exhaled sharply, like he hadn’t considered it. This whole time—he thought it was a coincidence. His bad fucking luck. But it was Val—of course. That scared him, made him want to pick up his team and leave you, the sooner he left the further Val got to you.
“I shouldn’t’ve come.”
“No,” you said, softer, a bit surprised at your immediate answer. “But I’m glad you did.”
He looked at you, startled. His eyes, so blue, so bright, widened a fraction.
You wiped at your eyes again, trying to brush away the feelings that had bubbled out of your chest and out in the open, dancing across your skin.
“Because now you get to see what you left behind…and I—I get to see you. Alive.”
Bucky’s breath caught and his fingers shook. His shoulders dropped and a part of you, a small, horrible part of you relished in it. Briefly, but it pleased you.
“You’re my best friend,” he said, like a confession. Like it meant something else, something he thought about, something that burned bright and warm in his veins every night. “That’s the problem. I had to walk away.”
He said it with heat—desperation.
Please, he was saying, understand—I love you.
You looked at him then, fully, completely. And for the first time in nearly a year, your anger cracked, just a little—then crumbled, until it fell off you like rain. It was still there, soaking into your skin, but slid off.
“Then stop walking away,” you whispered, responding to the words he wasn’t saying but was leaking out of him. “If I’m your best friend,”—if you love me—“stay. Stop running.”
The words found a life of their own, stumbled out of your mouth before you could catch them, before you could measure their consequences—they fell along Bucky’s skin like snow, soft and beautiful and cold and unseen.
The moon above you was heavy and silver and listening—waiting, glowing, yearning.
The silence stretches on, hovers softly over the snow, a blanket over the cold.
You don’t say anything for a long time.
Not after you ask him to stay.
There’s just the knife in your hand and the throb in your chest and the goddamn moon staring down at you like she knows, like she understands—despite your embarrassment, the hole in your chest that was once filled with anger and pride and hurt. Now hollow, remnants of it all dried and crisp.
And then—
You laugh.
It’s not soft, not amused. It’s empty, something clipped.
“I can’t believe I just asked you to stay,” you admit, bitter and in disbelief. “I’m your best friend. Right. You care about me so much I had to grieve you.”
He flinches, chin tipping downwards.
You’re on your feet before you even realize it, pacing the porch like it’s the only way to stay upright. You had imagined having this conversation with him hundreds of times, all different. When you had come back and Sam told you he didn’t know where Bucky was, your entire life fell apart. Sometimes, on bad days, you can still feel the ache in your chest.
For a moment, a day, a week, a while, you had thought you had lost him. Until he turned up on your fucking television.
“I lit a candle for you in some tiny church in Madrid. Did you know that?” you spit. “I thought you were dead. Or worse—I thought you’d become someone I didn’t recognize.” Your eyes met his and they fell along his suit, the black, the A that had once meant so much to you.
“I’m not sure I recognize you now.”
Bucky doesn’t say anything—can’t. His heart is beating out of his chest and he’s blinking too fast. He never meant for this to happen—never wanted you to be in pain because of him.
“I hated you,” you whisper into the air. “But I never stopped—” You stopped, swallowed the words, the ache. “You don’t get to say that to me. Best friend? Please.”
“You always have been,” he said, quietly. “Even when I tried to forget you.”
You whirled on him, a flicker of anger raging in your eyes. “And what? I’m supposed to be grateful? Being your best fucking friend? Like it didn’t crush me? Like it’s enough?”
“No,” he responds, throat dry. “I don’t expect that.” He knows, he fucking knows.
“Then what do you want, Bucky? Forgiveness? Closure? You want to cry under the stars and say you’re sorry and pretend like that makes it better?” You can’t breathe, fingers trembling.
“No.”
“Then what?”
Bucky stood slowly, took a step forward—didn’t reach for you.
“I just wanted you to know,” his voice is so quiet, his breath warm and cheeks pink. “That I never stopped choosing you. Even when it looked like I didn’t.” He moved closer, needed you to see him, hear him.
“You have been, and always will be, my first choice. Even if it won’t lead me to you.”
You look away, shaking and eyes shining. “I didn’t—don't—want your protection. I wanted you.”
I always have, you didn’t say.
“I know,” he says, voice breaking and heart heavy. “I know that now.”
You wanted to hit him—to kiss him. You wanted to break every bone in your body until the pain matched the ache in your chest, just so it could feel real.
You pressed your palms to your eyes, feeling too much and pathetic and like the facade you had tried to bolt into place for months was slipping. “You let me think you didn’t care.”
“I thought it would make it easier.” He was close now, his body heat caressing yours, inviting and sorry.
“It didn’t.”
“I was trying to keep you safe.”
“I’m not made of glass,” you hissed. “I’m not something fragile. Stop acting like I am.”
“I know that,” he admits, voice gruff and shaking. “I know how strong you are. That’s never been the problem.”
“Then what is?” Why couldn’t he just say it—how many years had passed in this dance, in this slow waltz you both were determined to participate in.
Bucky looks at you and your heart skipped a breath. He heard it, almost smiled, but he was lost in your eyes, in the way they glowed and were on him.
“I don’t get to keep good things,” he says, words coming out like glass in his throat.
“I don’t get forever, Y/n. I don’t get safe. I don’t get to love something without watching it get taken from me.”
You stopped breathing, head tilting back as he moved closer, lips parted. His words collided into your chest, ripped through layers and layers of skin until they sat heavily on your bones, pried their way inside your heart.
“You think I was protecting you? I was protecting me.” His hands were fists at his side. “Because the second I saw her file, the second Val mentioned your name, all I could think about was you bleeding out somewhere—and it being my fault.”
His voice cracks—hard, raw. He’s looking at you like he’s never going to see you again, like he’s at the crossroads and at any moment, he’ll be dragged to hell. The way the damned look an angel, in yearning and mourning.
“I couldn’t lose you,” he whispered. “So I walked away.”
You shook your head, fingers uncurling and curling. “So you lived with a ghost.”
He nodded, solemn. “Better than your blood on my hands.”
“And what about me?” You snapped. “What about what I had to live with? You think it didn’t kill me, wondering why I wasn’t enough to stay for? Why Sam and I weren’t?”
His whole body tensed and his breathing hitched.
“I would’ve rather had you,” you said, words trembling. “Ruined. Broken. Afraid. I would’ve taken every messy fucking day, every stupid risk, every scar. I wanted you. I didn’t want safety.”
Bucky’s quiet for a long time.
His shoulders shake once—twice.
With stark apprehension, your eyes widened—- he’s crying.
Not softly, but like it’s wrenching out of him. Like the pain has been festering for years, decades, even. Like he’s refused to feel any emotion for so long that now, it’s tearing out of him.
You don’t move—can’t. You’ve never seen Bucky cry before—not when Steve left, not when his nightmares had him yelling in his sleep.
He didn’t ask for comfort.
You stood still.
“I kept thinking,” he said, through the tears, absolutely wrecked, “that maybe if I left early on, it wouldn’t hurt as much.”
“Did it help?” You asked quietly, resisting the urge to rub his arm.
He shook his head. “I’ve never been more miserable.”
You’re both quiet again.
Just the wind now, the trees.
He sat back down, slowly, like the weight of it all is too much.
After a long, long beat—you sat too.
The knife is still in your hand.
You don’t touch him. He doesn’t try.
He just sits there, eyes red, face raw. A man undone.
And for the first time in a year, the silence between you is not empty.
It’s full—of pain, history, of the soft, slow pulse of something broken that still wants to live.
The silence stretched again—different, not bitter. Just tired.
The kind of quiet that lived after grief has passed itself, after all the screaming is done. What remained is ache, the king you can breathe through, if you sit still long enough.
You stared at the woods, the snow drifting off the trees. Your fingers curled tight around the knife.
“I kept it,” you said, suddenly. Filling the silence. “The knife.”
Bucky turned his head slightly, eyes falling on the metal in wonder.
You traced your thumb over the hilt. “You and Sam gave it to me after Belgium. Said I earned it, saved both your asses. A gift.”
“You did,” he murmured, licking his lips.
You almost smiled.
Instead, you nodded towards the woods. “I took it on this last mission.”
Bucky’s quiet for a beat, then, “What happened?”
You don’t answer right away—breath curling in the cold. “I don’t know if I want to tell you.”
His voice is gentle, understanding. “That’s okay.”
You shifted, momentarily uncomfortable, knife balanced on your knee.
“I was in Kaltag,” you said, finally. “Started as intel extraction. Easy, in and out. But it wasn’t. Not even close.”
Bucky hated how haunted you sounded, how winded, even after a year, you seemed to be. Like you weren’t sure if you had outrun the threat, or if it loomed behind you still.
You swallowed and ran your hand through your hair. “It went on for three months longer than it should’ve. I lost my whole team.”
You could feel him tense, the way the guilt inside and around him increased tenfold.
“I made it out,” you said softly, reminding him and yourself that you were okay. “But it was close.”
He turned slightly, not touching you, but near. Closer than before.
You tried to ignore how good it felt, how it immediately eased the tension in your own shoulders.
“When I got back to New York,” you continued, “I called you, first thing. I couldn’t think about anything else. Just—telling you I was alive.”
He closed his eyes, jaw clenched
You wrapped your arms around your knees and rested your cheek against your arm, eyes on him. He looked so beautiful, so tortured as he sat there, listening to you.
“I left you a voicemail. Told you I missed you.”
“I listened to it,” he said, hoarsely, pained.
“I almost wish you hadn’t.”
He opened his mouth before shutting it. He couldn’t argue—not when your voicemails, your voice, kept him sane for so long. It was the only physical thing he had of you.
You pressed your lips together when the wound felt like cracking open again.
He pressed his hand to his mouth, exhaled hard. “I’m sorry.”
You nodded once, expecting it. Taking it better than you did earlier.
He glanced towards the cabin, peeking inside. You followed his gaze.
“Your team,” you started. “They’re good people.”
Bucky shook his head. “Not exactly.”
You shrugged, the ghost of a smile passing by your lips.
“Yeah. Maybe not good. But…they’re trying. I think.”
He nodded then. “Yeah. They are.”
There was something in his voice, something soft and vulnerable and uncomfortable. “You care about them.”
He paused, like he didn’t like how fast he might’ve answered. “I do.”
You traced the knife again. It felt a bit like your spine–rigid, cold, worn out. You glanced at him once, just to understand, to dig the pain in further. “Are you happy?” Your voice is soft, almost serene. “You said you were miserable but did you find something with them? Something you didn’t have before?”
Bucky looked at you, his whole body stiffening. There’s more beneath your words, he hears it. The sharp edge of grief, of doubt. He doesn’t answer immediately because the truth is—he doesn’t know. He hasn’t thought about himself, about his wants or his feelings in months.
You were braced for it—the soft, diplomatic lie. Bucky missed you, you knew that. He missed Sam too, even if he hadn’t said it. But you saw the way his eyes narrowed when one of them winced. It was a look you were more than familiar with—what you weren’t familiar with—was not being on the other end of it.
He clears his throat and looks up, his eyes twinkling under the starlight. “It’s not the same.”
You looked at him, wary. He sounded older, exhausted.
“It’s good. They’re good,” he said. “But it’s not the same. Not even close.” His throat was clogged with sadness, with nostalgia.
You turned away, tried to breathe. You hated how he could get you like this, all unraveled and messy. He was the only one who ever could.
Bucky waited. Then said, gently, “It’s okay.”
You shook your head, gripped the knife tighter. “No, it’s not.”
“It’s okay to ask me.”
You blinked, knife slipping slowly from your hand. You both had said so much tonight, opened the floor to feelings and anger and questions neither of you had ever thought you’d get to. It felt a bit like going in circles, like he couldn’t help but keep you safe and you couldn’t help but hate him for it over, and over again.
“To wonder,” he added. “You can ask. You always could.”
You gripped the knife tighter and your lips trembled, partly due to the cold and partly due to the weight of what you wanted to ask.
Were you ever going to come back? You wanted to ask, scream into the air. Did you find a new family?
Bucky breathed in deeply, closed his eyes. When he opened them, he turned his head to look at you. His eyes were bright, earnest. “I’ve only ever belonged to one place,” he said, softly. “One person.”
His words, wrapped in gentle warmth, brushed against your skin and you froze, stilled as your eyes widened a bit.
“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”
Something quiet, a mixture of grief and love and sadness paints across his face and the corners of his lips quirk upwards momentarily, like he imagined this conversation, but not like this.
“I’ve never meant anything more.”
The knife dropped slightly in your lap. You wanted to believe him. Wanted to take his words and cradle them to your chest, coo at them.
But your heart was still wrapped in barbed wire, hands bloody as you tried to keep him at arm's length.
There’s a long, still beat.
“What about this mission?” You cleared your throat, tried to push the warmth away with your cold breath.
“What brought you here?”
Bucky exhaled and looked out over the snow. His jaw flexed and he ran a hand through his hair. It was longer, parted and freshly cut. He looked so good. You looked away.
“There was a compound,” he started. “Hidden in the mountains. Yelena had a lead. Val gave the green light, but the intel was wrong.”
He shook his head, looking years older and frustrated—jaw tight.
“It was a trap. A set-up. Ava nearly got blown apart. Yelena and Walker took shrapnel. Bob was doing well but then he panicked. We barely got out.”
You looked at him then, quietly stunned. He sounded like a proper leader, someone who cared. He sounded a bit like a Sergeant and a small—large—part of you almost winced in pain. You always knew he was a leader, despite following Steve everywhere. It was who he was, a man who took the lead, control, when he had too.
“And then you came here.”
His voice dipped, a little bashful. “Didn’t realize where I was at first. Not until I checked the coordinates again.”
“And when you did?”
His eyes were glasser now, glowing brightly, like your very own temptation. “I didn’t want to.”
“But you did.”
He nodded, solemn. “Because I knew it was the only place they’d be safe.”
You understood, in retrospect. He was right. You knew this terrain, and had heard whispers of the death that followed. It’s why you chose this place for solitude, not just anyone can survive in a place like this.
“I would’ve helped, you know.” You brought your knees to your chest. “Even if you weren’t there.”
He nodded, like it was obvious. “I know.” You’re a good person. The best he knows. But he was a coward and he was selfish and there was a part of him that would have done anything to see you, even if it meant shooting himself in the foot.
There’s a long pause—seems to welcome itself between every moment.
And then—his voice breaks a little, vulnerable.
“I’m sorry.”
You don’t look at him. You can feel the fire melting. It’s all gone and now he’s smothering the burned ambers, making sure there isn’t anything left.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” Bucky said, again, harder, wetter. “For all of it. For walking away. For staying away. For not calling. For letting you think—”
“Stop, Buck.”
He stopped, eyes wild and lips parted. You stared out at the snow, the rising light. You often stayed awake until sunrise, but you had barely done it with company.
“What’s done is done. And you can’t fix it.” You paused, pretended not to notice his full-body flinch. “Not with words, at least.”
“I know.” He sounded so defeated, like he was about to be dragged away and he was using his last breath on this, on apologizing, even if it didn’t mean anything to you.
You glanced down at your hands, brushed your thumb across the engraving. It was still warm, still smelled like him if you pretended long enough. “But,” you almost smiled, “thank you. For apologizing. It’s a start.”
Bucky released a short breath and his eyes gleamed. He nodded and slowly—so slowly—you let your shoulder brush his.
Just barely—enough. The first touch between you both in a year, something soft and passing, weightless, but so incredibly heavy.
His breath stuttered and he froze, almost as if his stillness could convince you to do it again.
You don’t say anything.
Neither does he.
The sun began to rise, gold light spilling over the trees. It touched your porch, your boots, the blade of your knife. The world around you began to glow.
And for the first time in a long time, you both felt warm—not whole, but alive. Like there was meaning now, like maybe, just maybe—you could start again.
The morning came quietly.
Fog clung to the trees like ghosts reluctant to leave, coiled through the branches and rolling over the forest floor. It muffled the sounds of birds and leaves, wrapped the cabin in a kind of hush—a sacred, fragile peace. You didn’t sleep, just sat near the front window for most of the night, listened to the crackle of the dying fire, feeling Bucky’s presence behind you like static in the air.
When you finally stepped outside, the grass was slick with dew. Cold bit at your ankles through your boots. You made your usual perimeter check—like muscle memory, a prayer.
It wasn’t until you circled behind the old shed, half-hidden in undergrowth, that you noticed it. Something thin and taut stretched between two trees—nearly invisible unless the light caught it just right.
Infrared wire. Trip-triggered—directional.
Your heart stuttered. That wasn’t yours.
You crouched, studied it. It was recent—clean. Hadn’t been disturbed by animals. That meant one thing—someone had been here.
And not long ago.
You didn’t make a sound, just rose and moved, boots silent against the snow.You ducked back into the cabin and found the team already stirring.
Yelena sharpened a knife by the fireplace, Walker was rubbing sleep from his eyes, Ava said cross-legged with a datapad balanced on her knee. Bob was quietly eating dry granola and leaned over the arm of the chair he was sitting in, trying to get a closer look at whatever Ava was looking at.
And Bucky—
Bucky watched you before the door even closed.
You didn’t say anything at first, just met his eyes, that solemn blue set into all that worry and quiet guilt. The heat from the night before was still burning in those eyes, still warm and attentive.
You looked away and cleared your throat, shattering the comfortable silence that had built upon the slow fire.
“We’ve been compromised.”
They all stilled, exhaled quietly.
You stepped towards the table, pulled the map out, laid it flat. “Infrared tripwire. North perimeter, ten meters past the old woodpile. Wasn’t there yesterday.”
Yelena stood immediately, trying to hide the wince of pain. “Can you show me?” She wheezed a little.
You shook your head, held up a hand. “Not now. I already marked it. We need to assume they know you’re here.”
Bob cursed low under this breath as Walker rubbed his temples. “That’s just great.”
Ava’s voice was sharp, “How long do we have?”
“Not long enough,” you said, voice tight.
And that’s when Bucky moved. Just a step, but the whole room shifted with him. The air charged, the team straightened.
“I’ll handle it,” he said, voice calm, strong. Like there wasn’t a world, a situation, where he wouldn’t handle it.
You turned to him, sharply. “You’ll—Bucky, you think I can’t handle my own perimeter?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
You crossed your arms. “Then what are you saying?” There was almost no heat behind your words—very little curtness, nothing like the day before. The team noticed, the way your shoulders weren’t as tense, the way Bucky slightly leaned towards you, like he couldn’t help it.
He looked at you, pain flickering through his expression. “I’m saying we brought this upon you—I did.”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes and dropped your arms.
“Oh, please.”
“We did,” he said, louder now, more insistentent. The moment he noticed that look in your eyes, like you were disturbed, he knew what had happened. His heart had stopped beating at the idea of drawing danger to you.
“You were off the radar and safe. And we dragged you back into this.”
“I took you in,” You reminded him. “You didn’t force me.”
“You shouldn’t have had to,” he snapped, worried and furious with himself. “You should’ve been allowed to live without the past coming to your front door with guns and tripwires.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you hissed, low, stepping in close. “We talked about this. I’m not some fragile memory in your head. I’m right here. I chose to help. I knew the consequences.”
His voice dropped, low and softer, like he was pleading. “And I’m choosing not to let you get killed because of us.”
There it was.
The silence was sharp, crackling. Everyone else disappeared into background noise, blurred by the weight of what passed between you, the anger and softness of last night, the years in between.
Bucky knew—knew the likelihood of you actually dying was low, you were strong, so fucking strong and so intelligent and one of the best fighters he knew, but he couldn’t get the image of you—hurt, bleeding—out of his head.
“I know you think you have to fix everything,” you said, quiet, tired, understanding. “But not this.”
“This is the only thing I can fix,” he said, and his voice cracked. Like he had spent the few hours after your time on the porch just thinking, mulling over everything you had said, everything he hadn’t said. “Please, let me.”
The rest of the team had scattered quietly, trying their best to give you space. They shifted away, towards the fireplace and the wall, made themselves smaller, but watched carefully, nosey and interested.
They didn’t know much about Bucky. He had always been a private person, preferred to listen to their stories than share any of his own. But in the beginning, when it was all new, they could tell his heart wasn’t in it, that obligation and morality drove him.
His heart had always belonged to another, he had left it somewhere—ran without it.
Now, they had finally seen it—the woman that kept his heart, the one place his guard hadn’t been up, the way he let himself be small, let himself be, with no title. They weren’t even sure if he knew, if he knew that his heart lived here, existed in the palm of your hand, in the edges of the wood.
You stared at him, and maybe it was adrenaline, or just the years of knowing him—of knowing his heart even when he wouldn’t speak on it—but something in your chest broke. The softness in his eyes, replacing the usual hardness and fury. The way he had naturally moved closer to you, like you were the center of his gravity.
“Y/n,” he said then, softly. Your name felt holy on his tongue, something divine. Like he was standing at the top of some cathedral and the beauty overwhelmed him and all he could do was utter the name of his worship. It felt like a promise, something far deeper than the word itself.
“James,” you whispered back, just as softly—delicate. It slipped out, something instinctual. You watched his entire body tense before it relaxed, before the wrinkles near his eyes smoothed out and his eyes gleamed—just for a moment, but blinding.
He stared at you like you’d just torn open the sky. He hadn’t been called that in years, not by anyone else but you. It was his name, but it felt like yours, something you held onto.
But then the moment passed. The threat crept back in, like a shadow reasserting itself.
He shook his head, leaned back. This always happened, he always got lost in you, lost his mind as soon as he laid eyes on you. “We’re leaving.”
“What?” you said, breath catching, feeling like you had been pushed off a cliff.
“We’re going to pull the enemy off your trail. Lead them into the open. Finish it.”
“No,” you said, chest tight, feeling like a child and the blanket was being ripped off of you. “You need me.”
“I can’t ask you to do this.”
“You’re not asking,” you told him. “I’m telling you I can. I’ve fought beside you. I’ve bled beside you, you know I’m good for this.”
“I know,” he said, like it pained him. “God, I know. You’ve always been better than me at this. But let me do this. Let me protect something, just once, without destroying it.”
“Bucky—”
“I’m not leaving you,” he said, quickly, breathless, stepping closer. “Not forever. Just for this. Let me end it, and I swear—I’ll come back.”
Your throat closed, his cold, metal hand closing around your heart. You didn’t even know when he had reached in, when the barbed wire had fallen away. “You can’t promise that.”
“I can,” he said, his forehead almost touching yours. His breath was warm as it brushed your cheek. He sounded so sure, so confident. “And I am. I will come back.”
The firelight in his eyes wasn’t desperate, wasn’t afraid—it was resolute. “I can’t let you go again. I’m not strong enough.”
He was already pulling on his gear when you stepped in front of him again, heart in your throat.
“This isn’t fair,” you said. None of it felt fair—felt real. You had just gotten him back, just made peace with him, with the familiarity that gripped you by the jaw.
“I know,” he replied.
You looked into his eyes, in the way they drank you in. They shifted downwards, over his body, memorizing. Without thinking too hardly, you reached for his hand.
His fingers closed around yours instantly, like they’d been waiting—like he’d been falling and you had just reached out for him. His calluses scraped against your knuckles, grounding you. Heat flooded your body, almost tipped you over. His thumb brushed against your pulse point, pressed on it.
“I hate you,” you whispered, not a single hating bone in your body. You were sure the hatred, the anger was somewhere deep within your body, hiding and floating and real, but it wasn’t present, wasn’t pressing against your skin the way the fear, the love—the want—was.
“I know,” he said again, smiling just a little. “I don’t.”
You pulled him into a hug and you both breathed for the first time. He held on like he never wanted to let go, his arms instantly wrapped around you, hands pressing into your skin. The silence between you was fuller now—stitched together with hope, with fear, with the half-formed shape of something possible—real.
He pulled back, looked you in the eye. He looked younger, someone in love.
“I’ll come back,” he said again, and this time, it felt like a vow.
You let him go.
Stood there as he went, silent and still as snow fell. Let him hold your hand for a second longer than he should have. Let his eyes rest on you like they always had—gently, painfully, like it was the last time.
“Stay safe,” he said, smiling softly.
You watched as they disappeared into the mist and the trees with soft smiles and nods, into the fight that waited beyond the edge of safety.
He had promised. He’d whispered it in the hush between your porch and you, where things had often been left unsaid but then he said it.
“I’ll come back. You don’t have to let me in—but I’ll come back anyway.”
You stood on the porch until they were gone, arms wrapped around yourself, chilled to the bone.
You just stood there, empty and filled with hope—waiting.
And hoping he wouldn’t break this promise too.
It snowed again that morning.
This white lace drifted down from the treetops, quieting the woods like a lullaby. Two weeks had passed since he left. Since he stood at the tree line with his eyes locked to yours like it would be the last time.
You tried not to count the days. Tried to act like it didn’t matter—but the ache in your chest made a liar of you. It always did.
Each morning you opened your door just a little too fast. Each night you lit the fireplace and left the hall light on, telling yourself it was just for warmth, for visibility. But really, you didn’t want the place to feel so empty if—when—he came back.
Today, you wore one of his old shirts. Soft cotton and faint cologne still clinging to the collar. You hadn’t meant to put it on, not really, didn’t even know it was his at first, but when you touched the fabric, it felt like a memory.
And that’s when it happened.
Three slow, heavy knocks at the door.
You froze, heart in your throat. Then you rushed, stumbled barefoot through the living room, fingers fumbling with the handle. When the door creaked open, the cold hit you first—and then him.
Bucky.
He stood there, snow in his hair, lips split, knuckles scraped, breath heaving like he’d run through the forest without stopping. A duffle hung over one shoulder. His blue eyes were glassy, rimmed red with exhaustion and something else—something soft, searching.
“I’m sorry it took so long,” he breathed out, quickly. “I had to make sure everything was finished. That you were safe.”
You said nothing, couldn’t speak. You just stared at him, wide-eyed, chest rising.
“I didn’t know if I’d make it back,” he continued, like he knew you were barely breathing and wanted to give you a second. “Didn’t know if you’d still want me here. And if you slam the door in my face, I’ll understand.”
You didn’t.
Instead, you stepped out onto the porch, into the snow. Shoved him hard in the chest—once, twice. And he took it, didn’t move or flinch, just let you. He looked at you like you were sunlight.
And then you grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and pulled him down and kissed him.
God, the kiss. It wasn’t gentle. It was fire—heat and years of longing poured into it like you both had been holding your breath since the day you met. His hands dropped the bag, found your waist, warm and trembling and real. You opened your mouth to him and he groaned, low and guttural like he’d waited years for the taste of you.
He stumbled into the cabin with you in his arms, the door shutting behind him. Snow melted off his jacket onto the floor as he pressed you against the wall, mouths locked, hearts wild.
He kissed you like a promise, like he’s finally letting himself fall. His lips moved with yours in slow, lingering passes, breath hitching slightly when your fingers tangle in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.
“Bucky…” you whispered, breathless, as he pulled back just a little, just enough to look at you again.
“I’m right here,” he murmured, brushing his lips along your jaw. “Not going anywhere.”
He kissed you again, deeper this time, hungrier—but still gentle, like every kiss was him saying I’m here without needing the words.
“I love you,” he rasped out, pressing his lips firmly against yours. “I’m in love with you,” he whispered against your mouth, breathing like a man starved. “I’ve always been in love with you.” He sounded reverent, voice raw.
You pressed your forehead to his, blinking back tears, lips plump and breathless. “You hurt me.”
“I know.”
“I’m still so angry.”
He pressed a soft, hovering kiss to your jaw. “I’ll take all of it. Every piece of it.”
You swallowed hard, blinking away the tears. “I’m in love with you, you idiot.”
He smiled then, the softest, most brightest thing you’d ever seen. A man who had been lost in the woods, in the snow, who finally found his way home.
The fire cracked behind you, casting everything in gold and flickering shadows. He looked beautiful, something magical and unreal, like he had been crafted by the most expensive stained glass.
You looked up at him, slid your hand to the base of his throat. “What does this change?”
“Everything,” Bucky said, voice raw. “But it doesn’t have to change all at once. You don’t have to let me in tonight. You can hate me, scream. I’ll wait.”
You exhaled shakily, shifted closer. “I’ll be mad at you tomorrow.”
He nodded, like he expected worse, like he was so enamoured by you.
“But tonight—” You touched his jaw, traced the bruises like they were yours to soothe. “Tonight… I just want to feel you. Want to know you’re mine.”
His mouth opened like he might say something, but all that came out was a soft, wounded nose before he kissed you again. Slower, deeper. His tongue traced his devotion into his gums as he slid his trembling hands under your—his—shirt and when his palms found bare skin, he sighed against your lips.
“I’ve always been yours.”
You took his hand and led him down the familiar hallway, toward the bedroom. The fireplace crackled low in the other room. Moonlight spilled across your floorboards. A few candles flickered by your bedside, forgotten after another sleepless night—but now, they painted him in gold.
The door shut behind him and he watched you like he didn’t believe you were real. “Are you sure you want this?” He asked gently, eyes soft. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You nodded, looking up at him like he had always belonged here, in your room, desperate and panting and beautiful.
“Do you know how many nights I longed for you? Wanted your touch?”
He reached for you then, slow and gentle, like he was afraid that if he moved too fast, everything would fall apart. His lips found your cheek, your jaw, your neck. Kisses layered like apology, like worship.
“I’ll make up for lost time,” he murmured, unbuttoning your shorts with careful fingers. “I swear to you.”
When your shirt slipped off your shoulders, his breath caught.
He stepped forward, hands devout, fingertips grazing your skin like he was afraid to wake from a dream.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “You don’t know what it did to me—thinking I’d never get to touch you. Never get to love you.”
He touched you like you were something sacred, something so beautiful and otherworldly. He made you feel wanted, loved.
“You’re here now,” you whispered, lips lifting into a small smile. You watched as his breath hitched, as his fingers flexed and he almost fell into you.
He kissed you again, rough and deep and messy. Like every second he’d spent away had built this fire under his skin and only you could soothe it. His hand slid into your hair, pulled you closer. His lips moved to your jaw, your collarbone—and he moaned softly, like the taste of your skin was salvation.
You unzipped his jacket, whimpered as Bucky’s teeth grazed against your ear, the skin just below. You pulled at his shirt and with one hand, he pulled his henly off, reattaching his lips to your skin, kissing down your neck.
Your hands slid down his chest as you leaned into him, panting against the side of his head. His lips sucked and licked your skin, finding comfort in leaving marks on your skin.
You pulled away, needing to see him, to breathe him in. “I wanted to take care of you,” you whispered, reaching for the waistband of his pants. You kissed his neck, licked a bead of sweat.
“Wanted to—”
He caught your wrist gently, kissing your knuckles. You were glowing, something ethereal and his heart almost gave out. “Let me,” he said. “Please. Let me love you first.”
He sounded so pretty, so breathless. You melted, relishing in the way his gaze burned into you. Fell back onto the bed as he knelt between your thighs, spreading you open like something holy. His kisses trailed lower, burning a path down your body. Over your breasts, your stomach, down the soft skin of your hips.
He pressed hot, wet kisses all over your breasts, cupped one while he sucked on your nipple, tongue swirling. He whispered against your skin, his devotion, his cries of your beauty.
He sucked, licked and kissed the skin of your hips, just above your panty-line. Blew air onto the mark, kissed it once, twice, then grinned. Bucky looked up at you—eyes dark and tender—and his smile turned into something soft, something so devastating.
“You’re so beautiful, Y/n.” He nudged your thighs apart even more, shifted you up on the mattress so he could lay down on his stomach comfortably. He kissed your inner thigh before brushing his nose against your cunt. You almost squeezed your legs shut when he sniffed, a moan escaping his lips.
“Can I taste you, pretty girl?” He asked, voice husky. When you nodded, slid your hand into his hair and pulled, desperation and heat dancing in your eyes, he pressed a kiss to your folds.
“Please, Buck,” you breathed out.
That was all he needed. He buried his mouth between your legs like he’d been born for this. Like nothing mattered more than making you feel it. He moaned into you, fingers gripping your thighs, pulling you closer, letting his tongue swirl and suck and worship until you were crying out his name, hips trembling under his hands.
You gasped when his tongue swirled around your cunt—broad, slow licks that made your knees shake. He moaned like it was his release, like your pleasure soothed something deep in him. He sucked your clit with such reverence, it made you sob.
“James—”
His arms wrapped around your thighs, grounding you. He pressed his nose against your clit, rubbed your slick all over his face as his tongue fucked you, curving just right.
“That’s it, baby,” he moaned into your pussy, the vibrations making your head spin. “Say my name.”
“So good,” you panted, grinding your hips against his face, pulling at his fair. His metal hand spread your folds and you almost screamed, the sudden cold mixed with the heat of his warm breath was too much.
He sucked and licked, tongue swirling around your clit. He felt your whole body tense, the way you tried closing your legs around him. He held your hips still, sucked harder. “Cum for me,” he whispered. “Want to taste you. Need to—fuck, baby, please.”
And when you did, when you shattered his tongue, cried out his name, he didn’t stop. He kissed you through it, breathed your name like a prayer as he sucked and swallowed your cum. He kissed your thighs and your belly, rested his cheek against your stomach like he could live there.
“That’s it. So sweet. So fuckin’ good for me,” he babbled, kissing your skin. “That’s my girl.”
He stripped, pulled his pants off and kicked off his boxers. His cock was hard, red, pre-cum dripping like it never had before.
When he finally climbed over you, lips swollen, pupils blown, you grabbed his face and kissed him hard. You could taste yourself on him and it made your head spin. You needed him, needed all of him.
“What do you need, baby?” He asked against your lips, sucked on your tongue.
“You,” you breathed out. “I want you. Please, Bucky—need you inside—”
He gripped his cock and slid it in between your folds, hissing in pain when your pussy fluttered around him. He met your gaze and smiled, something soft and wicked and angled his cock, sliding in, slow and thick, his mouth open as he groaned, long and low.
“Oh, my sweet girl,” he groaned. “Fuck—so tight—”
He pulled out, slowly, moaned—loudly—forehead pressed to yours, his hand gripping your waist as he thrust in slowly, deep, claiming you like he meant it. He was so big, so thick and veiny. Heavy on top of you, metal arm braced beside your head.
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he rasped. “Always dreamed of it being like this. Of being yours.”
“You are,” you whispered, seeing stars. “You’ve only ever been mine.”
He groaned against your throat and fucked you with everything he had, slow and worshipful, but every time your hips met, he whimpered like it was too much, like it wasn’t his cock sliding in and out of your sopping pussy. The candlelight danced across his skin, sweat glistening on his back as he hovered over you, panting against your mouth, begging softly with every thrust.
“Tell me I’m yours,” he begged, practically growling into your mouth.
“M-mine, James, fuck. You’re—mine.”
“That’s right,” he moaned. “I’m yours. And you’re mine. My perfect girl. My fuckin’ everything.”
Bucky’s obsessed with you, with your pussy, with the warmth of the cabin and being where he belongs, here, with you—loving you. His lips are all over you—biting, sucking, kissing your throat, your tits, your mouth. You look up at him and roll out your tongue, eyes glassy. His hips stuttered for a moment before he spat in your mouth, watched you swallowed with this groan that sounded like he’s in pain.
His cock dragged along your walls, bruised your cervix, making you sob. Your nails dragged across his back as his dog tags dangled in your face. “Fucking me so good,” you moaned, kissing his ear.
“You’re so good,” he panted. “Takin’ it so well, my sweet girl.”
He pulled out halfway, smiling briefly when you whined.
And then—he slammed back in, hips snapping hard, cock punching into your cunt so deep you scream.
“Please,” he whispered. “Let me make up for everything.”
“You already are,” you breathed, toes tingling and the coil in your chest tightening. “I love you, Buck.”
He kissed you again, messy and open-mouthed, your tongues tangling, breath mixing, spit shining your lips. He was so deep, so thick inside you, and when he angled his hips just right, you cried out, clutching his back, nails digging in.
“Gonna come,” you gasped, drooling a bit, pussy gushing.
“Do it,” Bucky said, desperate. He kissed you again, licked the edge of your mouth. “Come for me, sweet girl. God, I need it.”
He pressed his chest harder against yours, fucked into you harder. Your breath stuttered as white flashed across your gaze and the coil in your chest unravelled and you cummed, body wracked with pleasure.
His name left your mouth like a prayer. You pulled him down, kissed his cheeks, his neck, held his face in your hands as you whispered the words he’d waited a lifetime to hear.
“Come inside me”
He stilled, shuddered. His eyes found yours, full of disbelief and adoration.
“Please,” you said, eyes almost rolling back. “I’ve only ever belonged to you.”
He surged forward, pressed his lips hard against yours as he cummed with a broken moan, hips rocking, cock pulsing inside you as he whispered your name over and over. He fucked his cum into you, collapsed into your arms, buried his face in your neck.
“I love you,” Bucky breathed out, pressing a soft kiss under your ear.
You hummed, ran your fingers through his hair, feeling full and content. “And I love you.”
Neither of you moved for a long time.
Eventually, he shifted, just enough to pull the blankets over you both. His body stayed half on top of yours, your arms around his waist, holding him tightly.
Outside, the snow fell silently.
Inside, wrapped in each other’s arms, you both had finally found home.
That was beautiful! And made me cry - at 9 in the morning. You have a way of describing their emotions and reactions that is just heart breaking and fantastic! ❤️
Summary: An ongoing story following you, the quiet presence who keeps everything running, always helping but never truly seen or included. Not by Bucky, not by the rest of the Avengers, not even by your own coworkers. You’re simply the quiet, unseen support: diligent, unnoticed, and ultimately forgotten.
Disclaimer & A/N: This little series is still WIP, so the summary is left relatively vague as to not give out spoilers. There may also be more than four parts.
autism is not a horrible disease that ruins lives and tears apart families. elon musk, who is autistic and an evil billionaire who doesn't pay taxes, has ruined thousands of lives, and whose family hates him, is a statistical outlier adn should not have been counted
Title: We Couldn’t Stop
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader x Steve Rogers
Summary: During a sweep of a forgotten HYDRA lab, you, Steve, and Bucky trigger an old aerosol dispersal system. No one realizes what hit you until it’s too late. Now stuck in quarantine- burning, aching, and caged in with two dominant, unraveling super soldiers- you’re forced to ride out the drug’s effects together.
Word Count: 7k
Warnings: / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Sex Pollen / Drugged Lust, Threesome MFM, Dubious Consent (due to drug influence), Double Penetration, Oral (F & M receiving), Praise Kink, Rough Sex/Overstimulationm Fingering, anal ply, cum play, Competitive Doms
A/N: my entry for @avengers-assemble-bingo for April Kinky Bingo
Square: A3- Threesome
Card Number: KB003
The mission was supposed to be a simple sweep- an old HYDRA lab buried deep beneath the forest floor, long abandoned, just a routine retrieval run for leftover tech and encrypted files that could pose a threat if they fell into the wrong hands. You, Steve, and Bucky had done that sort of thing more times than you could count. Clear the rooms, grab the drives, secure any volatile tech, and call for extraction. In and out. Easy.
You should’ve known better the moment you stepped inside. The facility was too quiet, too intact. Dust settled thick on the floors, but the lights still flickered dimly overhead, and the security systems were half-alive, humming low like they were waiting.
You were the one who found the sealed door- reinforced, heavily protected, and drawing power. It was locked down tight, tucked at the end of a corridor where the flickering lights didn’t quite reach. You called the others over.
"You think it’s storage?" Bucky asked, frowning at the biometric pad.
"Locked and powered," you muttered. "Could be data. Or maybe just a lab they forgot to scrub."
"Let's not poke the bear," Steve said, but he stepped up beside you anyway, scanning the door. "Looks like it's sealed for a reason."
That should've been the moment you backed off. But your fingers were already dancing over the keypad, overriding the old security system. The panel blinked. Clicked.
"I’ve almost got- "
The door hissed. Not wide- barely a few inches.
A soft spray hit you all in the face.
It came fast. Silent. A puff of pressurized mist like compressed air, followed by the faintest scent- ozone, chemical sweetness, almost floral.
You stumbled back, coughing once.
"What the hell was that?" Bucky barked, wiping his face with his sleeve.
Steve grabbed your arm, pulling you away from the door. "You okay? Did you breathe it in?"
"Yeah, but- I don’t feel anything."
"We’re all covered in it," Bucky snapped, glaring at the faint sheen settling over Steve’s shoulders. "Fucking hell."
"Close it," Steve ordered.
Bucky slammed the door shut, sealing it again with a growl. "Old security measure. Shit."
"We’ll report it," Steve said, but his jaw was clenched.
The spray clung to your skin. Sweet. Heavy. And whatever it was, it was in all three of you now.
~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~
By the time the jet touched down back at the compound, you were already flushed and aching, your heart thudding too fast in your chest. Whatever had come out of that door- it clung to your skin, settled in your lungs, and made everything inside you feel off. You weren’t the only one affected. Bucky was pacing the perimeter of the quinjet like a caged animal. Steve hadn’t spoken for the last twenty minutes, but his white-knuckled grip on the back of a seat said everything.
You’d hoped the decontamination shower would be the end of it. But blood was still taken. Swabs run over your skin. Scans. More questions. Until finally, they left the three of you in the quarantine room- one sterile space, no outside contact, and cameras in every corner.
You wanted to apologize. This had been your mistake. But Bucky’s expression was pure storm as he continued to pace like a tiger in a zoo. Steve’s face was unreadable- steely, distant, controlled. So you kept your mouth shut and tried not to scratch at your skin like you desperately wanted.
Soft static crackled, and then Tony’s voice filled the room over the speaker. "It’s biochemical bonding serum," he said. "Looks like it's engineered to push subjects into a state of hyperarousal and submission, designed to override inhibition and drive instinctual behaviors."
Your stomach dropped. What kind of mess had you landed yourself in?
"How long?" Bucky snapped, voice sharp.
"We'll have to check back on the decay and metabolic rate, and we- "
"What Bruce means is- we don't know," Tony cut in. "For you guys, it might be a matter of hours. Little Miss Curiosity might be stuck with it in her system a little longer."
You flinched and shied away from the speaker, burying your face in your hands.
"We're working on it, don't stress. It shouldn't kill you," Tony added casually.
"Big fucking whoop," Bucky growled, pressing a fist into the wall. Steve shot him a look of disproval.
"Buck.." His tone warning.
"Just, try and stay calm, guys," Bruce said, trying to sound optimistic. "It'll be alright."
"Don’t make a mess," Tony said, his voice laced with sarcasm. "We’ll keep you posted."
And just like that, you were cut off again.
Biochemical- engineered arousal.
"Well, you heard him," Steve sighed, leaning back against the wall, scrubbing a hand over his face. "We just have to keep our heads. It can’t last forever."
That was easy for him to say. Both Steve and Bucky had super soldier serum in their veins- enhanced bodies that could regulate, adapt, maybe even resist. You… you were human. And you could already feel your body reacting in ways that made your skin itch and your blood feel like it was boiling.
You didn't say anything. Just shifted your weight, trying not to squirm. The heat beneath your skin pulsed steadily now, like it was alive.
"This is fucked," Bucky muttered, pacing again. "They just dumped us in here like we’re some kind of experiment."
"They’re doing what they can," Steve said, tone calm but tight. "We don’t know enough yet. Getting worked up won’t help."
You glanced between them, heart racing. The tension in the room was building again, only this time it wasn’t from anger- it was something heavier. Thicker. Clinging to the air like smoke.
And under it all, that hum beneath your skin only grew louder.
Hours had passed.
You'd started pacing a little while ago, unable to sit still. Movement helped. Not much- but it was something. You were going through the water they'd left in the room like you were dying of thirst. You were hot, sticky, your tank damp and clinging to your body, and you were doing everything you could to ignore the throbbing pulse between your legs.
You kept moving. Pacing. Trying to shake it off.
Steve watched from the far cot, jaw tight. His shirt was damp, his breath shallow, but he was sitting like he was trying to pretend everything was normal.
Bucky was pacing again, eyes locked on you more often than not, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. “She smells different,” he muttered. “Fuck.”
His words made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The rough, raw sound of his voice made your head twitch like it was a physical thing pulling at you.
"Gonna try and sleep," you muttered, not looking at either of them.
Maybe you'd be able to sleep through the worst of it. Maybe if you were lucky, your body would calm down. You slipped behind the thin curtain, stepping into the tiny corner of privacy around your cot. Laying down, the heat of your body only seemed to intensify. Your skin felt suffocated, and with a frustrated sigh, you peeled your tank top over your head, leaving you in just your bra, hoping the exposure would help you breathe easier.
It didn’t.
You curled onto your side, arms around your stomach, thighs pressed tight together. The ache between your legs was a constant, heavy throb now. Maybe… maybe you could just handle your own needs. Just enough to take the edge off. Anything to ease the ache.
Your hands trembled as you pulled the thin blanket around you and lay on the cot. There was a small curtain for privacy, but it did nothing to muffle the sounds when your fingers slipped beneath your waistband.
You tried to be quiet. Tried to hold your breath. But your body was on fire, and even the gentlest brush of your fingers sent you bucking.
A whimper escaped, broken and desperate.
And then you heard it- Steve’s voice. Low. Strained.
“Don’t- don’t do that.”
You froze. “I- I can’t- ”
Still, you didn’t stop. You rubbed faster, then slower, your fingers diving inside of you, pressing deeper, trying every angle- but nothing worked. Every shift of your hand sent sparks across your nerves, your breath hitching with each pulse of pressure, but the fire wouldn’t break. Your legs trembled, your toes curled, but it all stayed out of reach.
You changed angles, tried circling your clit with trembling fingers while your other hand held onto the edge of the cot like it could ground you. You rocked your hips up, whispered pleas into the dark, but it wasn’t enough. Not even close. You needed more- needed them- but all you had were your own shaking hands and the unbearable ache growing between your legs.
Your breath hitched again as frustration bloomed hot and frantic in your chest. You were soaking, your thighs slick, the air sticky with the scent of your arousal. Your skin was flushed and clammy, your body locked in this endless loop of need- and yet you still couldn’t fall over that edge. Not like this. Not alone.
"You gonna keep pretending you don’t want her?" Bucky asked, voice low and rough, growling on the other side of the curtain.
Steve didn’t move at first, but his voice followed, strained. "I can smell her arousal from here, Buck. You think I’m not affected?"
"She’s whimpering, Steve. Sounds like music to me."
"We’re not doing this. We can’t- "
"Fuck this. She needs someone."
"Don’t you fucking touch her," Steve snapped.
"Then you do something," Bucky fired back.
Silence followed. You pressed your fingers deeper, hips rocking, but it wasn’t working. You were going to explode- your body was wound so tight it hurt.
Your fingers weren’t enough. You begged, voice cracking, desperate and broken.
"Please... please someone- "
Someone pulled the curtain back.
Bucky’s eyes were dark. Blown wide. He didn’t speak.
It hurt. “I can’t…” you whimpered, barely able to speak. “It’s not working…”
Your hips shifted again instinctively, your fingers still caught between your thighs, but the tension was unbearable. You were so wet, so swollen with need, it was maddening- and yet release stayed just out of reach. Your body craved more than your own touch could give.
They both appeared, stepping past the curtain without a word. You could see it in their faces- this was affecting them just as much. Steve’s eyes were dark, jaw clenched. Bucky looked wrecked, barely human with how sharp and hungry his expression had become.
You writhed again on the cot, body shaking, and Steve moved first- his weight shifting over you as he pressed your shoulders down into the mattress with steady, unyielding hands.
"Stay still," he said, voice gravel-thick.
At the same time, Bucky grabbed your wrist and gently pulled your hand away from you.
You whined, hips arched up, as Bucky’s gaze dropped to your slick fingers. He looked transfixed. Obsessed. His mouth parted before he dragged his tongue along your digits, groaning low in his chest at the taste.
Then- without breaking eye contact- he brought your hand to Steve.
"Tell me again we shouldn’t do this," Bucky said, voice rough and knowing.
Steve hesitated, staring at your hand, your eyes, then your body.
"...Steve?" you pleaded, chest heaving. A bead of sweat slid down your ribs, slicking your skin as the heat inside you pulsed like a second heartbeat. "Help... please."
Steve’s jaw flexed. His eyes raked over your flushed, trembling body, lingering where your bra had ridden up from the way you were squirming, the curve of your thighs glistening in the low light.
Bucky didn’t speak. He just stood there beside him, wild-eyed and rigid, chest rising and falling with short, shallow breaths. The scent of you filled the air. Thick. Sweet. Desperate.
Steve exhaled through his nose, heavy and slow like he was trying to exhale restraint. It didn’t work.
"You’re going to regret begging so pretty, sweetheart," he murmured, finally moving closer, the promise behind his words like thunder rolling through your veins.
~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~
They were both on you.
You didn’t know who moved first- Steve’s hand slid up your thigh, firm and sure, while Bucky’s mouth was suddenly at your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. The tension shattered. Clothing came off in frantic tugs- your joggers peeled away, your bra unclasped and discarded. Steve’s tank was tossed aside. Bucky’s sweats hit the floor with a low rustle.
Heat and skin and breath surrounded you. Their bodies pressed in, solid and hot and overwhelming. Steve's chest pinned you down as he kissed you- hard and consuming- his tongue sliding against yours as he groaned into your mouth. His hands cupped your jaw, fingers splayed, tilting your head how he wanted it.
Bucky moved lower, lips trailing down your throat, teeth scraping along your collarbone. His hands gripped your hips, dragging you down the cot toward him with a roughness that made you moan. He kissed your stomach, your ribs, your inner thighs, worshipping each inch like it belonged to him.
You gasped, arching into the touch of both of them. Their mouths- wet and demanding. Their bodies- slick with sweat, grinding against you like they couldn't get close enough.
You'd all held out for so long. Now there was nothing but the letting go.
Every nerve ending in your body sparked like live wires with every touch- every graze of skin against skin sent jolts of unbearable sensation through you. It was impossible to stay still. Your limbs twitched, your hips rocked, your breath came in short, gasping pulls as your body tried to process too much, too fast.
“Don’t move,” Steve growled, voice rough but laced with something gentler beneath. “Too sensitive? No. You’re just not used to being handled right.”
Bucky pushed your legs open wider, guiding your knees apart until your calves hung off the edge of the cot, completely exposed, completely theirs.
“She’s soaking,” Bucky breathed. “Fucking hell- she’s dripping down her thighs.”
The cool air kissed your slick folds and made you shiver. Then his hand slid between your thighs again, and fingers plunged into you- two, maybe three. You didn’t even know whose they were anymore.
Steve’s mouth found your chest, teeth grazing over the top curve of your breast before his lips closed around your nipple. You sobbed, your body already arching upward from the overload.
The blonde growled against your skin, one hand gripping your jaw while the other tangled in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to bow your spine upward. You gasped, helpless, writhing between them, your body trembling from overstimulation.
“You’re taking it so well,” Steve murmured, voice low and rough. “Just like that. Good girl.”
“Look at her,” Bucky snarled. “That’s it, sweetheart- ride my hand. Come on. Take what you need.”
His fingers worked deep inside you, curling and thrusting, hitting that spot that made your legs twitch and your hips lift off the cot. His palm pressed against your clit with every motion, grinding you into the edge of bliss, holding you there with cruel precision. You could feel everything. Every ridge of his knuckles, every flex of his wrist. It was too much and not enough all at once.
You whimpered, your hands scrambling against the sheets, seeking something to hold onto as your body rocked with each relentless stroke. Steve bit gently at the underside of your jaw, his hand still twisted in your hair as he whispered praises that barely reached your ears over the rushing roar of need building inside you.
Steve’s mouth was on your chest again, sucking one nipple into the heat of his mouth while his hand massaged the other, groping you with a needy rhythm that only made it harder to breathe. His other hand had tangled itself in your hair again, gently tugging until your spine arched up off the cot, your body straining toward both of them.
Bucky’s metal thumb pressed into your clit, circling with just enough pressure to make your thighs jerk. Your breath hitched, head tipping back as you let out a broken moan.
"OH FUCK." you cried, fingers clawing at the side of the cot, knuckles white.
He didn’t stop. His fingers pumped into you, slick and steady, coaxing the sound out of your throat again and again. You felt like you were vibrating- nerve endings lit up with fire, each touch sparking through you like electricity.
“You hear that, punk?” Bucky’s voice dripped with ego. “That’s the sound of my fingers making her cry.”
Steve shifted beside you, sitting up to watch, his eyes locked on where Bucky's fingers slid in and out of you. One of his hands moved down, low and out of sight, and you could see the tension in his jaw as he fought to keep control.
Bucky glanced back at him, grinning as he curled his fingers just right and made you cry out again.
"Look at her, Stevie," Bucky growled, his voice rough and ragged with arousal. He didn’t even look up, just watched his fingers slide in and out of you like it was the most important thing in the world. "She’s writhing just from my fingers. What happens when I put my cock in?"
"You’ll wait," Steve snapped, voice sharp, strained with barely checked control. He was flushed, jaw tight, clearly fighting the same battle Bucky was already losing.
"God, look at her," Bucky muttered again, breath coming faster. "Fuck, I want her mouth. I want every part."
You couldn’t answer. Your vision blurred. Every nerve in your body felt like it had snapped tight, vibrating with unbearable pressure.
And then it broke.
You came- hard.
Your whole body convulsed as the orgasm tore through you. Your legs kicked against the cot, arms flailing blindly for purchase. Steve had to hold you down, one hand braced across your chest, the other still tangled in your hair as your back arched and a strangled sob tore from your throat.
It didn’t end quickly. The drug made it last- your climax dragging on and on, crashing over you in waves so powerful they left you gasping, wrecked.
You felt Bucky’s fingers slow inside you, easing off just enough to let you ride it out without breaking. But they didn’t stop touching you. They didn’t let you go.
And worst of all, the haze in your head didn’t clear like you hoped it would.
You were still shaking. Still needy.
Still burning.
You were a panting mess, your skin still hot and your chest tight when one of them scooped you up and lay you out on the cool floor. The shock of it made you gasp, the chill a sudden relief against your fevered skin. You blinked your eyes open, dazed, limbs slack and breath ragged.
"You’re such a mess for us, baby," Bucky murmured, crouched above you now. His voice was low, ruined with hunger. "That sweet little body of yours wasn’t made to handle all this, was it?"
Your eyes found him- Bucky, kneeling near your face now, his cock hard and leaking, so close it blurred your thoughts. He looked feral, undone, lips parted like he was barely restraining himself.
Your tongue slipped out to lick your lips without thinking. The taste of your own sweat clung to your skin, but all you could focus on was him. The way his chest rose and fell, the way his fist clenched at his thigh.
Your mind narrowed to a single point of clarity.
You wanted him in your mouth.
You leaned forward slowly, licking the bead of precum off his tip before taking him in fully- hungry, needy, your lips stretching around the thick, velvet length of him. Bucky’s breath stuttered, and he let out a ragged groan as your mouth sealed around him.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he gasped, one hand flying to your hair, not to guide but to anchor himself. “So fucking pretty like this- taking me so deep. Look at those lips- look at that mouth.”
You moaned around him, the vibrations making him hiss. He was hot, heavy, pulsing against your tongue, and you hollowed your cheeks to take him deeper, until your nose pressed against the base and he swore low under his breath.
“Messy little mouth,” Bucky panted. “So eager. You needed this, didn’t you? Needed something to suck while we ruin the rest of you.”
You were lost in it- the taste of him, the heat, the way he twitched when your tongue flicked just right. Spit gathered at the corners of your mouth as you worked him with sloppy desperation, gagging slightly as you bobbed your head in a steady rhythm.
Just then, you felt Steve’s hands at your hips, steady and sure. He shifted your lower body, pulling your legs open and up until you were spread out for him on the floor.
“You liked Buck's fingers? Let’s see how you do on my cock,” Steve growled against your ear, his voice dark and thick with restraint.
You gasped around Bucky’s cock, the moan caught in your throat turning into a garbled sound of pleasure as Steve aligned himself behind you. His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you wide as his tip pressed against your entrance- already slick, fluttering, aching.
He pushed in slow, filling you inch by inch, and every nerve inside you lit up in electric spasms. Your muscles fluttered around him, clenching and pulsing as he stretched you open, the thick drag of him stealing your breath.
The pressure, the fullness, the stretch- it was overwhelming. You sobbed around Bucky, the vibration of your moan making him groan above you, his hips twitching as he fought not to thrust.
Steve bottomed out with a hiss, his hands gripping tighter like he needed the anchor. Inside you, he throbbed, deep and perfect. You felt stretched to the edge of your limits, your inner walls fluttering in frantic spasms around him, struggling to adjust and clench all at once. Your body didn’t know what to do- pull him in deeper or push him out.
It was too much. It was everything. Your head was spinning.
They started to move- slow at first. Steve dragging back only to sink in again, deliberate, controlled, while Bucky’s cock bumped the back of your throat as he rocked forward with a groan. You gagged, whined, clung to them both with your mouth and body.
You were stuck in it now. The lust. The drug. The heat. There was no thought left, only sensation. Only how it felt to be stretched open in two directions, trembling and gasping.
They didn’t talk to you anymore. They talked about you.
“She’s so sensitive,” Bucky growled. “Poor thing doesn’t know what to do with herself.”
Steve grunted, his pace picking up. “Tight as hell. She’s pulsing like she doesn’t know whether she wants to come or cry.”
You tried to moan but it came out a broken, garbled sound around Bucky’s cock. Your tongue dragged along the underside of him as he pushed deeper, your throat fluttering as you swallowed around the stretch. Spit dripped from the corners of your mouth, tears tracking down your cheeks, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.
Bucky’s hand tightened at the back of your head, not forcing, just holding you there, gazing down into your wet, dazed eyes. “That’s it, baby,” he groaned. “Fuck, look at you drooling all over me. You love it, don’t you?”
Your hips rocked back into Steve without meaning to as he thrust forward again, harder this time, grinding deep. Your nerves fired like sparks, the friction of his cock dragging against hypersensitive flesh sending bursts of pressure low in your belly. Your insides coiled, pleasure building with every thick, deliberate thrust, your body wound so tight it felt like you might snap apart.
“You’re doing so well for us,” Steve grunted, leaning down, his mouth hot at your ear. “Such a good girl, letting us use you like this.”
He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, changing the angle, driving in deeper. The stretch made you cry out around Bucky’s cock, throat flexing as your moan turned to a sob.
"That's it," Steve growled, pace quickening. "Fuck, so fucking wet and warm... you gonna cum, sweetheart? Gotta feel you squeeze me while you swallow Bucky."
Your body arched, heat crashing through your spine as Steve hit that perfect spot again and again, each thrust sending a jolt through your core. Your throat tightened around Bucky's cock, the vibration of your desperate moans making him curse under his breath.
“Fuck- she’s so close,” Steve panted, driving harder. “You feel that? She’s fucking pulsing.”
You sobbed around Bucky, tears streaking your cheeks, the pressure in your belly a coil tightening with no escape.
“She’s gonna lose it,” Bucky panted, watching the way you writhed. “Look at how she’s trembling. She needs cock.”
And then it snapped.
Your climax hit like a bolt of lightning, seizing your body with white-hot tension as your inner walls clamped down around Steve’s cock. You wailed around Bucky’s length, the cry vibrating through him as he let out a guttural groan.
“Fuck, that mouth- ” Bucky growled, watching your teary eyes roll back. “I’m gonna- shit- ”
He spilled down your throat with a grunt, his cock twitching between your lips, his hand holding you steady as you swallowed every drop of him while he pulsed.
The clenching spasms of your climax milked Steve mercilessly, dragging his own orgasm from him with a ragged curse. He slammed in deep, staying buried as he came hard, filling you with warmth that only made the pleasure burn hotter.
“Take it,” he groaned, his breath broken against your shoulder. “Take it all. Good fucking girl.”
Bucky sat back on his heels, pulling himself from your mouth with a wet pop, still hard, his cock glistening with your spit. “"Fuck... you’re unreal..." he panted, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing..pupils blown as he looked down at you.
Steve finally pulled out with a groan, the loss of him sudden and jarring, making you whimper. His cum followed, warm and slick as it dripped from your stretched pussy, pooling between your thighs.
His gaze dropped between your legs, transfixed. His eyes went heavy-lidded as he watched it leak from you, dripping down to your slick, twitching rim. Slowly, his fingers moved to your core, smearing the mess down lower, spreading it deliberately to your other entrance.
You gasped, twitching from aftershocks, your body still sensitive everywhere. His fingertip teased your tight hole, rubbing softly, slicking it with a practiced ease. You whimpered, already overwhelmed, but the moan that spilled from you was pure need.
“Damn, Stevie- you didn’t fuck her right if she’s still aching like this,” Bucky drawled, voice hoarse and edged with a smirk, watching the way your hips shifted restlessly on the floor.
You whimpered, the heat still rolling inside you, every nerve ending alive and twitching. The aftershocks made your muscles flutter, your body too sensitive and still so hungry. Steve didn’t bite back. He was too focused- his fingers slick with his own cum as he spread it lower, smearing it over your pussy and then circling your tight, twitching rim.
And then one thick finger pressed inward.
You gasped, whole body jolting, a broken sound catching in your throat as your body tried to clamp down instinctively. But Steve worked slowly, steadily, easing the finger deeper, the stretch sharp and slow as he began to work you open.
You felt your core clench around nothing as Steve worked his finger deeper. “I need- please, I need more, I can’t- ” you gasped, voice trembling. Your head was a mess, fogged with lust and the aftershocks still sparking under your skin. Steve kept up the slow pump of his finger, pushing in deeper, working more of his cum into your ass to keep you slick and open.
“Hear that, Steve?” Bucky said, voice thick with amusement, already fisting his own cock in lazy, slow strokes. “She wants more.”
Steve’s gaze didn’t waver, his finger sinking deeper, curling. You whimpered again.
“Can’t say no, can we?” Bucky added, grinning.
“Oh, I think I know exactly what our girl needs...” Steve muttered, voice thick with heat and control, as his hand disappeared between your thighs.
Steve pulled his finger from your ass just as Bucky got down onto the floor, reaching out to haul you up into his lap. Steve’s arms hooking under yours, supporting your limp, boneless body as they moved you together like you weighed nothing.
“Let’s get you on Buck now...” Steve purred near your ear, voice thick and smooth, a slow heat curling down your spine.
Bucky’s cock was already there- thick, hard, and waiting. They guided you together, Steve steadying you from behind while Bucky angled his cock to your entrance.
As Steve lowered you, your legs wrapped weakly around Bucky’s hips, and you felt the first stretch as his tip slid inside. A guttural groan ripped from Bucky’s throat, his hands tightening on your thighs.
“Fuck, baby,” he gritted out, voice rough and reverent. “You always take me so damn good. Still so fucking tight- even after Steve blew you open? Shit.”
“That’s a girl,” Steve murmured, voice low with praise. “Nice and slow... Want you to feel every inch of him, don’t you?”
You just whimpered and nodded, the need to be filled consuming, overwhelming, as the pair of them helped you sink down onto Bucky’s cock, inch by perfect inch.
Your head fell back against Steve’s shoulder as you settled fully onto Bucky, who thrust up into you with steady pressure. The heat and stretch made your whole body tremble. You could barely breathe, still twitching from your earlier climax. Then Bucky's hands gripped your hips tight.
“Oh fuck,” he hissed, hips rolling upward as he began to move you, guiding you into a rhythm. “Look at you. Still aching. Like how I feel doll?”
The moan that spilled from your mouth didn’t even sound like you anymore- wrecked, raw, and desperate.
You were unraveling under Bucky’s rhythm- the way he filled you had your mind slipping, your thoughts scattering with every deep, slow thrust, how every thrust hit deep, high inside, brushing against that spot that made you shudder. Your head lolled back onto Steve’s shoulder, eyes fluttering, lips parted around desperate little gasps.
“She bites her lip when I go deep. You see that?” Bucky said with a rough chuckle, voice wrecked but smug. “She likes my rhythm.”
You didn’t even notice the way Steve bent you forward over Bucky, hands guiding your body like you were something precious and fragile and already ruined.
You didn’t have time to think too much before you felt Bucky’s hands grip your ass, pulling you open as Steve shifted behind you. It wasn’t until the thick, spongy head of his cock pressed against somewhere you’d never let anyone touch that your eyes snapped open in surprise.
The first inch pushed into your ass slowly, carefully, but it still stole your breath.
“It’s too much- I can’t- wait- ” you gasped, voice cracking with overwhelmed panic as your body instinctively tried to jerk away.
But Bucky rocked his hips upward, pushing deep into your pussy again, and the shockwave of pleasure was enough to paralyze your resistance.
“Shh... it’s okay,” Steve murmured, arms wrapping around you from behind as he continued to press in. His voice was thick and coaxing, his control iron-tight. “I’ve got you. You’re doing so good for us.”
You sobbed, your whole body fluttering around them as Steve sank in deeper, the thin wall between your holes trembling with every inch he took. The two of them groaned in unison, voices rough and reverent as they filled you together.
You were caught between them now. Two super soldiers, all three of you lost in lust and need. Your face twisted with sensation as they held you there- one thick cock filling your pussy, the other spreading your ass open inch by inch. Both sunk to the hilt. You were impossibly full. You were shaking. Overwhelmed. Unable to process the stretch, the heat, the drag of their bodies inside you. It was too much. And you needed more.
“You’re both so… big- I’m gonna- fuck- ” you sobbed. You couldn’t believe how sensitive you’d become- how just being filled, just being stretched, could reduce you to this. You weren’t even moving, yet your body was already bracing to come undone again. There was no going back. No holding on. Just surrender.
You came without moving, the sensation of fullness alone tipping you over. Your body seized in the middle, core clenching violently, squeezing down on both of them at once as pleasure ripped through you like a lightning bolt.
Your voice cracked into a scream. You were gone- shaking, convulsing, burning from the inside out as your orgasm dragged through you with devastating force.
Both of them groaned at the way your body squeezed them- tight and hot and trembling.
“Fuck,” Bucky grunted, rocking his hips once more. “Didn’t even have to move. Just had to be inside you.”
Steve chuckled darkly, voice low and wrecked in your ear. “She’s that sensitive. That fucking perfect.”
You couldn’t even answer. Your lips parted in a silent gasp as Steve’s hands slid up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing across your stiff nipples as he started to move again. Slowly at first, easing back before pressing forward, dragging against that thin wall with every thick stroke.
Bucky's grip returned to your hips, steady and possessive, guiding you to rise and fall on his cock. Your body jolted with every motion, your moans soft and slurred.
“That’s it,” Steve cooed, hips snapping gently. “We’ll start slow…”
“I-I can’t- ” you whimpered, but your body was already moving, driven by instinct and need.
“I know you can take more,” he murmured. “Look how beautiful you are when you come apart. It'll feel better- just gotta keep going.”
And it did. It felt better than the denial. Better than the ache that came from holding back. The pleasure rolled through you like a drug, heavy and all-consuming.
Your hips started to move again, slowly grinding into Bucky as your walls fluttered around him. You didn’t know if it was need or instinct- maybe both- but you couldn’t stop. You were cock-drunk. Barely aware of anything except how good it felt to be filled this way.
“Breathe,” Steve whispered. “Just like that. Hold it- good girl.”
Then Steve pulled your hips back into him and pressed all the way in.
“You think you’re fucking her deep?” Steve growled at Bucky, voice low and wild. “Watch this.”
Bucky shoved his hand flat to your lower stomach and lifted his hips with a brutal thrust. You cried out, the stretch making your eyes roll back as he ground up into you. It was obscene how deep he reached, how thick he felt. You pawed at his chest, clinging to him with trembling fingers.
“..fuck fuck fuck...” you gasped, the breath knocked out of you before he eased his hips again, smug and steady.
“Told ya,” Bucky muttered with a grin.
But it didn’t stop there.
Bucky answered your gasps with harder thrusts. Steve listened for his name and answered with praise. His mouth latched to your neck, nipping and licking along your skin as he squeezed your breasts roughly, molding them in his palms.
“Did you hear that one? That was mine,” Steve muttered against your skin when you gasped his name.
Bucky answered with a sharp thrust that made your breath catch. “She moaned louder for me, sweetheart. Don’t get cocky.”
Each of them was locked into the game- testing reactions, adjusting pace, trying to claim the sounds that spilled from your lips. One made you cry out, the other drew a gasp. They used your body like a live wire for their competition, and you were helpless in the storm.
“She whimpers when I kiss her right here,” he growled, biting just beneath your ear.
Bucky’s hands gripped your hips tighter, fucking up into you hard enough to rock you against Steve’s chest. “She clenched around me when you said that,” he rasped. “Bet she’s trying to pick a favourite.”
You couldn’t keep up. Couldn’t think. You only managed to gasp whatever name escaped your lips first, and they both heard it- every time. And they responded with sharper thrusts, filthier praise.
“You’re so cock-drunk, you don’t even know who’s making you come anymore, do you?” Bucky said, voice rough.
“She’s beautiful like this,” Steve murmured, licking the sweat off your throat. “All wrecked. All ours.”
Then Bucky’s metal hand slid between your thighs again. His fingers brushed your clit, the coolness of steel a shocking chill of metal against your heat made you jolt, gasping as sparks danced up your spine.
“Oh- god - fuck- ” you sobbed, trembling uncontrollably as sparks shot up your spine.
“Breathe,” Steve ordered again. “Just like that. That’s our girl.”
They started to move faster now- driving into you in sync, pistoning in perfect rhythm. The slap of skin echoed, the slick sounds of your soaked cunt and the obscene wet pressure of being filled from both ends breaking whatever was left of your mind.
“You want to make her come, punk?” Bucky growled. “You gotta fuck her harder than that.”
“Shut up, jerk,” Steve snarled, thrusting harder. “We don’t need to break her. Just ruin her a little longer.”
“She’s shaking so bad. You keep her steady, Steve- I wanna see her face when she comes again.”
Your next orgasm ripped through you with a small wail, your features contorting as your body locked up tight. You clawed at them both- gripping Steve’s forearm, Bucky’s shoulder- as your walls fluttered around their cocks, milking them, begging for more without a word.
They didn’t stop. Didn’t give you time to come down. Steve groaned, his thrusts picking up as he rolled your nipples between his fingers. Bucky cursed, gripping your hips tighter, lifting and dropping you into him with growing urgency.
You felt them both losing control- felt their restraint slipping with every second you squeezed around them, heat and slickness pouring down your thighs.
“Fuck- fuck, she’s doing it again,” Bucky grunted.
Steve’s voice was a low growl in your ear. “She wants it. She’s not done. Not till we are.”
Then the pace shifted- harder, rougher, deeper. Their moans grew louder, matched only by the slap of skin on skin. Your head spun, your vision blurred.
And then they were coming again- Steve first, pulled tight to your back, his groan muffled in your shoulder. Then Bucky, buried deep beneath you, eyes locked on yours as he spilled inside you with a strangled moan.
You collapsed between them, limp and boneless, your body a trembling wreck held up only by their hands. You didn’t even try to move. There was no fight left in you- only the slow hum of satisfaction and overstimulation. Somewhere in the haze of your mind, a flicker of disbelief passed through you- how had you endured that? How had you survived the storm of them inside you? But there was no room for shame or second thoughts. Only surrender. And the quiet, overwhelming hum of being utterly, deliciously wrecked.
You were too dazed to understand what was happening at first, the haze still thick behind your eyes. The humming under your skin hadn’t stopped, but it had dulled- muted to a low thrum that echoed in your bones. They were careful, even if your overstimulated body didn’t register it that way.
You whined, squirming, as they slowly pulled out of you. The stretch reversed, the heat slipping away, leaving you empty and raw. It wasn’t pain, but your body protested the loss with soft whimpers.
Someone pressed a water bottle to your lips, coaxing you to sip. You obeyed without thought, the coolness trickling down your throat a small mercy.
Another set of hands gently wiped you down. A cold, damp cloth slid between your legs, easing away the slick mess with slow, tender strokes.
Then your head was lowered into someone’s lap. Fingers carded through your hair.
“You did so well,” Steve murmured. “Look at you- perfect.”
You blinked slowly. Steve’s voice again, closer now: “Easy, sweetheart. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”
Your limbs twitched weakly, still responding to phantom pleasure. A quiet laugh came from Bucky.
“Still twitching. Still fucking gorgeous.”
You felt him kissing up your leg, mouth trailing along your calf, your knee, your inner thigh.
Then your legs were being moved again- lifted, spread with a gentleness that contrasted starkly with the earlier frenzy. There was no rush now, no urgency- just the soft reverence of Bucky's hands as he cradled your thighs like something precious, something breakable, as though he hadn’t just wrecked you minutes ago. You blinked, barely aware, as Bucky settled himself between them, laying flat, his breath hot against your oversensitive core.
He pressed a kiss there, soft and reverent, and your whole body jolted in response.
“And I’m not done tasting her,” he muttered, voice thick with need.
“Buck- she needs to recover,” Steve warned again, but his voice had softened to something indulgent.
“I’ll be gentle…” Bucky promised, his mouth already lowering, tongue dragging slow and careful over your aching folds as your head lolled back into Steve lap, eyes fluttering closed, lost to the warmth and the wetness and the impossible pleasure building again
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, smut (p in v sex, fingering, face sitting), the light angst, light fluff too, love confession, no-filter curse
Summary/Warnings: You're not cursed. You don't feel anything wrong. If anything, you feel better, because there's a weight lifted off your tongue that lets you say whatever you want.
And most of what you want is Dean.
Author's Note: Request from @deans-yn! This one was very silly and horny (the sweet spot). Enjoy!!!
Word Count: 8.2k
“Are you sure-“
“I’m fine.” You shoot Sam a glare over the table. “I’m not dead, or dying, and if you ask one more time if I feel okay, I’m going to throw you out the fucking window.”
Sam raises his hands in surrender, a wide look of shock on his face, and Dean snorts.
“You’re violent today, kid-“
“Stop calling me kid.” You snap, glaring at the papers in front of you. “Or you’ll get windowed too.”
“Defenestrated.”
“Bless you, dude.”
Sam sighs, giving Dean a flat glare. “No, it means-“
“To be thrown out a window.” You grumble. “I know. I like saying windowed, because Dean won’t know what defenestrated means, and I’m trying to threaten him, not give him a fucking English lesson.”
“The threat might be the English lesson,” Sam drawls your name, and Dean scowls.
“Hey-“
“Don’t be a dickhead, Sam.” You snap, and Dean grins.
“Yeah, Sammy, don’t be a dickhead-“
“And you.” The look you shoot Dean is withering, and it immediately makes something whine and coil in your chest. “I- Sorry.”
Dean frowns. “You didn’t do anything, sweetheart-“
“I yelled at you.” Now you’re mumbling. This is a weird day. “Made me feel bad. Sorry.”
“Do I get an apology too-“
“No. Read.”
There’s a stretch of silence, the guilt twists again—though now in your stomach—and you let out a long, slow breath.
“Sorry, Sam.”
“It’s fine.” He mumbles, but you don’t miss the look he exchanges with Dean.
One of those looks. Where they’re having a silent conversation or argument about something, and you usually have to guess who’s winning, or what it’s about, or why this has to be a silent conversation you can’t participate in.
But you don’t have to guess tonight.
They’re talking about you.
And you’re fine. You are. You feel great, and no amount of Sam and Dean worrying and flocking around you is going to change that. The curse didn’t work, simple as that. It missed you, or it had been cast wrong, or you’ve simply built up an immunity—that’s not really a thing, but it could be—and that’s it. You’re good.
Some sort of odd weight feels like it’s been lifted from your head and tongue, but if anything it’s good. A little like being drunk, where the colors of the world are brighter and everything a little blurred, and Dean’s somehow prettier and Sam is somehow taller-
Sam says your name carefully, and it’s falling out of your mouth before you can stop it.
“You’re really tall.”
Dean snorts, and Sam lets out a heavy sigh.
“Yeah, uh, I know-“
“Did you grow?”
“I’m in my thirties, I’ve been done growing for a while-“
You shake your head. “No, you grew. You’re taller. Just like Dean’s prettier.”
There’s a gagging and spitting sound from the couch, and when you glance back to Dean, he’s gaping at you, his whole face red.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, uh,” Dean gives Sam another look. “I’m fine, just- Got caught off guard. Sam-“
“I heard it.” Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair and watching you with a cautious expression. “You’re sure you’re-“
“Sam.” You hiss. “Windowed. I’m fucking serious.”
He drops it. Smart choice.
You don’t think you’re strong enough to defenestrate him at all. And you wouldn’t defenestrate Dean. It would make him too sad. Which would make you too sad.
And you tell him that later, while Sam is out getting dinner, just so he knows.
All you get is a blank stare in return.
“Dean, did you-“
“I heard you,” he mutters your name, shaking his head slightly. “I- Stay here.”
“Where are you going-“
“Out.”
“Out where-“
He sidesteps, blocking you from the door. “I gotta call Sammy. Stay.”
You cross your arms, raising your chin slightly. “I am not a dog, Dean Winchester. Although I do like doggy style, in bed-“
“Jesus fucking-“ Dean covers your mouth with a hand, and you freeze.
His hand is big. And warm. And it fits really well over your mouth, and would probably fit in it as well. Along with other parts of his body.
You’d tell him that, if he’d just fucking move his hand.
“You need to stay here.” He snaps, scanning over your face carefully. “No following me, no going outside, no talking to anyone else. Okay, kid?”
You raise your brows at him, your gaze flicking down to his hand—still over your mouth—and he sighs, moving it away.
“I really don’t like it when you call me kid.” You blurt, the moment you can. He needs to stop doing that, because it makes you feel small and sad and like a wet, pathetic fucking burden, and he should know that. “It makes me feel bad. I’m not even that much younger than you.”
“You- Alright.” Dean gives you an odd look, his jaw clenched. “Are you going to stay here?”
You shrug. “I’d do anything you told me to.”
That makes his face red again, but Dean just nods and—with one last odd look over his shoulder—walks away.
You miss him the moment he walks away.
And you tell the air, because there’s no one else around to hear.
You’re fine. You really are fine. You still feel a little high, a little strange, but nothing hurts. You aren’t forgetting who you are, or being someone you aren’t, or doing anything you normally wouldn’t-
Shit.
No.
You’re fine. You have to be fine.
In the car, you’d told Dean his hands were hot, but that was just so he knew. And you’d told Sam his hair was too long, but it needed a cut. And you’d been complaining more than you’ve ever complained in your life, and you’ve been more forward than you reasonably should be, but maybe it was just the drunk feeling. Courage, flowing through your body and making you bold.
You were being bold.
But that shouldn’t be something to worry about. So you’re fine.
Dean comes back after an hour, and drives you both to the diner. Apparently, whatever talk he had with Sam was done, and-
“Why’d you leave?”
He glances over at you from the driver’s seat, a slight frown on his pretty face. “I had to call Sammy.”
“But you left. The motel.” You cross your arms, holding his gaze with a glare. “Why.”
“It’s-“ He sighs. “Look, I can’t tell you right now. Drop it.”
You might be pouting at him. You don’t really care. “Why.”
Dean grunts your name. “I told you, I can’t-“
“Why can’t you tell me?”
“Because explaining why I can’t tell you would be freakin’ telling you, sweetheart-“
You’re certainly pouting now. “But I tell you everything.”
“No, you don’t-“
“Yes- Well, almost everything.” You frown at the air. “I don’t tell you about all my dreams. I lie about those, when you ask how I slept, because usually it’s a dream about you fucking me and-“
Dean’s covering your mouth again, scowling at the road like it’s personally offended him.
“Dean-“
Your snap is muffled in his palm, and he lets out a long, slow breath, shaking his head. Still not saying anything.
“Dea-“
“Not like this,” he mutters, and it’s mostly under his breath, but you can still-
“I can hear you-“
Dean grunts your name, his grip tightening. “Whatever you’re saying, I can’t understand you. And I’m just going to keep this right here ‘till we get to the bar, alright?”
He squeezes your jaw, you moan–it feels nice, and he’s very handsome when he glaring at things—and Dean’s eyes widen slightly.
He heard.
You should probably care about that, but the weight is gone, so you don’t. You don’t really care about anything but Dean knowing things. All your lives are darkness and secrets and stress, and he should fucking know that you’re here, and you’re not leaving, and that you keep secrets, but they’re dumb, emotional secrets, so he doesn’t ever have worry about you. About you getting hurt, because you refuse to be a person he adds to the tally of people he failed to save. About ever failing you at all—he couldn’t if he tried—or you leaving him like so many other people have.
He should know that those people are idiots. That God himself would have to drag you away from him, and you’d still go kicking and screaming. That you love Dean, and you’ve never told him because he’s too good for you—too strong, and important, and there’s already so much pressing down on his chest without adding yourself to the burden—but he should now know, while the weight from your own mind is gone.
You would tell him, here, in the car, if he wasn’t covering your mouth. If the moment he removed it, he didn’t sprint out of the car and across the parking lot.
Away from you.
Maybe he’s-
“Are you mad at me?” You ask him as you drop in the booth, and Dean just shakes his head, refusing to meet your eyes.
Sam says your name—carefully again, and it’s getting really annoying, because you’re fragile but like a bird, not fucking glass—and watches you carefully as he continues. “Why do you think Dean is mad at you?”
“Because he ran away from me.” You grumble, fidgeting with the paper napkin on the table. “And he covered my mouth the whole drive, and he vanished earlier, and he won’t-“
“We get it, ki- Sweetheart.” Dean mutters, still not meeting your eyes. “See, Sam? There’s nothing.”
“Nothing where?”
Sam shakes his head, ignoring you entirely. “I don’t know, dude, she took a pretty bad hit on the head too, maybe it’s that instead of-“ He shoots you a careful look. “The other thing.”
“What other thing?”
“It’s never just an injury. It’s always the fucking witches-“
You sink back into your seat as they continue to argue, never once even looking at you.
Dean’s not looking at you, and he’s mad at you, and you’ve obviously done something wrong, but you don’t have a single clue what. And he hates you. He must hate you, and if Dean hates you, Sam is going to hate you too, and you don’t want anyone to hate you, and the air is too thin and your heart and eyes and tongue sting-
“Shit,” Dean says your name like he cares, and a weak, strangled sound leaves your throat. “Fuck, what’s-“
“You hate me.” You whisper, shredding the napkin even further. “You hate me, and you won’t even say why-“
“Sweetheart, I don’t- Fuck, Sam-“
Sam shakes his head, raising his hands in a motion of surrender. “You made her cry, dude, not me.”
“I didn’t- Son of a bitch.” Dean reaches over the table, grabbing your chin and tilting it up until you’re meeting his gaze, and you’re still crying.
Which is odd.
You don’t really cry that much, most of the time.
But that weight is gone, and with it, so is your ability to care about being strong. If Dean hates you, he should just-
“Just say it.” You’re sniffling, but Dean’s still not moving his hand. “Say you hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.” Dean mutters your name, scanning over your features with a frown. “I promise, kid, you’d know if I hated you.”
“Then why are you ignoring me.”
“I-“ He looks over to Sam for help, and only gets a shrug in response.
“Does Sam know?”
Dean sighs. “Yeah, he does.”
“So why won’t you tell me-“
“I will.”
“But-“
“Later, baby, okay? How about I tell you tonight?”
You swallow, and he’s never called you that before. It’s strange. Spreading a warm, buzzing feeling through your whole body, taking you higher.
“I’d like that.” You whisper, and there’s nothing in the world to look at but Dean. Looking at you. Grinning at you. Not hating you. “I love you.”
Sam goes rigid, and Dean swallows, something flashing over his face that you don’t understand.
“Sure, sweetheart. Sammy, can you-“
“On it.” Sam stands up, grabbing your arm and pulling you with him. “Let’s go.”
You frown up at him. “Go where?”
“Sammy’s gonna take you back to the motel.” Dean pulls his keys out his pocket, but holds them back, out of Sam’s grip. “If I see one scratch-“
“You’ll kill me, Dean, I’ve heard the speech before-“
Dean raises his hand, narrowing his eyes at Sam. “I’m not done. If I see one scratch on either of them, I’m putting your number on a sex crisis hotline for grandmas.”
You wrinkle your nose. “That’s gross, Dean. I don’t even think that’s a real thing-“
Dean shoots you a wink, and it lights you on fire. “It’s not for you and me, sweetheart, but Sammy here’s probably got some-“
“Shut up, jerk.” Sam makes to snatch the keys, and Dean jerks the back with a frown.”
“I gotta hear it, Sammy-“
“They’ll be fine.” Sam snaps your name, still glaring at Dean. “It’s- She’s an adult, Dean, and this obviously isn’t killing her-“
“What’s not killing me-“
“And, I can drive. It’ll be fine.”
If Sam ignores you one more time, you’re going to-
“I’m going to punch you, Sam.”
Dean snorts, and tosses the keys into Sam’s indignant face. “Not a scratch. On either.”
“Yeah, yeah. C’mon,” Sam mutters your name, grabbing your arm.
“But Dean-“
“He’ll be fine.” Sam mutters, dragging you towards the exit. “He’s got some work to do, because you- Never mind.”
“Never mind what?”
“You’re cursed.”
You roll your eyes. “For the last time, Sam, I’m not cursed-“
Sam gives you a flat look, but just shrugs. “Alright. Keep walking.”
“But I want to go back to Dean-“
“I know. But you can’t.”
“Why-“
“Because if you tell him you love him again, he’s going to have a stroke.”
You frown, letting Sam herd you into the car. “Why? I- I know he doesn’t love me back, but I just wanted him to know. Is he-“
“He’s not mad at you.”
“So I should be able to stay-“
“It’s- Look, I promise Dean’s not mad at you, but we need to focus on fixing you right now, okay?“
“Nothing wrong with me.”
“Sure.” Sam sighs. Again. “How long have you been in love with Dean?”
“Since the vamp hunt in the swamp.” You shrug. “He picked me up, and he was really strong, and I thought that I wanted him to keep holding me forever. Then I cut off a vamp head and he laughed, and I wanted to hear that forever. Then he took his shirt off at the motel and I wanted to lick his abs.”
Sam clears his throat. “And that was love?”
“Love was the decapitation. The abs were a bonus.” You pause, tilting your head at the air. “And when he covered in blood and sweat. That was hot. I wanted to make him look like that because I gave him a blowjob, because I’m actually really good at that, Sam-“
Sam shakes his head, almost frantically. “I- That’s good. Uh, for you. I think. Can you think, just try to figure out why you’re telling him now?”
“Because he should know.”
“But if you’ve been in love with him for that long-“
You cut Sam off with a shrug. “I don’t know, I just- I love him, and he should know that. I really don’t expect anything Sam, I promise. If he wants to fuck me until the bed breaks, I won’t say no, but I mostly just want him to know.”
“I- Fine.” Sam runs a hand over his face, shaking his head at the road. “Can we just listen to the radio?”
You nod, leaning your head on the glass, and yesterday Dean was listening to the radio, and-
“Sam?”
He grunts in acknowledgment, and you make a soft, almost dreamy noise that you don’t really recognize from your own body.
“You know when Dean drums on the wheel during songs.”
“Yeah, I drive with him literally every-“
“I wish he’d do that to me.”
There’s a long moment of silence, and when Sam break it, his voice is cautious again. “Drum on you?”
“Use his fingers on me during a song.”
“Oh my- You’re not going to be able to stop, are you?”
You blink at him. “Stop what?”
Sam shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, just, uh-“
You yelp as he pulls a sharp U-turn, the Impala’s tires skidding on the pavement.
“Dean’s going to kill you.”
“Yeah, I know. But,” Sam lets out a long breath, frowning at the road. “I need a beer.”
A beer means eight beers. And when you ask him at checkout if he’s okay, Sam just shrugs and mutters something about a long night, and Dean owing him one.
But something is off with Sam. And the more you ask—you want to know, and there’s nothing stopping you from asking—the more he just shakes his head, his expression growing blanker and blanker as the night progresses.
And you can’t stop talking. You should. Reasonably, you know you should. It’s rare for you to speak out of turn at all—let alone this fucking much—but that high feeling is still strong all over your body, and you can’t stop. You tell Sam every thought that passes through you head, about the show, or the takeout Chinese, or how you’ve never been to China, but you’d like to go, if only because it’s historically interesting. That gets you half of Sam’s attention, for about fifteen minutes.
“I wouldn’t want to go without Dean.” You mumble, picking at the label on your own beer bottle. “I never want to go anywhere without Dean. I love him.”
Sam shoots you an unreadable, almost soft expression, scratching something in his notebook. “I know you do. But he can’t fly, he hates it.”
You hum. “Would it help if I gave him a hand job on the plane?”
Sam sighs, dropping his gaze back to his laptop. “Yeah. It probably would.”
“That’s good.” The label chips off onto the couch, and you kick your feet up on the coffee table. “I like it when he’s happy.”
“I know.”
“He’s really pretty when he’s happy.” There’s that breathy sigh again. You’d be worried about it, if it didn’t fall so easily out of your body. “I love him.”
Sam makes another note. “Yep.”
“He’s pretty all the time. Do you think he knows that he’s pretty all the time?”
Sam just shrugs, and you’re already talking again before he can answer your question.
“I just- I love him, and I want him to be happy. And I really don’t care if it’s not with me, Sam, I don’t,” you sit up, twisting over the couch to give Sam a pleading look. “I promise. But I love him, and I want him to know, and that’s kind of selfish-“
“That’s not selfish.” Sam gives you an odd look. “Loving people is the opposite of selfish.”
You shake your head. “No, it is.”
“Why do you think loving people is selfish?”
“I don’t know, because then you’re expecting something of them. Depending on them. And that’s-“
“Depending on people isn’t selfish.” Sam’s voice is careful again, and this is the first time he’s cut you off since the car. “I mean, expecting them to be something they’re not is, I think, but I depend on Dean all the time.”
“That’s different. You’re his family, and he loves you, and I’m-“
“He-“ Sam cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand through his hair. “Shit, he better be back soon.”
“Dean?”
“Yeah.”
“Will he? Be-“
“I don’t know. Watch the TV.”
You don’t move. You just frown into the now dark motel room, and you don’t know where Dean is, and there’s something stinging at your eyes again, and-
“I miss him.” You whisper. “I love him.”
Sam makes another little note. “I know.”
It takes a second of heavy breathing, but you turn back to the TV, and the pattern resumes. You talk, Sam—sort of—listens, and then night creeps on without Dean.
“I love him.”
Sam grunts, and you hear the pencil scratching.
“If he was here, he’d love this.” You tilt your head at the TV, watching the grainy old Western on the already poor-quality screen. “Dean loves Cowboys.”
“I know.”
“I love him.”
Pencil scratch. “Uh huh.”
You point to the TV, twisting over your shoulder to look at Sam with big eyes. It’s important that he hears this, so he understands your intentions with his brother. “I’d ride his face like that.”
Sam drops his head to the table with a long groan, and you frown.
“Are you-“
“I got it!” The door bangs open, and Dean marches through, turning something in his hand. “I’m gonna stab Rowena later, but shit, Sammy, this should work-“
“Thank God.” Sam mutters, pushing out of his seat. “Are you sure this will-“
“Pretty sure.”
“I can’t take pretty sure, Dean, I- Man, I’m gonna jump off a bridge if I have to put up with another day of this.”
“Hey.” You scowl at him. “That’s rude, Sam-“
“I’m sorry,” Sam sighs your name, desperation written all over his features. “You’re like a sister to me, I promise, but I’ve also had to listen to you talk about how you want to be bent over the table by my brother for four hours-“
“Sam.” Dean grunts, and his grip on whatever’s in his hand is suddenly white-knuckled. “Shut it.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m just- I’ll see you guys in the morning-“
Dean’s eyes widen. “Wait, where the fuck are you going-“
“I’m giving you two privacy, Dean. I’m already gonna have to put bleach in my ears-“
“We don’t need privacy-“
“You-“ Sam cuts himself off, his eyes narrowing, flicking quickly between you—still blinking at the from the couch—and Dean. “Dude, you can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
“But-“
“I’m not talking about this, Sam-“
“No, we need to talk about this-“
“Talk about what?” You cut in with a frown, looking between Dean’s set, unreadable expression, and Sam’s exhausted on. “What’s going on?”
Dean sighs, running a hand over his face. “You’re sick, sweetheart, don’t-“
“Don’t tell me not to worry, Dean!”
Your words are spat out, and you push up onto your knees to glare at him.
It’s been a long, strange day. And they’ve both been ignoring you, and you understand that—you’d ignore you too, if you could—but they’re talking about you, and the weight is gone, and that means that there’s nothing to stop the sudden burst of white-hot rage through your body.
“Neither of you telling me what the fuck is happening, and I’m not sick, I just- I feel weird but that’s not your problem, and it’s not even that bad, but I just want you to look at me and talk to me and I love you-“
“Stop saying that.” Dean snaps, and Sam punches him in the shoulder. “Fuck, what the-“
“She can’t stop saying it, you idiot. You know that, and thinking that you shouldn’t talk about this is insane, even for you-“
“Talk about what-“
“Sam, I swear to god-“
Sam ignores Dean, holding your gaze as he says your name. “Tell me when you fell in love with Dean-“
“I told you earlier, on the vamp hunt-“
“The one in Louisiana, right?”
“Yeah? I don’t know I’m not good at geography-“
“See?” Sam raises his brows at Dean. “That was four years ago.”
“But I was in love with him longer.” You snap, raising your voice so they can’t ignore you. “I’ve loved him since I met him, I think. I’m pretty sure. No, I know, I remember you walked into the bar, Dean, and I thought oh I want him to fuck me until I can’t walk-“
Sam tips his head up like he’s praying, and Dean grunts your name, but you ignore them both. You’re done being ignoring, because Dean should know this.
“And then we started talking and you were the most amazing person I ever met, and I never, ever wanted to leave you. Ever.”
There’s a long moment of heavy, long silence as Dean just stares at you, and Sam clears his throat.
“Why didn’t you tell him?”
“Sam, shut it-“
You shrug, talking over Dean’s hissed words. “Because that’s manipulative. And mean. And I can take care of myself, and Dean shouldn’t feel like he ever needs to do anything for me.”
Dean gives you an odd, strained look. “Stop talking about me like I’m not here.”
“Now you know how it feels.” You stick your tongue out at him, and Sam sighs, running a hand over his face.
“And why are you telling Dean now? If it’s been so-“
“Because I love him.” Your answer is quick. You know it better than your own heart. “And he deserves to know.”
“Twenty-two.”
You blink. “What?”
“You’ve said you love him-“ Sam leans over, checking his notepad. “Twenty-two times, if you count that one.”
“Oh?” You pause, turning over Sam’s words, trying to work out why Dean looks like he’s been shot. “Why were you counting that?”
“Because Dean’s a fucking idiot.”
Dean’s dumb, blank expression falls into a scowl. “I’m not an idiot, Sammy, she just doesn’t know what the hell she’s saying-“
“No, but she knows what she’s thinking.” Sam shrugs, grabbing his wallet from the table. “Spell didn’t mess with her actual, you know, thoughts. Fix her and she’ll feel the same thing.”
Dean shakes his head, almost frantically. “Sam, I can’t-“
“No. You can.” Sam snaps, and he’s definitely taller now. Glaring down at Dean with a narrowed gaze, like he’s imaging slamming his brother into a wall.
“You’re taller, Sam.”
He sighs, giving you another odd look. “I know. See you tomorrow.”
Dean still tries to block Sam’s path to the door. “Sammy, I’m serious-=
“So am I. Fix this. And not just that,” he points to you, still glowering at Dean. “All of it. For once in your fucking life, Dean, let someone want you.”
Then he’s gone.
And Dean’s just fucking staring at you from the doorway, and he thinks you’re sick, but-
“I’m not sick. And I do love you.”
“Yeah. I know.” he sighs, glancing down at-
“What’s in your hand?”
He gives you a strange look, then shakes his head. “It’s for you. To help you.”
You feel yourself almost physically wince at the words. Help. You’ve become something Dean needs to help.
“I really do feel fine.” You whisper. “I do. You don’t need to- To worry about me-
“But I’m gonna.” He shrugs, and you swallow, watching him cross the room.
“I’m sorry I got angry-“
“’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it.”
Those words sound heavier than they should be, and Dean looks… weighed. Like whatever’s been set free from you is still crushing him by his temple down.
“Dean?”
He grunts, dropping down on the couch at your side.
“I love-“
“Just- Don’t.” Dean passes a little vial into your hands with a sigh. “Drink it. You’ll feel better after you drink it.”
“But-“
He mutters your name, staring at his hands. “Please. Drink.”
You glance down at the vial. It’s green. A nice green, like-
“It looks like your eyes.”
Dean just leans back, staring at the ceiling, so you keep going.
“I love your eyes. They’re a really pretty color, and they’re always- You’re always watching people.” You tilt your head at him, he lets out another long breath. “I watch you, though. Someone has to, and I love you.”
Dean rubs his brow, shaking his head at nothing at all. “Alright. Here’s how this is gonna go down.”
“Wha-“
“Just listen,” he mutters your name, finally meeting your eyes, and you’d do anything he asked.
So you nod. There’s a moment as Dean scans over your features, seems to decide you’re telling the truth, and then he gives a tight nod.
“Alright. You’re gonna drink that, and you’ll probably feel like shit after, but I’m going to be talking. Just- Let me talk, and then you can jump in with whatever you want. But you just need to drink, and listen. Okay?”
You hum, and glance down to the vial. “Do I just-“
“Yeah. Go.”
You down the liquid in one swig, and it’s fucking instant.
You messed up. You fucked up. You destroyed everything, because you had been cursed, and the weight that’s supposed to be there—that you need, that protects you from yourself and your stupid fucking feelings—crashes back down with a new, iron-clad ton of what the fuck did you do.
You told Dean you loved him. You were never supposed to do that, never supposed to be another person he was responsible for, that wanted something from him when the world took too much, and you had no right, you had no fucking right-
But Dean told you to listen. And even though the filter is back, you’d meant it. You’d do anything he asked.
Even sit in the vile toxin of your own, stupid fucking actions all day, being rude and crass and vulgar and telling Sam—poor fucking Sam, you’re surprised he didn’t throw you out the window—about how much you wanted to fuck Dean, and-
Dean mutters your name, and it snaps you just a little out of your rotting guilt.
“I- Uh- I’m not good at this.” He’s still staring at his hands. “I’m trying to be better at it, I’ve been trying, but it’s still. I’m not. I- Uh-“ He coughs, shaking his head slightly. “I feel it too. What you feel. I want you, want you all the freakin’ time, baby, and it drives me insane. You’re smart, and funny, and mean but in a really hot way, and I- Shit-“
“Dean-“
“No, I’ve got it, just-“ He takes a slow long breath, finally looking up at you, and it’s like once he’s there he’s trapped. His eyes widen, and he leans forward, and this is it.
The moment.
The one you’ve only allowed in dreams, where Dean is leaning in so close and if you reach out, you’d be allowed to touch him without it being a newer, worse weight.
“I need you.” He mutters, one hand slowly moving to cup your cheek. “I really need you, so much it scares me.”
“Dean-“
“I like needing you,” his words are growing a little firmer, and you can’t look away either. “I do. Fucking love it. And if it was the spell talking, all the stuff you said about me-“
“It wasn’t.” You whisper, and it’s not forced through anything. It just is. “I love you. And you don’t need to say that, Dean. I- If you mean it-“
“I do.” He grunts. “Son of a bitch, I mean it more than anything.”
“Good.”
“Yeah.”
You swallow. He’s still touching you, and if you’re not careful, you think you’ll melt all the way into him with no way out.
You don’t really want one.
There’s no way to know who moves first. Dean fully grabbing your face between his hands and pulling you closer, the exact same moment your fingers fist in his shirt and you yank him down over you. It’s a rough, furious, bruising kiss made of spit and teeth, but you’ve both been starved. You know you’ve been dying of it—the need to fucking touch Dean, to tug at his short hair, to let your lips part for him and moan when his tongue moved against yours, to bite his lip and feel fire spark in your blood at his groan—but you can feel that Dean’s been burying it just as deep.
His hands are grabbing at every single part of you. Palming your breasts and ripping off your clothing as he hauls you over his lap. He swallows your every moan and throws it right back when you grind down onto where he’s pressing through his jeans, and fuck-
You’re already missing your shirt, when his kisses fall down your chest and full, firm lips start to suck at your nipples.
“Dean-“
He growls against you, squeezing your hips as you roll against him, and the sound rolls through your whole body.
“Shirt.” You gasp, trying to peel it off his body. “Dean- Off-“
It’s only a second, when he leans back to help you, but then you’re gasping as he pulls you back down into a wet, sloppy kiss, and God, if this is what being cursed gets you, you should let it happen more often-
“I’ve got a game for you,” Dean mutters against your lips, and you lean back to frown at him.
But he’s grinning. Bright eyes, mussed hair, and an almost primal grin. “Dean, I just want to, you know-“
“I know.” He winks at you, and your nails scrape at his chest as he ruts up into you. “Trust me, we will, but c’mon. It’ll be fun.”
You sigh, nodding, and drop your mouth down to his neck. He hisses right in your ear, as you start to suck and kiss around his throat, but it quickly turns into a deep chuckle.
“That’s how we’re playing this, baby girl?”
You can’t control the whine that escapes you, and Dean moans again. Big, warm hands rub all over your back, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. Baby girl, and hands, and moaning-
“Son of a- Alright-“ Dean’s grip on your hips tightens, until you’re pinned right to his knee. “Can’t think while you’re doin’ that-“
You bite him, and the sound that leaves him should be considered a sin, or virtue, or fucking hymn.
“Shit-“ Dean tugs you back by your hair, and this kiss is no different from the last ones. Long and desperate, until you’re a little dizzy and looking at Dean with an open, needy expression when he pulls away.
“You- Dean-“
“I know,” he mutters, watching you with an expression that’s dangerously close to adoration. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, sweetheart, I promise, you just gotta be a good girl and listen for ten freakin’ seconds, okay?”
You nod a little stupidly, and the facts that you’re a little dazed from the taste of Dean still on your tongue and the way that your aching core is pressed right against the muscles of his thighs are the only reasons that smug grin doesn’t get punched off his face.
“I want you to tell me everything you want me to do you.” Dean’s voice is deep and rough, and you would’ve fallen over if he wasn’t holding you up. “In detail. Then I’m gonna do it.”
You cough, already sounding breathless from nothing but his attention. “Everything?”
“Everything.”
“I, um, I-“
“And don’t get all fuckin’ shy on me now, baby.” He nips at your lower lip, and you swallow. “You can do it.”
He’s teasing you. You know he’s teasing you, so you whack at his chest, and he laughs, and it helps.
He wants you. To make you feel good.
And you really would do anything he asked you, because he’s Dean, and you trust him with a little more than your life.
“It’s- I-“ You let out a breathy laugh. “This is a lot harder when I’m not cursed.”
“C’mon.” Dean starts to press soft kisses over your shoulder, just enough to make your nails dig into his forearms. “Try.”
“You- Your hands.” You might be leaving indents on his skin. He doesn’t seem to mind. “I’ve always- You have really good hands, and I’ve always imagined- you know.”
He leans back, the smug somehow only growing. “I don’t know. You gotta tell me.”
“Dean-“
“Ah.” He catches your hand as you slap his arm, kissing your knuckles before he continues. “Detail, baby. Please.”
You swallow, and something softens in his gaze.
“If you don’t wanna-“
“I do.” You whisper, shaking your head. “It’s just- It’s embarrassing. I might need a second.”
Dean just shrugs. “I got time, sweetheart. I’ll wait as long as you need-“
“I want you to finger me.” You let the words fall out of your mouth, grabbing Dean’s face between your hands. “Then I- If you want- I like your mouth, and I want it down there too, and then I want you to fuck me, hard. Maybe raw, if you’re clean, because I’m clean and I’m on birth control, and you know I- If it’s okay, I like it.”
You might be burning alive, from your center up, but Dean-
Dean looks like he’s going to try and eat you alive.
You’d really like to see him try.
“De- Fuck-“
You’re moving before you know what’s happening. Dean stands up, holding you tight against his body as he moves to the bed, dropping you down so you’re sat at the edge of the mattress.
“I-“
“I’ve got you.” He mutters, giving you another, heavy kiss before dropping to his knees between your legs. “God, you’re so fucking pretty-“
“Dean-“
Another, longer kiss, and you can feel his hands trailing up your thighs, right to-
“Fuck-“
“This wet for me?” Dean grins, running two fingers between the lips of your pussy, your underwear discarded somewhere on the floor. “You want me, baby girl?”
“You know I-“ Two fingers press right of your entrance, and you drop your brow to Dean’s with a shaking breath. “Please.”
He hums, flicking his thumb over your clit, swallowing your gasp with a kiss. “You gonna let me finally take care of you?”
“Yes-“
“You love me?”
There’s something more fragile in that question. As if he really is unsure of the answer, and this is your last out. Your last chance to tell him it really was all just the curse, and you want him to stop.
But he really fucking couldn’t drag you away.
“I do.” You smile at him, tracing his jawline with a gentle hand. “I love you-“
That’s it.
It’s like a switch flip in Dean’s brain, his eyes growing only darker and his whole body relaxing, and words seem to be useless. Those two fingers slam into your pussy, pumping and twisting and scissoring, driving you into a mess of whines and gasps of his name. And Dean doesn’t let up for a second. Any noise is devoured with deeper and deeper kisses, your grinding onto his hand is only met with fingers crooking deep in your cunt, right against-
“Dean-“ You grasp, tension building right in your gut, white-hot and readying to burst. “Dean, please-“
He only groans, tugging at your hair to mark and suck on your neck, and his thumb presses right over your clit.
The tension breaks, and the sound that leaves you is almost unrecognizable. High and desperate as something falls out from between your thighs, and Dean pulls back with wide eyes.
His fingers are shining. Covered in-
Shit.
“I-“
Your words die in your throat as Dean brings his fingers up to his mouth, sucking them clean and holding your gaze and you’re going to cum again, if he doesn’t look away-
“I didn’t know I could do that.” You mumble, fixing your gaze on his bare chest, and he chuckles, squeezing your thigh.
“Well, you’re doing it again.”
That makes your eyes dart back to his face. “Wha-“
“On my face this time.” He pauses, pouting like he’s trying to work something out, then nods. “Yeah. On my face.”
“Dean-“
“Hold on.” He rises to his feet, pulling off his jeans and boxers in quick movements, and your mouth falls open.
You’ve spent a lot of time fantasizing about this. More than you’ll ever admit to him.
But he’s still better, and thicker, and bigger than you’d guessed. And he’s fully hard, and stroking himself with a wide, lazy grin, and-
“Nope.” Dean swats your hand away when you reach for him. “Not about me tonight, sweetheart.”
You give him your best, sweetest, doe-eyes, and he just laughs, leaning down to pull you into another kiss.
“Asshole.” You mumble against his lip, and he smirks.
“You want it that bad?”
“You know I do-“
“Yeah, but I still got some things on our list to take care of.” Dean pulls your lower lips between his teeth as he draws away, and then he’s gone.
Moving to lay on his back, pulling you with him by your wrist and grinning at you as he sprawls on the mattress.
“Dean, what-“
“Sit on my face.”
You might be drooling, He’s just there, just muscles and softness in all the right places, and looking more like a god than a human in the soft motel lights, and looking at you, only you, and-
“I’ll crush you-“
“Nah, you won’t.” He tugs you a little closer, pressing a kiss to your inner wrist. “Trust me, baby, I’ve survived a lot worse than a hot lady sitting on me.”
“But-“
“You said you wanted my mouth down here.” He rolls his thumb over your clit, and you almost collapse over his chest. “This is how you’re getting it.”
You take a long, slow breath and nod, straddling Dean’s face until his subtle is rubbing on your thighs, and if you’re careful-
Dean doesn’t seem to care about careful. He grabs your hips, slams you down over his face, and you’re gone.
This has only ever been a fantasy. Never a thing you thought you’d actually get.
But Dean seems to have no interest in doing anything but surpassing every dream you’ve ever had, and you think you might be ascending, or falling, or just bursting into a million, perfect pieces.
His tongue plunges in and out of your cunt without relent, and that same stubble is burning so perfectly along the most sensitive parts of your body, and his fucking hands keep kneading your ass and holding your right against his mouth. Keeping your still as he takes your clit between his lips and suck and bites and flicks his tongue until you’re in a frenzy-
You might be swearing, or cursing, or praying, or just repeating Dean over and over like a long, desperate plea, but whatever sounds are leaving your body only seem to spur him on.
He rises without warning, right when you’re on the edge of release. Keeping his hold on your thighs firm and his head buried between your legs, Dean sits up until you’re fallen back against the mattress, grabbing at the sheets as his nose bumps your clit and his tongue never slows and fuck-
You cum with a scream of something, the coil snapping once more and soaking down your thighs, and when Dean pulls back his eyes are shining.
“You’re so fuckin’ hot.” He mutters, bowing over you for another, almost gentle kiss that you only whine into, your whole body only putty from his work. “Think you’re ready to take me, sweetheart?”
You feel raw. Impossibly sensitive and fucked out, wrecked and spent and burning from every nerve point perfectly, as if you’re high and dissipated into nothing but a light, happy mist of Dean.
You nod a little stupidly anyway.
He laughs, pressing a kiss to your brow. “Sorry, baby, I need wor-“
“Fuck me.” Your voice is only a breath. Based on the way Dean tenses above you, he doesn’t seem to mind. “Please, Dean, fuck-“
This kiss is deeper. Rougher. Almost feral, pressing you all the way into the mattress until you’re scratching at his back, and then-
You whine as Dean rises back up, but it turns into another gasp as he flips you onto your stomach, grabbing your ass up into the air and running fingers between the mess he’s left between your thighs.
“Son of a bitch, you’re amazing.” He mutters, and you don’t get the time to come up with something to say back before he’s pinching your clit, rolling it between broad, calloused fingers. “Ready?”
“Ye- Dean!”
He slams into you with one firm movement, your hands fist in the sheets, and the moment when he lets you adjust—hanging over your body, kissing over your shoulders and neck as he just sits in your cunt—is the longest in the world.
“Move.” You gasp, twisting around to try and meet his gaze. “Dean, move, please-“
His growl rolls through your whole body, and your hips jerk back into his.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He doesn’t hold back. There’s one moment after Dean rises back up where he gives a slow, experimental thrust, but you moan his name and grind your ass up into the air, and he’s gone. Whatever he’d been controlling in himself vanishes, and he fucks you. Fully, properly fucks you, the mattress squeaking and his balls slapping over your clit and god, he’s too good at this. You’ve never been this full, this dazed, dragged right to the edge only by Dean slamming in and out of your pussy, his cock is hitting so deep in your body you’re certain you’ll feel it in a month. And his hands are pulling and rubbing at your skin, and his thrusts are measured but they’re quickly growing feral as you squeeze around him, and he’s moaning again-
“Fuck-“ He grunts your name, bumping right against that impossibly deep spot in your cunt. “So fucking tight, baby girl, taking me so good-“
“Dean-“ You bury your face in the bed, writhing below him. “Fuck- I- I need-“
“I know.” He lowers himself back over you, never once breaking pace and angling your face to crash his lips into yours, swallowing every needy, high plea of his name. “So fuckin’ close, sweetheart, you’re doing so well for me, being such a good girl-“
“Jesus-“
“One more,” he grunts down your throat, a hand snaking around your stomach to rub at your clit. “Just one more for me, baby, c’mon-“
That’s all it takes. Your orgasm bursts and washes through your whole body, leaving the world spinning and everything lost in a daze of pleasure and good, and you can only really hear Dean moaning your name as you squeeze around his cock, fucking you through your orgasm.
He pulls out when you’re shaking below him—hot shivers still running through your body in the aftermath of your release—and second later his cum is staining over your back, one gentle hand still holding your ass in the air.
He cleans you up. Of course he does. He’s Dean.
He kisses the base of your spine before crawling off the bed, grabs a shirt instead of a rag—because he cleaned the shirt at the bunker but you’re both smarter than using a motel towel to clean anything down there—and wipes your thighs and back clean, before collapsing over your body and burying his face in your shoulder.
“You think Sammy’ll be back tonight.” He mutters, his words slightly muffled against your body, and you sigh.
“I’m worried he’s never coming back.”
You feel Dean’s frown against your skin. “Why-“
“Remember how he said I mentioned wanting you to, um, bend me over a table?”
Dean hums. “Shit, I forgot to do that-“
“Later, I kind of-“
You squeak as Dean grabs you by your hips, flipping you over until you’re nose to nose, and his boyish, smug grin is right where you could bite it off his face, if you wanted.
And you really do.
“We’re having a later, baby?”
You roll your eyes. “Of course we are, Dean, focus-“
His fingers start to trail up your inner thigh, and it takes all the self-control in your body to whack them away.
“I’m still sensitive-“
He shrugs. “I can work with that, sweetheart-“
“I know, but Sam.”
“You said he’s not comin’ back-“
“Yeah, but I need to send him like a fucking fruit basket or something.”
Dean frowns at that. “Why, what-“
“I told him everything, Dean. All the stuff I told you, and some, uh, other stuff.“
“What other stuff?”
“I don’t know, it doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it does,” Dean catches your hand before you can cover your face, pinning it above your head with a smirk. “I need to know what that smart brain is coming up with, how I need to be fucking you-“
“But-“
Dean drawls your name, raising his brows. “Look, that is far from the worst shit Sam’s heard. When I was heading to hell, he had to sleep in the car just so I could get laid. He’ll walk it off, then we’ll drop him at Eileen’s to get some of his own ass.”
You snort. “I’m sure he’ll be very thankful-“
“He better. I saw the marks on my fucking tires. Lucky I’m not defesternating him.”
“Defenestrating.” You hum, smiling as Dean settles back over your body, burying his head in your chest. “Close, though.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” You comb your fingers through his hair, unable to stop the final, soft statement from escaping your lips. “I love you, Dean.”
“Good.” He squeezes his hold on your body. “Same.”
You smile. He won’t say it back, but not because he doesn’t feel it. His weight is heavier than yours, and you know that, because you know him.
And love him.
And he does love you, but for now, that’s the best he can do.
It’s still better than you ever dreamed.
But then again, so is Dean.
End Note: We've hit new peaks of torment for Sam Winchester. Sorry my king.
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