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[buckysgirlll]

“melting into the kiss” with tfatws!bucky

cw: fem!reader, sunshine!reader, bucky being a grumpy old man who’s also very much in love with his gf, tiktok trend

𐙚ྀ authors note: ive been seeing these typa fics for so long and no one that ive seen has included my husband so yk i can’t leave him out ahaha.

bucky barnes masterlist ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ navi

“i wanna do a thing.” you say, standing in front of your boyfriend with a shit eating grin on your face.

bucky looks up at you unamused.

“please.” you plead. “you’ll love it i swear.” you whine, still trying to pull bucky up from the couch.

you hear your boyfriend let out a long, loud sigh before he eventually lets you pull him off of the couch.

he stands in front of you, his thick arms crossed over the other.

your lips curve into a smile, “raise your arms.”

bucky’s eyes narrow at your choice of wording. “what the fuck for? you want to fuck?”

you gasp, “why is your mind so dirty? i just want you to raise your arms.” your lips form a small pout, knowing that no matter how much your boyfriend tries, he cannot resist saying yes.

with a very rude, roll of his eyes. bucky slowly raises his arms in the air causing his tight fitted henley, to lift a bit.

you can’t help but ogle at the bare sight of his defined stomach before you have to focus at the task you have to complete.

“right, my arms are fucking up. what else?” you almost let out a giggle at the bored look on his face.

“just… stay there.” you say, stepping closer so you’re both chest to chest.

“that’s exactly what im— mmph” you interrupt his words, quickly leaning up on your toes and pressing your lips against his. you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling the back of his hair softly, just how he likes. almost as soon as you do that, you hear a groan and the touch of his hands on your arms, sliding down your waist until they reach the curve of your hips, pulling you impossibly closer.

you smile against bucky’s lips, pulling back and seeing his lust filled gaze, still focused on your full lips. “you melted.” you pant, cupping his cheek.

“i- what?”

“you dropped your arms, which means you melted into the kiss.” you giggle, giving him a small peck. “you’re so adorable sometimes.”

“i hate it when you call me adorable.” bucky frowns, tightening his hold on you.

“and yet, im still the love of your life.” you grin.

[apenny4thots]

Cravings

Bucky Barnes x F! Reader

AN: For @societynsoelsscribbles June Jukebox event, day 14, swapping out and using “Now you say you love me.”

Warnings: Reader is pregnant. Otherwise, fluff.

WC: 646, whoops

The first sign of trouble is your hand smacking repeatedly against Bucky’s shoulder.

The second is the dramatic sigh.

The third is when he hears his name. Not Bucky. Not just James. His whole name.

“James Buchanan Barnes!”

One eye cracks open. The clock reads 3:08 a.m.

“Mm?” Bucky sits up. “I’m up, I’m up. Doll what’s going on? Are you okay? Is it the baby?”

You look genuinely distraught. “I need something. No— the baby needs something.”

“Oh no.”

You point accusingly. “Don’t judge me or the baby.”

Bucky gives you a pointed look. “Doll.”

“Now you say you love me, right?”

Now it’s Bucky’s turn to sigh. “Of course I love you. What is so pressing at three in the morning?”

“The peanut butter brownie sundae.”

Bucky blinks. “The what?”

“The peanut butter brownie sundae from that little ice cream place. It had the little peanut butter chips and brown chunks.”

Bucky waits a beat before responding. “The one on Long Island?”

You nod. Bucky stares dumbfoundedly at you.

Not Manhattan.

Not Queens.

Not the grocery store.

Not the corner bodega.

Long Island. Specifically, the east end all the way in Montauk.

From Brooklyn, which technically is on Long Island (but is not actually Long Island, as Bucky argues).

Literally going from one side to the other of the island.

You look like you’re about to start crying. “I know it’s ridiculous,” you sniffle.

“It’s okay. You’re pregnant. You are allowed to be a little…” he waves his arm around.

You ignore his comment. “I know nobody drives two hours for ice cream.”

“Okay.”

“And I know you shouldn’t have to—”

“Okay.”

You stop. “Why do you keep saying okay?”

Bucky is already throwing back the blankets and shuffling on his jeans.

Because here’s the thing:

You don’t know what he knows.

You don’t know that every night for the last eight months he’s checked to make sure you’re still breathing before he goes to sleep.

You don’t know that sometimes he rests his hand on your stomach when you’re asleep because he still can’t quite believe she’s real.

You don’t know that every kick feels like a miracle to him. That with all the red on his ledger, he’s been given what he thought he’d never get.

So no, driving four hours round trip for ice cream isn’t ridiculous.

Not to him. Not when the two people he loves most are asking… even if one of them currently weighs six pounds and communicates entirely through violence against your bladder.

You watch him pull on his leather jacket. “Wait. Babe. What if they’re closed?”

Bucky blinks. “I don’t think the Winter Soldier will have trouble breaking into an ice cream shop.”

“James.”

“I’ll get the ice cream.”

“You can’t break into an ice cream shop.”

He pauses and strokes his chin. “Can I?”

You gasp. “Bucky!”

A grin finally appears. “Sweetheart, I’ve fought aliens. I fought Thanos. A little locked up ice cream shop is nothing.”

And then before you can say anything else, he bends down and presses a kiss to your forehead. “The mother of my child requires peanut butter brownie ice cream.”

Your eyes soften immediately at the devastatingly fond grin he gives you.

“I love you so much.”

Bucky’s entire expression melts.

Gone is the former assassin. Gone is the grumpy old man. Gone is every defense he’s ever had.

Before you is just a husband hopelessly in love with his pregnant wife. He cups your cheek, “Yeah?”

You nod. “Thank you.”

Bucky kisses you softly. “I love you too.”

Then your belly, where your daughter is still kicking violently against your bladder.

Twenty minutes later, the Winter Soldier is speeding towards Long Island at three in the morning on a mission of national importance.

Because his wife said she wanted ice cream.

And Bucky Barnes has never been very good at telling her no.

[jamesbbcrnes]

MR & MRS BARNES!

PAIRING: married!bucky barnes x married!reader WORD COUNT: 300 WARNINGS: fluff, no use of y/n. SONG PROMPT: come and get your love by redbone LYRICS: “get it together, baby.” NOTE: no angst today!! possible upload of the next one tonight if i manage to get it done. i loved this one 🥹🫶🏼

event masterlist | day seventeen | day nineteen | main masterlist

The night is alive.

Music and dancing, the laughter of people having a good time and celebrating you and Bucky.

Mr & Mrs Barnes.

It still sounds surreal, even hours after the ceremony.

After you walked down the aisle, your father keeping you steady as you walked towards your future. After Bucky slipped your wedding band on your finger and said I do with glistening eyes. After the speeches from Sam and your best-friend, the best man and your maid of honour, that had people both laughing and in tears.

It's been a absolute dream, just how you had imagined it since you were a little girl and draping your mother's sheer scarf from your hair like a veil.

You find yourself in the gardens of the venue, sat under an arbour with jasmine and roses intertwining with the latticework, letting your new beginning really soak in.

"Surely you can't be planning your escape already, doll?" Bucky remarks, hands in his pockets as he follows the path to the arbour, "Only got married a few hours ago."

You tilt your head with a grin, "You caught me."

Bucky chuckles, shaking his head and sitting beside you. His arm snaking around your shoulders and kissing your temple before resting his head against yours.

You take his metal hand in yours, your thumb running over his golden wedding band that matches yours.

"It blends well." You comment softly, and you can feel him smile next to you, "Meant to be, that's why."

You giggle, intertwining your fingers, rings clinking together gently.

"What a sap, get it together, baby." You jest.

Even now, his laugh makes your belly explode with butterflies.

He turns your head so your noses brush together, whispering softly, "Only for you, Mrs. Barnes."

You can only kiss him in response.

🏷️: @metal-armed-muse @kileyking @nightfirecomit @juniebjonesin @chocolatemilkshakex @spring-soldier @spideyskywalker @phoenix-in-writing @buckytakethewheel @i-loveyoubutyourenotmine @erina00 @m1rrorcr1ss @stanmarvelous @sassandscribbles + to be added to the tag list? comment on this post or send in an ask!

[kqtholins]

the weight of your presence

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

summary: he hovers like gravity, like muscle memory. a hand at your back, a voice at your shoulder, a love he won’t say aloud. until the moment he finally does — and the world stops moving.

word count: a little over 5k

author’s note: hello! another fic inspired by something i saw! this one is inspired by a tiktok!! if you want to check it out click here !! feeling like death, again, who is really surprised. lowkey need 67 labubu bullets through my head but oh well. idk what else to say… as always, feedback is deeply appreciated and enjoy!! we’re still going strong with the red theme, hope you like it mwah!! 😽

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ﾒ૦

The training room is half-lit, washed in the gray of early morning. The air smells faintly of metal and coffee, the hum of the compound still asleep except for you and the sound of leather tightening around your knuckles.

You wrap your hands the way you always do — tight, secure, methodical — because if you don’t start the day with control, it’ll slip from you before noon. The motion is muscle memory, comfort disguised as routine.

You don’t notice him at first. You just feel it — that shift in the air, that strange static that always comes with his presence.

Bucky’s quiet when he enters. Always is. The kind of quiet that fills a room instead of fading into it. You look up, and there he is — hair still damp, training shirt clinging to his shoulders, eyes that could slice through steel but linger softly when they find you.

“Morning,” you say, even though you don’t need to.

He nods, silent as ever, steps closer. There’s a subtle crease between his brows as his gaze drops to your hands. “Too loose,” he murmurs.

You frown. “They’re fine.”

He doesn’t argue. He never does — he just reaches for you, a question hanging in the air. You don’t say no. You never do.

His flesh hand brushes yours, rough calluses grazing your knuckles as he unwinds the wrap. His touch is careful, slow. He fixes it, thumb pressing against the base of your wrist, the movement deliberate. You can feel the warmth of his skin, the faint scrape of metal where the vibranium meets fabric. He’s close enough that his breath ghosts against your cheek when he says, “You’ll break your wrist if you hit like that.”

You want to tell him you’ve been doing this long enough to know your own limits, but the words die somewhere between your throat and his nearness.

When he finishes, he doesn’t step back. He just looks at you for a second too long, eyes tracing the edge of your jaw like he’s memorizing it. Then he straightens, clears his throat, and says, “You up for sparring?”

You smirk. “You sure you can handle it?”

The corner of his mouth twitches — not quite a smile, but close. “Guess we’ll find out.”

You start slow. Light contact, playful. He’s always been patient when it comes to you — lets you find rhythm before he moves in. It’s less fighting and more choreography, the way your bodies move together. He blocks, you feint. He pivots, you spin.

Every time you lunge, he’s already there — predicting, intercepting, redirecting. He’s impossibly fluid for a man made of metal and memory. You’ve sparred with others — Steve, Natasha, Sam — but no one feels like Bucky.

With him, it’s not about winning. It’s about reading.

He catches your wrist mid-punch, turns it just enough that your breath stutters. His grip is firm but not painful — never painful. His other hand catches your shoulder to keep you steady. “You’re dropping your left again,” he says, voice low, too close to your ear.

“Maybe I’m just trying to distract you.”

He huffs something like a laugh, and the faintest grin ghosts his lips before he spins you around, your back against his chest, arm pinned. You feel the hum of the vibranium through your skin, cold and alive.

You could break free. You don’t.

“You done?” he murmurs.

You tilt your head back, meet his eyes upside down. “Not even close.”

You twist out of his grip, sweeping his leg, and for once, you win — he hits the mat with a soft grunt. You’re on him before he can recover, knees bracketing his hips, palms on his chest. His breath catches, eyes darting to your mouth before he looks away.

The silence stretches.

You can feel his heartbeat under your hands — steady, restrained, as if he’s holding something back.

Then the door slides open, and the moment shatters.

“Well, that’s new,” Natasha’s voice cuts in, laced with lazy amusement. She leans against the doorway, coffee cup in hand, smirking like she’s seen this movie before.

You scramble off him, muttering, “Morning to you too.”

Bucky sits up slowly, jaw tight, avoiding her gaze.

“Didn’t know we were doing close quarters affection training now,” she teases.

You roll your eyes. “You’re hilarious.”

Natasha hums, sips her coffee. “I’m serious, though. If you two get any closer, I’m calling HR.”

Bucky’s glare could level a building. “You done?”

“Not even close,” she echoes, then saunters out with a smirk.

You catch the faintest flush at the tips of Bucky’s ears. You want to laugh, but something in his expression stops you — something caught between embarrassment and… ache.

You toss him a towel. “Ignore her. She lives to stir trouble.”

He takes it, wipes the sweat from his face. “Yeah,” he mutters, voice rough. “Seems that way.”

He stands, steps closer again — always close. When he hands your towel back, his fingers brush yours, barely a touch but enough to light a spark low in your stomach.

“Good work,” he says, simple, quiet. But it sounds like more.

You nod, trying to keep your voice steady. “You too.”

He hesitates, eyes flicking to your hands again. “Keep your wrists tight,” he murmurs, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Can’t have you breaking anything.”

You laugh softly. “Guess I’ve got my personal safety officer for that.”

For a moment, he almost smiles — not the half-sardonic one he gives the world, but something softer, something that feels like it belongs to you. Then it’s gone.

He turns to leave, towel slung over his shoulder, light catching in his hair. You watch him go, pulse still too fast for something as simple as sparring.

Just before he reaches the door, he stops. Looks back. “Same time tomorrow?”

You pretend to consider it. “If you’re not scared of losing again.”

He huffs a laugh through his nose. “Yeah, doll. Keep dreaming.”

Then he’s gone — quiet steps, fading light, the echo of his voice lingering long after the door slides shut.

You stand alone in the room, knuckles throbbing, breath uneven. You unwrap your hands slowly, eyes on the floor where you’d both stood moments ago. The wraps smell like sweat and steel and him.

And you think — not for the first time — that if he ever touched you the way he wants to, the world might stop spinning altogether.

୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧

The armory hums with quiet precision. It’s the hour before a mission — the air sharp with metal and anticipation, the rhythm of readiness pulsing through the compound. You’re methodical as always: check the vest, strap the holster, count the ammo, double-check the knife. Precision is safety. It’s the illusion of control.

You don’t hear him come in. You never do.

“Forgot this,” Bucky says behind you, voice low, steady, like a note struck on a string. You turn, and he’s there — a shadow made of muscle and silence, holding out a small tactical knife you hadn’t realized was missing.

“Guess I did,” you mutter.

He doesn’t hand it to you. He sets it down, steps closer, eyes sweeping over your gear with that same frown of focus he gets before missions. It’s not judgment. It’s habit — like breathing.

“Straps too loose,” he says quietly.

You sigh. “You always say that.”

“That’s because they always are.”

You could argue, but he’s already reaching. His hands move to your shoulders, fingers sliding under the edge of your vest. He tightens the straps with practiced care, pulling until the fabric hugs your frame. The leather creaks softly beneath his touch.

You don’t breathe. Not properly.

His knuckles graze your collarbone as he checks the adjustment. His voice drops even lower. “Better.”

You swallow hard. “You could just say you don’t trust me with buckles.”

His mouth twitches — almost a smile. “You’d think after all these years, I’d learn to.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

He doesn’t answer. Just continues working — a quiet rhythm of clicks and tugs as he moves behind you. The sound of him — his breath, the whisper of his gloves against your suit — fills the space between words.

He crouches slightly, adjusting the lower straps, brushing the back of your thigh as he does. It’s nothing. It’s everything. His hands move like he’s touching something fragile, something he’s afraid to break.

You glance down at him — the concentration etched into his face, the way his brows furrow, the faint line between them that never leaves. You know that look. You’ve seen it on missions, in training, in moments when he’s trying too hard not to care as much as he does.

“Bucky,” you murmur.

He pauses, doesn’t look up. “Mm?”

“You know I can do this myself.”

“I know.” His voice is quiet, careful. “But you don’t.”

The words are soft, but they land like a blow. You’re not sure if it’s accusation or affection — probably both.

He straightens, finally meeting your eyes. There’s something burning there, something you’re afraid to name.

“Knife goes here,” he says after a beat, sliding the small blade into the sheath on your hip. His fingertips linger — not quite touching skin, but close enough that you feel the warmth radiating through the fabric.

Your pulse stutters. “You always this bossy?”

He gives a low hum that might be a laugh. “Only when I care about the outcome.”

That shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.

You turn away before he can read your face, pretending to recheck your vest. The silence stretches — not uncomfortable, just dense. You can almost hear his thoughts moving behind you, the weight of things he’ll never say pressing at the edges of the air.

Then footsteps echo from down the hall. Clint leans against the doorway, watching the scene with a crooked grin. “You know, Barnes, if you mess with her gear any more, she’s not gonna have anything left to do herself.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even turn. “You here to help, Barton?”

“Just observing,” Clint says, hands raised. “Gotta say, though — the dedication’s impressive. Should we start calling you her shadow or her chaperone?”

You shoot Clint a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Probably,” he says, grin widening. “But this is way more fun.”

Bucky finally turns, eyes cold. “You done?”

Clint shrugs. “Sure. But maybe ease up, Sergeant. She’s not gonna vanish if you blink.”

“Maybe you should,” Bucky replies. It’s quiet, but it lands with enough weight that Clint’s smirk falters for half a second.

“Alright, alright,” Clint says, backing away, still chuckling. “Protective much?”

The door slides shut behind him, leaving the room heavy with what’s left unsaid.

You exhale, long and slow. “You know he’s just messing with you.”

Bucky’s jaw flexes. “Yeah.”

“Then why let it get to you?”

He doesn’t answer. He just steps closer again — not touching, but near enough that you can feel the heat of him through the cool air. His voice, when it comes, is quiet but steady:

“Because he’s not wrong.”

The words hang there. Simple. Honest. Almost dangerous.

You turn to face him fully. He’s looking at you like he’s weighing something — whether to say more or swallow it down like always. His eyes flicker to your face, then your hands, then back up again.

You force a light laugh. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you actually liked worrying about me.”

“I don’t,” he says instantly. But his tone betrays him. He swallows, softer now: “I just don’t like the alternative.”

Your heart stumbles. “What alternative?”

He doesn’t look away this time. “Coming back without you.”

You want to say something — anything — but your throat refuses to cooperate. You search his face, looking for the joke, the hint of teasing, but there’s none. Just that same raw honesty he slips out when he isn’t fast enough to stop himself.

Then, like always, he steps back. Puts space between you, as if distance could hide what already lingers in every look.

“Go finish prep,” he says, voice suddenly gruff, businesslike. “We leave in twenty.”

You nod, forcing yourself to move, though your hands feel unsteady.

He turns toward the exit, pauses in the doorway. “Keep your comms clear,” he adds, softer this time. “I’ll be on your six.”

“I know,” you whisper.

“Good.”

He hesitates for a heartbeat — like he might say something else — then leaves. The sound of his footsteps fades, leaving the room too big, too quiet, too full of the echo he leaves behind.

You look down at your vest, at the perfectly tightened straps, the knife secured exactly where it should be. Everything in place. Every inch of you touched by his care, his precision, his quiet kind of love — the kind that hides behind orders and armor.

You breathe him out and steady yourself, even though you know you’ll never really shake him loose.

୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧

The compound hums low and constant when you come back. Missions always end this way — the adrenaline fading into a dull ache, the silence afterward too loud in your ears.

You tell yourself it was routine. Nothing unexpected. Just a scrape on your arm, a bruise on your ribs. But your hands still shake when you peel off your gloves.

You sit on the med bay table, letting the overhead lights blur a little. You don’t notice the door hiss open until he’s there — the sound of boots on tile, the subtle weight of him filling the room like gravity.

Bucky doesn’t say your name. He never starts with words.

His eyes track the blood at your sleeve, the smear along your forearm. He moves before you can stop him, reaching for the first-aid kit on the counter.

“I can handle it,” you murmur.

“Didn’t ask if you could,” he says, already tearing open a packet of antiseptic wipes.

His tone is calm, but there’s something sharp beneath it — a tremor under the steel. You could fight him on it, but it’s useless. He’ll just stand there until you let him help.

He takes your arm gently, pushing the fabric up past your elbow. The touch is so careful it almost hurts. He cleans the cut in silence, movements efficient but reverent, like he’s doing something sacred.

You study him as he works — the way his brow furrows, the small crease between his eyes, the way his lips part slightly when he concentrates.

“You don’t have to—”

“Stop saying that,” he cuts in quietly.

You blink. “What?”

“That I don’t have to. I know I don’t.” He wrings out a gauze pad, voice low. “Doesn’t change that I want to.”

The air between you tightens. The steady rasp of fabric against your skin becomes thunder in your ears.

He finishes wrapping your arm, tape pressed down with his thumb. His hand stays there a moment longer than necessary. The silence between you feels alive, breathing.

Then he lets go, steps back like he’s burned himself.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

He just nods.

You hop down from the table, tugging your sleeve down over the bandage. He’s watching you — not overtly, but enough that you feel it. The kind of watchfulness that isn’t about control; it’s about fear.

“Barnes,” you sigh, “I’m fine.”

He shakes his head, faint and stubborn. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”

You give him a look. “You’re hovering.”

His mouth twitches. “Someone’s gotta.”

Before you can come up with a response, Sam’s voice cuts through from the hall:

“Barnes! You alive in there, man, or you building a nest?”

Bucky exhales, already irritated. “What do you want, Wilson?”

Sam leans into the doorway, grinning, eyes darting between the two of you. “Just checking the patient list. You patching her up again? You do realize medical’s got staff for that, right?”

Bucky’s jaw tightens. “They were busy.”

“Uh-huh,” Sam says, smirk widening. “Busy or you just don’t trust anyone else within a ten-foot radius of her?”

“Wilson,” Bucky warns, voice low.

Sam holds up his hands, all mock innocence. “Hey, I’m not judging. It’s cute, man — like watching a grumpy old shepherd dog guarding his favorite lamb.”

You choke out a laugh before you can stop it. “Wow. Thanks for that image.”

Bucky shoots you a look — not angry, just tired, the kind of tired that lives under his skin. “You both done?”

Sam grins. “Not by a long shot.” Then, under his breath as he walks away: “Gonna get him a little collar next mission.”

The door slides shut again. Silence rushes back in.

You turn to Bucky. He’s standing perfectly still, staring at the wall like he could burn a hole through it.

“He’s teasing,” you say gently.

“I know.”

“And?”

His voice is quiet when it comes: “He’s not wrong.”

You blink. “About what?”

He finally looks at you. There’s something raw in his gaze — stripped-down honesty that makes your chest tighten. “About me keeping watch.”

You try for levity. “Oh, so you admit it.”

He doesn’t smile. “You think I don’t know what they say? Guard dog. Shadow. Overprotective. I’ve heard it all.”

There’s no anger in his voice, just weary truth. You take a step closer. “Why let it bother you?”

“It doesn’t.” His eyes flicker down to your arm, then back up. “Just wish they understood it’s not about trust.”

You study him, the way his shoulders stay tense even now. “Then what’s it about?”

He hesitates. You can see the words hovering on his tongue, trapped somewhere between courage and restraint. Finally, he says:

“It’s about… not losing what I can’t get back.”

The words hang in the sterile air, sharp and fragile. You don’t know what to say, so you don’t. You just stand there, watching him struggle with the weight of his own confession.

He takes a slow breath, rubs the back of his neck. “I know it’s not my job to watch your six off the field. But it’s what I know how to do.”

You nod, softly. “I get it.”

He looks at you then — really looks. “You do?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I’ve seen how you are with the team. But it’s different with me.”

That catches him off guard. His jaw shifts. “Different how?”

You smile, faint, tired. “You don’t hover over Steve like this. Or Sam. Or anyone else who’s not me.”

He exhales through his nose, the faintest ghost of a smirk. “Sam would love that.”

“I bet.”

You let the quiet stretch a moment longer before you speak again. “Bucky…”

He glances up.

“You don’t have to protect me from everything.”

His voice drops low. “Maybe not. But I want to try.”

And somehow, that feels like the most dangerous thing he’s ever said.

That night, when you pass the training room on your way to bed, you catch him there — alone, running drills in the half-dark, the sound of his fists against the bag a steady rhythm. You watch him for a moment, unseen.

There’s something in the way he moves — precise, restless, relentless. Like he’s fighting something that won’t stay down.

You think about his hands on yours, the care in every small adjustment, the unspoken promise in his voice.

You think about the word guard dog, how everyone says it like a joke — but maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s devotion disguised as duty.

You whisper his name under your breath, once, just to see how it sounds in the dark.

He doesn’t hear you.

But you stay for a minute longer anyway.

୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧

The locker room smells of gun oil and rain. The storm outside presses against the windows, thunder pacing like something caged. It suits the mood that’s been building all morning — tight, restless, inevitable.

You’re half-dressed in your tac suit, focused on the checklist glowing across the tablet. Bucky’s reflection moves behind you in the mirror, pacing the length of the benches, boots clicking against tile. He hasn’t stopped moving since the briefing ended.

“You’re not going alone,” he says. Not a question. Not even loud. Just final.

You don’t turn around. “I am. It’s recon, not a war zone.”

“Recon turns into a war zone faster than you can blink.”

You keep tightening the straps on your vest. “You’re not my commander.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

“Then what are you trying to be, Bucky?” The words snap out sharper than you mean them to. “Because lately it feels like you’re trying to live in my shadow.”

He stops pacing. The silence that follows hums like the moment before lightning.

You face him. He looks older under the harsh light — lines cut deep around his mouth, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “You don’t listen,” he says. “Not when it matters.”

“I listen to the people who trust me to do my job.”

His eyes narrow. “You mean the ones who don’t give a damn if you come back bleeding?”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s true.”

Something in you breaks loose. “You think you’re the only one who gets to worry? The only one who’s seen enough loss to be scared? Newsflash, Barnes — we all have.” You zip your suit with more force than necessary. “But some of us still show up.”

He flinches like you hit him. “You think I don’t?”

“I think you hide,” you say, quieter now. “Behind orders. Behind me. Behind every excuse not to—”

You stop yourself before the word feel can fall out. It hangs there anyway, heavy and obvious.

He steps forward. The air between you vibrates. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then tell me.” You meet his stare, unblinking. “Explain it to me, Bucky. Why the hell do you keep treating me like something you have to guard?”

His breath catches, but he doesn’t look away. “Because you don’t treat yourself that way.”

The words crack through you like thunder. You open your mouth, but nothing comes.

He moves closer — two steps, three — until you can smell the rain on his jacket, the faint ozone of metal and sweat. “You walk into every mission like you’ve got nothing to lose,” he says, voice low, shaking now. “And I can’t — I can’t keep watching you do that.”

You scoff, though your throat feels tight. “You don’t get to tell me how to do my job.”

“I’m not talking about your job!” The volume spikes, raw and ragged. His hands clench at his sides, gloved knuckles whitening. “I’m talking about you.”

The sound of rain thickens against the glass. The room feels smaller, hotter.

He takes another step, and now you can feel the heat of him through your suit, the static building between you like the charge before a strike.

“Why do you care so much?” you whisper. It’s not accusation anymore. It’s plea.

His mouth opens, closes. His jaw locks. You watch the battle move across his face — every instinct that tells him to stay silent fighting the one that finally wants out.

Then he breaks.

“Because I love you, do you not understand that?”

The words hit like a flash grenade — white-hot, soundless, all-consuming. Everything stops: the rain, your breath, the hum of the lights.

He’s standing there, chest rising too fast, eyes wide but unflinching now that it’s out. The admission hangs between you like a live wire.

For a heartbeat you don’t move. You don’t even blink. You just stare at him — at the man who’s patched every wound you’ve had, tightened every strap, stood behind you in every fight — and realize this was the truth hiding in all those small, careful touches.

The tablet slips from your hand and hits the floor with a dull clatter. Neither of you looks down.

His voice is a rasp. “There. You wanted to know. Now you do.”

And then the silence swallows everything whole.

୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧

The rain hasn’t stopped.

It’s louder now, hammering the windows like a second heartbeat, filling the silence neither of you can seem to break.

Bucky hasn’t moved since he said it.

You haven’t, either.

You can see it all written across his face — the flicker of shock that he let it slip, the raw edge of fear just beneath the surface. He looks like a man waiting for impact. Like he’s bracing for you to turn and walk out.

You don’t.

You take a step toward him instead.

“Say it again,” you whisper.

He swallows. “You heard me.”

“I did,” you say. “But I think you need to hear yourself.”

His eyes close. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.

When he opens them, the blue there is different — clearer, stripped of everything but truth.

“I love you.”

Quieter this time, steadier.

Not a burst of confession now — a surrender.

It lands softer, but it hits harder.

Something inside you gives way, the space that’s been aching open between you filling with the sound of those words.

You step closer until there’s barely a breath between you. His hand twitches like he wants to reach out, but he doesn’t. Not yet.

“Bucky,” you murmur, his name breaking on your tongue like something sacred.

He flinches, looks down, the old guilt rising in his shoulders. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“But I want to.”

That makes him look up. You can see the storm in him — years of silence, penance, loneliness, all colliding with the fragile thing he’s just handed you.

You take another step. The air between you hums with everything you haven’t said.

“I’ve known,” you say softly. “Not the words, maybe. But I’ve known.”

He lets out a sound — half laugh, half breath — like he doesn’t believe you but wants to.

“Then why didn’t you ever—”

“Because you weren’t ready.” You offer a small, tired smile. “And maybe I wasn’t either.”

That quiets him. For a moment, all you hear is rain.

Then he says, almost to himself, “You shouldn’t have had to wait.”

You shake your head. “You don’t get to decide what I wait for.”

He huffs out something that could almost be a laugh, eyes dropping to the floor.

“Still stubborn.”

“Still me,” you reply.

The smallest ghost of a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. It’s the first one you’ve seen since the argument started, and it feels like light trying to find its way into the room.

He runs a hand through his hair, the tension still thick in his movements. “You shouldn’t even be going on this mission.”

You sigh. “We’re not starting that again.”

“I just told you I love you, and you’re still walking into fire,” he mutters, half to himself.

You step even closer now — close enough to touch, close enough that when you speak, your breath catches against his jaw. “That’s what we do, remember? We walk into fire. The trick is not walking alone.”

That stops him. His eyes meet yours — slow, searching. “You’re saying you want me there?”

“I’m saying I want you here,” you answer. “Wherever that ends up being.”

Something shifts in his face then — the faintest crack in the armor he’s worn since the day you met him. He doesn’t smile exactly, but something softer moves through his expression, something like relief.

You watch him reach for your vest, the motion instinctive — fingers brushing the strap at your shoulder, checking the clips, the buckles, the edges like he always does. But there’s a new kind of gentleness in it now, no longer the careful distance of duty, but something almost tender.

“Still not zipped,” he murmurs.

You look down. He’s right — your collar’s half open.

You lift a brow. “You going to fix it?”

He hesitates, then nods once. His hand comes up, slow, deliberate. The zipper slides up in a quiet metallic whisper, stopping just below your throat.

He doesn’t pull away. His fingers rest there, barely touching. His voice is rough when he speaks again.

“You scare the hell out of me, you know that?”

You smile, just enough to tilt the air. “You scare me too.”

That earns you a huff of breath, almost a laugh, almost a sigh. “Guess we’re even.”

“Guess so.”

For a while, you just stand there — the storm still raging outside, the world still waiting beyond these walls — and it feels like the center of something neither of you knew you were building.

Then he says, quietly, “What happens now?”

You think about it. About the years of glances, the small touches, the things unspoken. About the way he’s always hovered a step behind, waiting for permission he never needed.

“Now,” you say slowly, “we stop pretending there’s nothing to lose.”

He nods, once. “And if we lose it anyway?”

“Then we’ll have had it,” you whisper. “That’s more than most people ever get.”

He looks at you like he’s memorizing the shape of those words. Then, with a breath that sounds like surrender, he says, “Alright.”

You reach for his hand — not the metal one, the other — and he lets you. His palm is warm, calloused, grounding. You feel him breathe in, steady himself. For the first time, it doesn’t feel like he’s on guard.

The thunder rolls again, but it’s gentler now, the edge softening into rain. The kind that cleans the air instead of choking it.

You squeeze his hand once before you pull away. “Come on,” you say, half-smiling. “We’ve got a mission.”

He exhales through a smile of his own — real this time, small but there. “Always so damn stubborn.”

“Always,” you say. “But you love that about me.”

His laugh is quiet, almost disbelieving. “Yeah,” he murmurs, voice rough but sure. “I do.”

And then the comm buzzes, and duty calls again, and the world keeps turning — but everything’s different now.

Not fixed.

Not perfect.

Just possible.

𓂃 ࣪˖ thea’s taglist: @buckyfmd @sheriff-bodecker @54nboo @herejustforbuckybarnes @devililithh @metal-armed-muse @demiebarnes @barnesandashes @amoremarveloustime @colettebarnes @barnesgirlx @dolcesaints @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @thegirlwhowaited5everok

[phoenix-in-writing]

Not Even Gone

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Summary: The negative connotation of forever is replaced when Bucky literally runs into someone who will change his life at a coffee shop. Warnings/Tags: Minor hurt/major comfort, a little angsty, a little suggestive towards the end, touches super briefly on suicidal ideation from Bucky - it's not outwardly said, but it is there, no use of y/n, reader is described to have hair long enough to flow on a pillow Word Count: 1.2k Chirps: Have y'all ever heard a song for the first time and your entire body perked up with a fic idea that would not shut up? Well, that's what this is. Heavily based on Alex Sampson's new song 'Not Even Gone'. Probably not my best, but I'm not letting the burnout win. Also, Bucky's full name is canonically (to me) James Buchanan 'just five more minutes' "Bucky" Barnes and I will be hearing no arguments. Masterlist

Forever was a word Bucky used to hate.

As an empty life passed him by in which he only saw pockets of ruin and blood caused by his own hands, forever felt like a punishment for a crime he didn't remember committing. An eternity of screams of terror, the cold of the cryofreeze, and overworked muscles. There was nothing worth living for if that was how it was always going to be. But he was dragged from one fight to another, never in control of his own destiny.

Until he was.

Forever still felt too long when Bucky's mind returned to him fully. Futility was the only word that would come to his mind when he realized how much he had missed while he had played HYDRA's puppet. Because how could he catch up on 70 years worth of things while life continued to happen around him?

It turned him bitter. Towards the people who made him this way. Towards those that would never really, truly understand.

Once Steve left, in search of his own forever destiny, Bucky no longer had someone with a shared life experience. Not that Steve even understood. His fights were of his own volition without someone pulling the strings.

The bitterness turned to recklessness. A restless flame built in his chest that he couldn't seem to extinguish. So his actions turned adrenaline-fueled.

His motorcycle found higher gears, racing through traffic with little regard for his own safety.

Missions with Sam had him putting more force behind punches and pulling triggers on weapons he hadn't touched since he was known as the Winter Soldier. Sam once asked if he was good to keep going in the field. Bucky lied eloquently with a simple 'yeah' and kept firing until he was out of bullets.

When the adrenaline wouldn't drop, he'd find a bar and nearly dare someone to pick a fight with him just to feel something again.

But he couldn't do this forever either.

His body wore thin, no longer being maintained by scientists who only saw him as a weapon.

After a long night still plagued with nightmares of the person he used to be and who he could slowly see himself becoming again, he wandered into a coffee shop, looking for caffeine that would hopefully keep him awake enough to be debriefed on whatever mission Sam wanted his help with again.

The warm, rich scent of coffee and sounds of espresso machines provided a momentary reprieve from the harsh city outside the doors. If he could reach into a cobwebbed file in his memory, he could almost be transported to a different time when life stretching before him was full of promise, instead of hoping the torment would end.

Eyes too preoccupied by scanning the menu board, he didn't even see a person waiting in line until his body nearly occupied the same space as theirs.

A surprised yelp briefly cleared the fog of his mind as Bucky instinctively reached out to stop the source of the sound from falling to the ground.

"Would you watch where you're going?"

And with one look into the depths of your steady gaze, the rest of the clouds parted, sunlight finally reaching corners of his soul previously moored by nothing but shadow.

"Sorry," he said quickly, dropping his hold of you when you were steady. The next words out of his mouth were the ones that would inevitably change his future. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee to make up for it?"

Bucky couldn't fathom why you would say yes to sitting with him in the first place. He would've understood if you scoffed and left him to stew in his own embarrassment.

But you didn't. You accepted his offer and sat next to him like he maybe deserved a second chance at a first impression.

Later, you would tell him you saw shadows clinging to him, and that you could provide some kindness with coffee as payment.

Bucky could nearly recite every word of that first encounter. How easy you were to talk to. How he laughed for the first time in what felt like decades. How much lighter he felt with a simple conversation where the other person wasn't on edge. How you were the first stranger who held his stare in a thoughtful way, not in a 'worried he's going to snap' way.

How naturally you slid him your number, thanking him for the coffee, but saying you were almost late for an appointment, leaving the choice of where this blooming relationship would go solely up to him.

That day played over and over in his head any time he glanced in your direction.

When your hair waterfalls on his pillow as you sleep soundly, tucked safely against his chest.

When your lips crack a smile briefly before turning into a full-bodied laugh.

Especially when your eyes meet his through a crowded party and you could tell his social battery was drained. Your fingers would intertwine through his naturally, saying some excuse that you were tired and wanted to leave. Always shifting the blame to yourself needlessly, so questions of 'can't he leave without you?' wouldn't pop up.

Nights used to be spent without sleep claiming him due to the horrors that would appear behind his eyes.

Now, Bucky wanted to spend as long as he could watching you drift. Afraid one day that you would just cease to exist and that his brain made you up as a defense mechanism from wearing himself too thin.

When he placed a hand on your chest, your heartbeat would often lull him to sleep. The steady thump and rise and fall of your chest meant you were here, still choosing him.

In the mornings when you had to leave the warmth of his embrace for a job, Bucky tried to hold you closer for just a little longer.

If love could be paid in currency, Bucky would make sure you were the richest person in the galaxy.

His arms wound around your waist, holding you as a loving hostage against his chest. "Just five more minutes, sweetheart," he pleaded into the crook of your neck. Lips finding that sensitive spot under your ear that had you shivering in seconds.

Normally, you would protest. Say that five minutes often turned to ten, that then turned to you having to bolt out the door so you would make it on time.

Instead, this morning was different for whatever reason. Maybe you just wanted to spend the day pressing this memory into the scrapbook of your mind.

You settled back against your pillow, typing out some bleary message to your boss that you were feeling under the weather and wouldn't be in until Monday.

Bucky's grin was triumphant, his mouth growing hungrier as he rolled on top of you. He would never get tired of the sigh that left your throat as his hands mapped your curves, or the way you moved to slot his body against yours.

"Promise me we can stay like this forever," he found himself whispering into your ear with a lazy roll of his hips. A word he used to hate now said with reverence.

"I promise I'm not going anywhere, Bucky."

The vow hung in the sleepy air, washing over a man who used to be afraid of living forever.

Now, he was afraid that forever would never be long enough to have the feeling of you in his arms. But he'd continue to hold you close, for as long as this life would afford him.

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Stan Characters Only: @iamthatonefangirl @cassity357

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[marvelfilmtv]

... but there are speaking raccoons 😅

[jamesbbcrnes]

HUSH, HUSH, DARLING

PAIRING: avenger!bucky x avenger!reader WORD COUNT: 293 WARNINGS: reader is hurt on a mission, medical inconsistencies (i’m just a girl), hurt/comfort, established relationship, no use of y/n. SONG PROMPT: don’t speak by no doubt LYRICS: “don’t speak.” NOTE: final scribble of the month!!! this was so much fun, i had a blast. i struggled ibr but it was my first event and i loved it. thanks everyone for reading!! 🥹🫶🏼

event masterlist | day twenty-nine | main masterlist

Two bullets hit you before you can move out of its course. Lodged into your right thigh, the other blocked by your bulletproof vest but still knocking the wind out of you.

You take the guy you're fighting with you as you hit the floor hard, his head cracking against the ground beneath you, breaking your fall.

White-hot pain shoots through you, gasping in pain.

Bucky's there before you can even blink, dodging through gunfire and practically throwing someone out of his way to get to you.

"Hey, baby, hey," He rushes out, dropping to his knees in front of you, manoeuvring you onto your back gently.

You open your mouth to talk to him, but all you can get out is a painful wheeze.

"Okay," Bucky says, but his voice trembles, "It's okay, I'm gonna check your vest."

He rips open the jacket you wear over it, yanking the straps free to check under your vest. Clean, which means the vest did its job.

Bucky finds himself breathing a little easier, "The vest blocked it."

You swallow thickly, your mouth open to speak but he shakes his head quickly, cupping your cheeks, "Don't speak, baby, it's gonna be alright. We're gonna get you back to the jet, okay?"

His thumbs brush your cheeks as you talk anyway, voice strained, "Buck. . . "

"I know," He whispers, watching you wince in pain as you shift your leg.

Bucky leans down to kiss your forehead tenderly, "We're gonna get you help. . . then you're never allowed to leave the compound again."

A small joke to ease the tension. 

Despite the pain radiating throughout you, it works anyway— a tiny, shaky smile pulls at your lips as you roll your eyes.

". . . Never." You croak.

He smiles, "Atta girl."

🏷️: @metal-armed-muse @kileyking @nightfirecomit @juniebjonesin @chocolatemilkshakex @spring-soldier @spideyskywalker @phoenix-in-writing @buckytakethewheel @i-loveyoubutyourenotmine @erina00 @m1rrorcr1ss @stanmarvelous @sassandscribbles + to be added to the tag list? comment on this post or send in an ask!

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Aftermath

Summary: Bucky Barnes/Thunderbolts* x fe!Reader -> You're not exactly yourself when you finish a mission with your team.

Disclaimer: This is more of a Thunderbolts* tower fic with Bucky/Reader addition. Swearing, family vibes, platonic!john, platonic!yelena, hurt/comfort, Bucky gets reader to talk, a hint of Ava x John, slight spoilers for Thunderbolts*.

You just had to keep breathing. 

If you kept breathing, you could keep going. Just a couple more hours and then you could forget work and life even existed and just sleep. You needed to sleep. Your body needed sleep. 

You’d already snapped your way through the three routine meetings after the mission, yelled at the storage supplies when the shelf collapsed as you opened the door and yelled at Yelena to “back off”, which you never ever did. 

“Do you wanna tell me what’s going on, or am I gonna have to guess?”

You jumped, lowering your hand from your face. “John. What the fuck are you-”

“Answer my question.”

You sighed. “I’ve answered enough questions today.”

“Please,” he added. Though there wasn’t the soft edge to his voice like there was with Alexi. 

John was, and had always been, a soldier. It carried him through life and work. Sometimes manners slipped out of him like orders. 

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

“John.”

He stood. “Bull. Shit.”

Glaring at him as he got closer, your hands landed on your hips. “You know, you can be a real asshole.”

“No more than you’ve been today.”

“Fuck you.”

“What happened?”

You practically growled. You already told him you were sick of answering questions. “What do you mean what happened?”

John pointed towards the door as he practically squared up to you. Though, you didn’t exactly feel threatened. It was in his nature. And no matter how much of an asshole you knew you had been today, Ava would still kick John’s ass for you if you asked her. 

Even if you didn’t ask her. 

It was practically a sport for them. 

“You’ve just yelled at Yelena. Even Ava knows not to do that,” John said. “You nearly bit Bucky’s head off in the meeting today, for no goddamn reason I could find. You’re stomping everywhere you go and I saw the way you looked at Bob before.”

“And how did I look at him?”

“Like you were ready to throw him out of the window for sitting in the squeaky chair.”

You let out a heavy sigh, willing your facial expression not to drop. “Yeah, well…maybe I’m just an asshole.”

John nodded. “Maybe. But not usually. So, for the third and final time, what the fuck happened?”

“Nothing!”

“Bullshit! Something happened! I know it did!”

Another sigh left you as you paced, cleaning up things in the common room; folding blankets, punching pillows to fluff them. 

“It’s been a long day, John.” You could feel the fight leaving you. 

Watching that fire dim inside of you had him turning his own flame down. “Y/n-”

“I said I’m-” 

A sharp pain came so fast and hard to your head, you felt your knees buckle from beneath you. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear John shout your name before the smell of his fresh laundry blocked your senses. 

With a painful cry, although John’s ears didn’t miss the confused edge, he let you go long enough to get a clear look of you. 

“Let me see, show me your face. Show me,” he repeated as he cradled your head in his hands. “Open your eyes.”

“No, it hurts.”

“Well,” he wanted to argue but knowing you were in pain was shutting down the ‘friend’ part he held for you. “I’ve gotta see what’s wrong.”

“Fuck off, John.”

“No.” He moved your hair from your face. “Show me.”

You listened and tried to open your eyes, but you were only met with more sharp pain. “Ow, okay, no.” You hissed, bringing the heel of your hand to your head. “No. Eyes are staying shut. Forever.”

“Forever’s a very long time,” John told you. “Did you see the medic when you came back?”

“Yeah.”

“Who?”

“Dar…someone. I don’t know. I didn't read their name badge.”

With a huff, John stood and pulled you with him. “I’m taking you to med-bay.”

“John, I’m fine-”

“You’ve just collapsed and you’re being nice to me.”

You huffed yourself. “I told you to fuck off.”

“See, exactly. Nice.”

You groaned as you heard his chuckle, but you did hold onto him a little tighter as he led you down the hallways and towards the medical wing. 

“Told you something was wrong,” you heard John say as he stood by your bedside. 

The doctors had given you some pain medication, an ice pack for your head and strict orders to not fall asleep but remain in a dark room for at least twelve hours. 

“I thought I told you to fuck off.”

John smiled. “I’ve brought some board games."

“Why?” 

You didn’t mean to sound so disgusted when you asked him, “Why?”, but the last you checked John wasn’t one for playing Scrabble. 

He perched himself on the edge of your bed before pulling the table in between you both. “Because you need to stay awake and Ava had already told me to stay clear of the training room. I’ve already had my ass handed to me once today.”

You smiled. “You admitting she’d beat you?”

John grumbled. “Yeah, well, don’t tell her.”

“Is something going on between you two?” You asked as you counted your scrabble pieces. 

“Who?” John asked. “Me and Ava?”

You nodded. 

“No.” You watched as he shook his head but turned beat-red. “No. Never.”

“Me thinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“I’m not a lady!”

You stared at him blankly for a moment. “That is the argument you want to make. Not that you’re not lying directly to my face about you and Ava.”

“How do you know I’m lying?”

You rolled your eyes. “God, how the hell were you a mercenary? I saw you sneaking out of her room last week.”

“You did?”

You nodded. “Don’t worry. I’m the only one who knows.”

“How?”

“Because if Bob knew, then Yelena would know and Yelena would tell me. Even if Bob didn’t know and Yelena did, she would still tell me. And, well, if Alexi knew then we’d all know.”

“What about Bucky?”

“I think he’s too preoccupied with Sam to notice.”

John laid down his first word. “You know, they were good friends before all of this Valentina shit happened.”

“Think they’ll ever get back to that point?”

John shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe. For our sake, I hope so. And, yeah, I guess kinda for their sake, too.”

“Aww,” you teased. “Is someone getting soft in their old age?”

“Fuck off.”

“No, it’s okay,” you assured him. “It’s common in those over fifty.”

“Fuck off, I’m not fifty.”

“So sixty then.”

John sighed. “Just make your word already.”

After an hour of playing and reading almost every page in the dictionary, John motioned to you. “How’s your head?”

“Better. Pain meds have kicked in.”

“You’re gonna have to apologise to Yelena, you know.”

You nodded. “I know.”

“What happened?”

“John.”

“Oh, come on,” he practically whined. “You’re gonna have to tell someone eventually.”

It took you a minute, but with a heavy sigh, you finally opened up. “I don’t know. And, for the record, that’s not me trying to bullshit my way through all of this. I just…really don’t know. Stress from work, maybe. And life. I just…” 

Once again, you let out a heavy sigh. 

“I think I’m having a tough day.”

John nodded after a moment. “I get it. Hell, we all get it. Just…next time you’re having a tough day…maybe tell one of us. You know, so, we don’t think you’re a complete asshole all day.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

When you were finally discharged from the medical wing, you went in search of Yelena. 

And it wasn’t long until you finally found her. 

All you had to do was follow the sound of the lyrics to American Pie. 

“Hey,” you said, quietly. 

Yelena jumped a little, laying her hand over her chest dramatically. “Y/n, you scared me.”

You glared at her, a little playfully. “No I didn’t.”

Yelena let her hand drop from her chest. “You’re right. You didn’t. I heard you the minute the elevator opened. You’ve been stomping around the place all day.”

Walking in slowly, you sat on her bed just behind the clean and folded laundry pile she was building. Doing normal, domestic things had a tendency to calm Yelena after a mission. 

“I know. And I wanted to say sorry for yelling at you before.”

Yelena paused as she looked at you. “It wasn’t very nice.”

You nodded, the guilt weighing on you. “I know, and I shouldn’t have done it. There is no excuse to pardon me from my actions.” Yelena glared a little more at you. “What I’m trying to say is I acted like an asshole and you didn’t deserve that.”

Her expression relaxed. “Thank you. Hearing you call yourself an asshole makes me feel a lot better.”

You smiled a little. “I’m glad.”

“And,” Yelena drawled. “What would make me feel so much better would be if you helped me with this laundry.”

You stood, taking a few items from the basket. “You usually just throw it at me to let me know you want help.”

Yelena shrugged. “You were busy calling yourself an asshole. Now help me with this thing.”

Yelena held up the king size fitted sheet as she tried to fold it. 

After five minutes and three different variations of the question, “Why don’t they provide a manual?”, you both decided the best cause of action was to bundle it up and throw it into the linen cupboard.

“Can I come in? Or, are you going to try and bite my head off again?”

After everyone went their separate ways for dinner, needing some personal down time, you’d tried to force yourself to stay awake. So, midnight baking it was. 

“Can I come in?” Bucky asked, slowly approaching from the door. “Or are you gonna try and bite my head off again?”

You gave him a tired, but knowing smile. “You can come in, Bucky.”

He entered. “Just wanted to ask. You know, in case I was about to lose another limb today. What are you doing up?”

“Doctor’s orders to stay awake. At least until my headache goes away.”

“Told you you had a concussion.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” you laid the mixing bowl down. “I get it. You’ve had enough injuries to spot one.”

Bucky chuckled hearing the humor in your voice. 

“What about you? Figured you’d be asleep by now.”

He nodded as he took a seat, swiping his finger into the leftover mixture. “Not tired yet. Besides, I took a nap on the plane.”

“I don’t know how you can sleep straight after a mission.”

Bucky just shrugged. “Practice.”

“Practice,” you mocked, deepening your voice. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

Bucky just looked at you. “You know what.”

Staring back at him, you took a breath. Sometimes you wished he was an asshole like John. Maybe that way you’d be able to fight him more. But then again, a small part of you felt lighter when Bucky asked. 

Because he knew. 

“I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“It’s either me or a therapist. And, well, you don’t exactly have to pay me.” 

A chuckle left you but it quickly faded. 

“Come on, Y/n. Talk to me,” Bucky reached over and laid his hand over yours. “Please.”

Falling into the chair beside you, you finally let your body slump down from the weight you’d been carrying and you talked. 

You talked through everything with Bucky. The mission, your feelings, your headspace. You asked him questions and he answered every single one as best as he could. He even gave you enough learned wisdom to help settle those voices in your head. 

And when the pain became too much for your body to handle and the tears started to burn behind your eyes, Bucky stood and held you into his chest. 

You weren’t a crier. Not very often. Sometimes it felt like your body stored up all your tears and when the dam got too full, it would just collapse. 

Bucky’s arms wrapped around you, his right hand resting against your temple and forehead. The heat of his palm was enough to help relax the pain at the front of your head. 

For a little while, at least. 

“How’s your head?” Bucky asked you, twenty quiet minutes after the oven timer had gone off and the tears had stopped falling. 

“Better,” you answered quietly. “Less pressure.”

“You should try and get some sleep,” he told you, his words mumbling into your hair. 

“But Doc-”

“Screw Doctor’s Orders. Right now, you need sleep.” Bucky was gentle as he smoothed down your hair. “I’ll watch over you. Make sure you’re alright.”

“You need sleep, too, Bucky.”

“Then we’ll sleep together. Come on.”

Placing the cover over your cake, Bucky took your hand and led you down the hallway and towards his room. Within thirty seconds of your head hitting one of his pillows and his arms folding over you, you were fast asleep. 

[daystarpoet]

★ ⎯a new year's kiss.

Masterlist — do not copy or translate my work. Comment to be added to my taglist. Please reblog to support. 1.5k words

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x reader. Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader.

Warning(s): Possible grammar and spelling mistakes. Canon inaccuracies. No use of Y/N. Not completely proofread.

Synopsis: With the final night of the year, Tony throws a party to celebrate. Bucky is still learning to adjust to the world. Lucky for him, he's got you to support him — and give him a little New Year's kiss.

A/N: You know the deal, one of those AUs in which the Avengers live happily ever after together in the Stark Tower and function as one big happy family. I hope each and every one of you has the most amazing 2026 ever. Thank you so much for supporting me throughout it. 💓

The compound hummed with the lively chatter of the Avengers and some other agents. It was the night of December 31st, and Tony Stark had decided a huge party was due. Yet another year survived in the chaotic life of the ‘Earth’s mightiest heroes’.

A celebration was only natural, a moment of closure for all the highs and lows, all the battles lost and won. Because even with all your abilities, even with all the resilience and all the training, you needed to rest. You sat on the couch, in between Steve and Natasha. You fiddled with the drink in your hands, moving your wrist in round movements, watching as the ice cubes that floated in the liquid followed the motion.

You were comfortably quiet, taking in the atmosphere around you as you listened to the conversations. Something about who should be nominated Avenger of the Year and who’d had the best and worst fights.

“No, ‘cause listen, I totally destroyed that guy.” Tony spoke, pointing one finger at nobody in particular. “It doesn’t count if you just go blowing people up with your suit—” Steve interrupted. “Oh, I’m sorry. Not all of us can be honourable Captain America.”

Steve knew better than to reply to that last jab, choosing to just chuckle instead, rolling his eyes and ending the conversation. Not all arguments were worth winning, especially ones as fleeting as that one.

You don’t remember when, but at some point, your ears deafened the sound around you. Your neck tilted backwards, eyes trying to catch a glimpse of the window leading to the balcony. Bucky was probably still there, right where he had been since the party had started.

Bucky Barnes was a mystery to most. Though it had been some time since his escape from HYDRA, he was yet to fully recover. Big social gatherings were something that he was not ready to fully face yet, especially knowing how strained things between Tony and him were. The Winter Soldier had done irreparable damage, and not even the fact that the actions had not been Bucky’s choice made him feel any less guilty.

During the time that had passed since his return, you had done your best to offer Bucky some support. You made an extra cup of tea every time you woke up late into the night and saw him pacing the kitchen, hands clenching and unclenching as he muttered shaky breaths. You never forced the words out of him; sometimes—during those nights where something in you told you the nightmare had been particularly bad—you just placed the cup next to him and walked away. During the not-so-terrible nights you would sit next to him in silence, letting him know that he was not alone in his pain.

You walked with him during missions, offering him a point of support. You did not fear him, you did not believe him to be unstable. Bucky was just a man who had been through many more atrocities than ever necessary; he was just a man who was relearning how to live. That was no sin. After all, all he had ever wanted to do was to help. From the day he joined the US Army to the operation you led yesterday.

With one last breath of conviction, you stood up from your seat. “I’m going out for some air. I’ll be right back.” You commented, aiming towards the exit to the balcony. Somebody, you were unsure who, added something else, and you nodded, not even focused enough to tell what had been said.

You found him resting against the glass railing, forearms propped to support his weight. His eyes traced the glimmering skyline of New York. The city was always a wonder. It had always been alive, even when Bucky was younger, back in the forties, but now it was on a whole new plane. You quietly approached, standing just like him

“Hypnotised by the city lights, are we?” You teased, turning your face in his direction. Bucky chuckled quietly; it was tired but genuine. “Something like that. There’s always something going on—that’s mildly entertaining.”

You nodded; the city had certainly earned its insomniac title. “Being completely honest, I don’t think any of us could live anywhere else. I think we all need it, the chaos, the missions. Besides, I’ve never heard of a city that needs nearly as much daily saving as this one.”

Bucky listened in, the smallest of smiles painted on his lips. It was not often that he laughed, not with anyone other than Steve. Brick by brick, you had slowly started to undo the walls that surrounded James Buchanan Barnes—and the more time that he passed in your presence, the less he seemed to care about it. Maybe he could let you in.

A breeze of cold wind swept through, making you subconsciously inch closer. It could have been the instinct to rely on another human being for heat, knowing that in an extreme scenario, being physically close to one another would increase your chances of survival. Or it very well may have also been that almost omniscient pull that had been tugging you in his direction in more ways than one. Like a fine string that emerged from the centre of your chest and connected with this, pulled by delicate fingers with torturous precision.

“It’s going to be midnight soon.” Called Bucky, yanking your thoughts back to earth. “I’m sure the team wants you with them.” He nodded his head towards the Avengers, who still were invested in their cheerful conversations. “What about Steve?” You asked him, “Won’t he want you with him to start the new year?”

Bucky did a gesture, a mix between a shrug, a nod, and an eye roll. “Yeah, maybe he will. Either way, I don’t really want to go inside.” You listened to the faint conflict in his tone. Steve was his dearest friend, someone who had stayed by his side even when hardly anybody else believed him worth saving. And on the other hand was the inevitable conflict of an encounter with the people that might not have been entirely too pleased with his presence—not that he could blame them.

“Alright,” you said with determination. “Then we’ll both meet the New Year together, out here.” Bucky raised a bewildered eyebrow. “You sure? You can go back inside. I’m not a kid; I can handle some alone time.”

“I mean it.” You reassured him with conviction. “I want to stay here, I want to be there for you, Bucky. You matter to me.” The smile on his lips widened, and for the first time in a while, his chest felt lighter. “You know—” his sentence was soon cut off by the explosion of colourful fireworks. You grinned, enlightened by the surprise. “Happy New Year’s, then, Bucky.”

“Happy New Year’s,” he echoed. Bucky paused right in your eyes, and so did you. The fireworks and the cheers became only background noise. New Year’s Magic may have been real, because if not, neither of you would have been able to explain what happened next. “Don’t tell me you expect a kiss now.”

You laughed, crossing your arms. “Only if you’re offering. We could. For the hell of it.” Though it was only meant as a jab, it did not quite feel like a light joke for either of you. “For the hell of it…” Bucky murmured, leaning his face closer to yours. His flesh hand came to rest on your face, fingertips cupping your jaw. Almost automatically, one of your hands moved to wrap around his wrist.

Hesitantly, you shifted your posture so that your head would be raised higher. Bucky leaned down, meeting you halfway. He kissed you softly, almost afraid to do so. He kissed like someone reluctant yet eager. His brain slowly relearnt how to kiss a lady in the process of moving his lips against yours. It had been seventy years since he had last done this, and being completely honest, the circumstances were not even close to similar. Bucky was no longer the dashing boy from Brooklyn who had dames swooning at his feet; rather, he was a burdened soldier with a heavy past.

The fact that you were willing to share a kiss with him despite that made your shared moment only more magical. Once the need for oxygen became too big to ignore, he pulled away from your lips. He chuckled bashfully, catching his breath as his eyes avoided yours. “Wasn’t half bad, was it?”

You shook your head, pressing your forehead to his. “No, not at all.” Silence lingered in between you for a few beats. You opened your mouth to say something, knowing right then and there was the only moment in which you would get to say this before the team came looking for you, wanting to wish you a happy New Year. “You don’t have to do things on your own anymore, Bucky. Whenever you need me, whenever you want me.

“Thank you, really.” He responded. His head turned to the window at the sound of people approaching. “Go, they’re waiting for you.” You paused, shaking your head. “Come with me. Gotta start the year with the right foot.”

Oh, the things he was about to do for you. “Alright.”

Taglist: @balladofareader @viqwxcs @urmumsfan @bloodwrittenletters @tellybearryyyy @princess-luka @wonwoosthetic @hiraethmae @cluvsya @sra7riddle-malfoy @canisusmajor @its-in-the-woods @nicolebarnes @lotsa-juicy-shit @faiszt @wildflowersandvibranium @wickedfun9 @heathericious @shellsbae00 @unadulteratedbeardpeanut @pearlsvie @sassandscribbles @thecrimsonfog @thegirlwhowaited5everok @kittens4kitty @vampsan @illumoria

[aquaticmercy]

Interstate Love Song

Summary : Bucky tells the team he saw his Hydra days in The Void. You are the only one who knows him well enough to know he is lying.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers below the cut!!!!!!! Best friends to lovers. Fluff,  bit of angst, reader is mentioned to be an ex-cage fighter. Reader is part of the team. Cursing, Trauma. Implied sex. The title is inspired by the song of the same name by Stone Temple Pilots.

Requested by : anon (the ask is very spoiler-y so I have not answer that yet!)

Word count : 4.6k

Note : Please keep the post-thunderbolts* requests going! If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

Before the Blip, you were just another number in the system. You were just another fighter in a concrete box, thrown into illegal cage matches as entertainment of the rich and corrupt. 

You weren’t there by choice. 

You’d been taken young, trained to fight, to break and survive. 

You, like many that ended up in the ring, had no family. For as long as you could remember, the only love you knew of was crowds that screamed for blood.

When Thanos snapped his fingers, half your captors turned to dust.

The door was unlocked, and for the first time, no one came to stop you.

You ran.

You later spent the next few years working in the shadows: Bounty hunting, private contracts, smuggling. 

You had no real allegiances, just a reputation: you always got the job done. 

You’ve assisted Sharon Carter with her art smuggling, helped Xu Xialing train fighters in her more ethical, opt-in cage fighting endeavours, and ironically, some of the same people you used to fight besides turned to crime when the world lost structure, so you started hunting them for cash. 

Others had taken to more righteous but extreme causes—like the Flag Smashers. You tried to keep your distance until Sam Wilson showed up at a bar you get your bounties from and dropped a name you hadn’t heard in years. And then Bucky Barnes sat down beside him and said, “We could use someone like you. Sharon Carter gave you a pretty good reference.”

The mission was to track down an old cage mate of yours who was loyal to Karli Morgenthau.

So you took the job. Then the next. And the next.

Working with Sam was easy—he had a leader’s clarity. Getting to know Bucky, however, was a bit of a slow burn. He was distrusting at first, he had little words to say for strangers.

You didn’t push, but the more you went on these missions, the more you started noticing the way he always kept you in his eyeline, the way he started covering your flank, and the way he actually laughed at one of your dry jokes on a mission in Beirut.

Over time, it stopped being just a job. You started grabbing takeout with Sam and Bucky. You stuck around their shitty motel rooms talking about music and how weird the world felt now. Joaquin started joining in, too, and somewhere along the way, you became friends. 

By the sixth joint mission with Joaquin, you and Bucky had inside jokes. By the tenth, he was texting you first when he was lonely— not Sam. 

It wasn’t that he intended to spend less time with the new Cap and more with you— but when Joaquin became his de facto second-in-command, it made sense for Bucky to seek companionship in you. 

Then came the day he told you he was thinking about running for Congress. You blinked and laughed. He shrugged, saying something about “making amends on a bigger scale.” And when you stopped laughing long enough to realise he was serious, you listened. You offered advice, telling him he’d need to hire a security team to keep his campaigns safe.  

“That’s why I want you to oversee it,” he said that day.

“Are you kidding me?” you chuckled, sipping on your beer in the bar he had chosen to hang out in, “I’m not a fucking secret service agent.”

“Exactly,” he gave you that infuriatingly charming grin— the one you were sure would win him votes. “I don’t trust those people. I trust you.”

So that’s how you became head of security for his campaign. And it wasn’t just work. Those nights often ended in long conversations. Sometimes you’d find him on his balcony after an event, and you’d just sit with him. 

By the time the campaign was over, you began working private security gigs around D.C., your apartment only ten minutes from his. You both stopped pretending it was coincidence when he started showing up with food or you’d crash on his couch after staying out too late. Somewhere along the line, you’d become his closest friend.

After everything you’d both been through, it just made sense.

—

Post-void New York, 2027.

Bob had just quite literally been dragged out of a personal hell of his own making and nobody at the table came out unscathed. Not really. Not after that.

But at least you all were alive. And starving.

Especially after Val ambushed you with that press conference. 

The five of you had decided on the dingy pizza joint. It was a miracle the place was even open considering what had happened to the city, the old red-neon “PIZZA BY THE SLICE” sign buzzed overhead like it was short-circuiting from your collective trauma.

Yelena had chosen the booth closest to the back. She claimed it was strategic—"less visibility from the windows"—but Alexei knew she just liked to sit with her back to a wall. She had a slice of extra cheese, grease dripping down her fingers as she methodically peeled off the mushrooms.

Alexei was next to her, cutting his slice with a plastic knife and fork like it was a fine steak. “I’m civilized,” he announced when Bucky raised an eyebrow.

Ava was perched on the end of the booth, chewing through two slices stacked on top of each other, sauce smeared across one cheek. Her tactical suit. had one broken buckle that kept slipping open.

John sat across from them with his boots up on the chair next to him, leaning so far back in his seat it creaked like it was about to break. He had a half-empty cup of soda and two untouched slices in front of him.

You were tucked into the booth with Bucky beside you. He hadn’t said much. Neither had you. But you kept elbowing each other every few minutes, like some kind of private Morse code. He could tell you were spiraling; you could tell he was deflecting. Classic.

The pizza in front of you was a crime scene of pepperoni and pineapple, but it was food, and no one had eaten in hours. The last time you'd all stopped was... hell, who even knew? Between the vault and New York, you probably haven’t eaten in more than half a day. 

Bob sat at the far end of the table, happily munching through the single marinara in front of him.

You tore off a piece of Bucky’s crust (because he didn’t really like the burnt bits) and popped it into your mouth. “Okay,” you said, loud enough to cut through the clatter, “Void Talk. Let’s go. Everyone cough up your horror visions.”

Everyone around you let out a chorus of groans.

“Nope,” said John, around a mouthful of dough. “Absolutely not.”

You narrowed your eyes and smacked him upside the head — not hard, just enough to remind him who was in charge of emotional vulnerability tonight.

“Ow! What the hell!”

“Johnathan,” you said, sliding into your Serious Voice. Bucky turned toward you slightly, recognising the tone immediately. “We are a family now. Families communicate. Have you learned nothing from all this shared trauma?”

“I learned you’re annoying,” John almost snapped, rubbing his head. “Also, don’t call me that. You’re not my mom.”

“You wish I was your mom,” you shot back. “You’d actually be emotionally stable.”

“And get your horrible taste in pizza?” he snapped, but kept earring anyways. “No thanks.”

“Rude,” said Yelena, pointing at the pie with righteous indignation. “This is quality dollar-slice. Best in New York. Kate Bishop said so.”

“Oh, well if Kate Bishop said so,” Ava deadpanned, finally skewering an olive. “Let me just re-evaluate my whole palate.”

“She has good taste,” Alexei defended, somehow sipping from two sodas at once.

You laughed. For once, you felt warmth in your ribs. You felt Bucky’s elbow nudging yours again, this time a little more gently. He still hadn’t really spoken, but when you glanced his way, he gave you that half-smile, the one he reserved just for you.

“Come on, then,” you said, “Trauma-sharing time.”

Bob’s smile faltered, the small in his eyes dimming in his eyes a little. “I have a feeling you all saw me in there,” he said, though he aimed it mostly at Yelena.

She didn’t answer immediately. Just reached for another garlic knot and tore it in half with more force than necessary.

Ava smiled, softer than usual, then said, “No shit.”

Yelena exhaled through her nose, like it took effort just to stay seated. “Mine was Red Room,” she said with a shrug. “All of it. The smells. The punishments. Everything.”

Alexei’s hand tightened around his soda. The can crinkled slightly.

“I saw the day I sent you and Natasha away,” he said, with a deep breath. 

Yelena glanced at him, eyes still unreadable, but her mouth curved just a little. Forgiveness, maybe. Or just understanding.

Ava poked at the toppings “Pain. Again. Thought I was over it, but apparently my brain missed the memo.”

You looked over, met her eyes. She offered a crooked smile and nudged your ankle under the table. 

John cleared his throat, rough like gravel. “Lemar,” he said, knowing everyone could put two and two with just the name. “And… my kid. You know the rest.”

You reached over and bumped your shoulder against his. This time, he didn’t flinch. 

Then the attention turned, inevitably, to you. 

You rolled your shoulders, and looked down at your grease-stained napkin on the table like it was about to reveal the location to the fountain of youth. “Cage match. My opponent was new. Couldn’t have been more than fifteen.” You picked at the crust in your hand. “I didn’t have a choice, it was kill or be killed.”

You heard murmurs of understanding around the table— sympathy, but not pity. Even John, who had the emotional bandwidth of a concrete wall most days, sighed.

No one noticed how Bucky’s eyes darted to you. No one noticed how his shoulders went just a bit tighter. 

Then Bob turned, casual and curious.

“What about you?” he asked Bucky. “You saw something, right?”

For half a second. Bucky looked like he might actually answer.

His eyes met yours briefly.

He looked away too fast for you to read it clearly and stood up from the booth abruptly. “You know what? This was fun. I’m gonna go… clean up,” he said. “Or get ice cream. Probably both. Anyone want ice cream?”

You leaned back in your seat, arms crossed. “Oh, come on, Buck.”

He shot you a look — that subtle one that said not here, not now. The one that always left you guessing.

John snorted. “We know what you saw anyway.”

Bucky froze. “Do you?”

“Hydra, right? Gotta be.” John shrugged, still a little too smug. “It’s your Greatest Hits playlist.”

“Yeah,” he said, his pinky finger twitching as he looked away. “Sure. That’s all it was. Wouldn’t want to bore anyone.”

He grabbed his jacket, eyes flicking to you one last time. You watched him go and said nothing, for now.

The team went back to eating, like the moment had passed. Jokes began to be thrown around again. Slices were being grabbed left and right. 

But you didn’t move.

No one noticed how your smile faded into a worried frown.

No one noticed the twitch in Bucky’s human pinky as he stepped out.

But you did. You always did.

—

Later that night. 

Val spared no expense—meaning she booked seven rooms in a hotel that had more broken vending machines than working elevators. Still, after dragging the entirety of New York back from the void, even a spring-poked mattress felt like luxury.

Yelena had already claimed the room with the least stained carpet. Ava was currently phasing her hand through a vending machine to get free Hot Flamin’ Cheetos. John passed out with a half-eaten bag of pistachios in his lap somewhere in the lobby. Alexei was arguing with a front desk clerk about how he clearly deserved the king suite because of his "reputation."

Bob didn’t go to his room right away. You caught him sitting in the hallway for a while, back against the wall, head down like he was trying to recover. You passed him a granola bar without a word and walked away. 

That’s what he needed. 

Not pity. 

Just a constant reminder he wasn’t alone.

You and Bucky had been given rooms side by side. Which was always interesting. 

—

You unlocked your hotel room door with a dull click, the metal groaning like it hated being disturbed. 

You kicked off your boots—one landed upright, the other flopped on its side—and shrugged your jacket off with a sigh, letting it fall haphazardly over the armchair that should’ve been retired ten years ago.

The beige ceiling loomed above you as you stared up and nothing. You did your rounds. You showered, changed, and drank a bottle of water. 

Then you heard it.

The unmistakable thud from the hotel room next door. 

He was in.

You didn’t hesitate. 

Still wearing your pajamas— plaid pants and an oversized shirt—you slipped out into the hallway. 

You knocked, once, twice. 

He didn’t answer. “Bucky,” you called, your voice just above a whisper. “Open up.”

You heard nothing, but still waited. Then knocked again, harder this time. 

This time, the door cracked open.

Bucky was in his dark shirt, the fabric clinging to his shoulders, hair damp and curling slightly at the end. He was wearing a hoodie that was zipped only halfway, and his dog tags glinted faintly beneath the fabrics.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice frayed.

You matched it with a small smile. “Hey.”

Bucky stepped aside, inviting you in.

The room was dim, washed in the amber glow of a single bedside lamp. You climbed onto his mattress, sitting cross-legged at the foot like you’d done a hundred times before. 

Bucky stayed by the window, staring out like the skyline might offer him answers to questions he didn’t even know how to ask. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his hoodie,

You picked up a pillow and lobbed it at his head.

It hit him squarely in the side of the neck, making him flinch.

He chuckled. “Seriously?”

“You were brooding too much again,” you said, already reaching for another. “I had to restore balance to the Force.”

He caught the second pillow mid-air, tossing it lightly back at you. “What balance?”

“I’m the charming one. You’re the grumpy one,” you grinned, “It's the dynamic. We have to maintain the ecosystem.”

He rolled his eyes— but the corner of his mouth lifted into a small smile that softened all of his sharp edges.

And then, for a second, it slipped—just a flicker. Something must’ve crossed in his mind, because you caught the furrow of his brows. 

“You okay?” you asked, your voice lower now.

He didn’t answer, but sank down beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. His arm brushed yours, and he didn’t pull away.

“Just tired,” he said, though it sounded like something he’d practiced saying. 

You nudged your shoulder into his. “You know I didn’t buy what you said at the pizza place, right?”

Still, he didn’t look at you. But you saw it. That twitch of his pinky finger— his right hand. 

Yeah. You knew.

“Why not?” he asked, trying to sound casual and failing. 

“Because you’re lying,” you said gently, without sounding like an accusation. 

Bucky didn’t bother pretending he didn’t know what you meant. He just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging between them. He stared at the carpet like it might split open and offer an escape route underground. 

“I told you,” he said, the words slurred by exhaustion, as his finger uncontrollably moved again. “It was Hydra. Red and black nightmare sequence. All very on-brand.”

You just raised a brow. “Pinky twitch.”

“What?”

“It’s your tell. That’s how I know you’re lying.” You shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. 

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching on stubble. “You are so fucking annoying.”

You smirked. “Says the guy who keeps inviting me in.”

“You showed up to my door in pajamas,” he said, half-laughing as he turned to face you. “And you just barged in.”

“I did not,” you insisted, shrugging, “and even if I did, you wouldn’t have stopped me.”

He shook his head but didn’t deny it. 

He let the silence fester in place before offering answers. “You really wanna know what I saw?”

You nodded.

He swallowed hard. You could see the muscles in his neck working. Still, he didn’t look at you.

“You remember that mission in Munich?” he asked.

You nodded slowly. It was a recon mission that went sideways. 

“You jumped in front of a bullet for me,” he said, like it still didn’t make sense to him. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

“I…” You furrowed your eyebrows. “I didn’t know you saw that.”

“I didn’t,” he said, shaking his head. “Not at the moment. I was behind you. All I saw was you hitting the ground.” Then he looked at you, his eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, “That’s what I saw in the Void,” he said, voice shaking like a tightrope. “Over and over. I felt… useless. I– I… for a second. I thought I lost you..”

His hands clenched into fists on his knees and admitted, “I’ve never been more scared in my life.”

Your chest tightened. “That was your worst memory?” you whispered, almost in recognition. “Thinking I died?”

He flinched like the words had teeth and had sunk its fangs into his legs. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it means something,” he said, voice breaking at the edge. “And I’m not supposed to—” He cut himself off with a ragged breath, dragging a hand through his hair like it might help. “God— well you know what? Since we’re on this, what about you?” he asked. “You were lying, too.”

You gasped, only a little. “Excuse me?”

He gave a sad smile. “You don’t think I know your tell?”

You squinted. “I don’t have a tell.”

“You do.” He insisted, shifting a little closer. “You look down when you lie. You did it earlier.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but all that came out was a strangled noise of offended denial. “That is not—”

“It is,” he said, interrupting you. “So. What did you actually see?”

You looked away, then back at him again.

Because he deserved that much.

Because you didn’t want to lie anymore, either.

“Do you remember,” you said carefully, “when you got stabbed on that mission in Rabat?”

Bucky nodded. He frowned, confused.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I remember. Back alley. Guy with the gold tooth. You iced him before I even hit the pavement. Why?”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your voice.

“That’s what I saw,” you said, barely above a whisper. “You, bleeding on the ground.”

He froze.

“The story I told—about the kid in the ring,” you added, your voice more hoarse now, “was true. All of it. It just… wasn’t what I saw in the Void.”

The air between you thickened, like the seconds had turned to diamonds and trapped you both inside them.

“I remember thinking I was too late,” you continued, words spilling before you could second-guess them. “I remember thinking I couldn’t get you to safety in time.”

Bucky didn’t speak. He didn’t move.

Because now he knew you’d both seen different sides of the same coin in there.

Your worst memory wasn’t the ring. 

His wasn’t the Hydra orders.

Once, it might have been. But not anymore. 

The worst thing—for both of you—was thinking you had lost each other.

Not cages.

Not torture.

It was each other.

You exhaled, the edges of your eyes brimming with tears. He looked back at you like he was seeing you through an entirely different lens— like something had cracked open and the sunlight was finally getting in after a century of darkness. 

He studied you for a long time —eyes narrowed slightly, lips parted like he might speak but wasn’t sure if he should. 

Then he said it. 

Like he’d just thrown a grenade in the room.

“Are you in love with me?”

Your brain short-circuited. “What?”

“What,” he echoed flatly, like he hadn’t even processed the question himself, as if the words had slipped out of his mouth without permission.

You stared at him, wide-eyed, heart hammering in your throat like it wanted to escape. Heat warmed up your neck, your ears, your face. “Bucky—”

He leaned back slightly, like your flustered cheeks had just confirmed everything. “You are,” he said, eyebrows lifting in disbelief. “You are, aren’t you?”

“I am not,” you snapped to quickly. Without meaning to—you looked down. 

Fuck. 

“Oh my god,” Bucky breathed. “Your eyes—”

You scowled, half in horror, half in deflection. “You’re one to talk! Why was your worst memory thinking I died, huh?”

“Yours is too, dumbass! So what? ” he shot back, arms flaring in exasperation. “You want me to say it?”

“I don’t know!” you fired back, your voice rising. “Do you want to say it?”

Silence settled again. But this time, it wasn’t brittle—

“Fine,” he finally said, a lot quieter now. “I’ve been in love with you since that stupid night in Prague when you made me carry your three-foot-tall duffel bag full of grenades and gummy worms and said, ‘Trust me, it’s all essential.’”

Your voice came out barely audible, cracked around the edges. “Oh.”

But he wasn’t finished.

“And ever since then,” Bucky went on, “I’ve been more scared of the future than the past.”

Your breath hitched. “What does that even mean?”

He leaned in slightly, his eyes locked on yours, 

“It means,” he said, like it cost him something to admit it, “that my nightmares are less about Hydra and more about losing you.”

It hurt. God, it hurt, in the way truth always does. You could feel it echoing in your chest, splitting you down the middle— because you were friends, right? And just friends weren’t supposed to have these unbearable feelings. What was this going to do to your relationship?

Because everything had changed.

And now there was no going back.

His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, like the confession had physically cost him stamina. 

And you— You couldn’t breathe.

“You…” The word barely made it out. “You’re in love with me?”

He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yeah.”

You didn’t answer.

Your body stayed frozen, your mind reeling, spinning, flipping through every moment you could’ve known. Every time he’d looked at you like you were the only thing in a world that had never betrayed him. Every time you’d ignored what was right in front of you because it was safer to pretend it wasn’t real.

“But it’s okay,” Bucky whispered, eyes dipping to the floor once again. “I know I might be wrong about what you feel, so you don’t have to say anything. I know I’m—”

Enough.

Your hands grabbed the front of his shirt, fisting the fabric, clinging on to it and bringing him ever closer 

“Shut up,” you whispered.

His breath hitched in his throat like you’d just knocked the wind out of him.

“Just—don’t say anything,” you said, your voice trembling. “Because if you do, I’m going to say something I can’t unsay, and then we’ll ruin it, and I can’t—I can’t lose you, Bucky.”

His hands rose slowly, palms open. He cupped your face, fingertips brushing along your cheekbones.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” he promised. “You can’t.”

Your forehead stayed pressed against his. You could feel his breath against your lips.

So close.

“I’m in love with you too,” you breathed out

Bucky’s eyes fluttered closed, just for a second. You felt the tremor in his body ripple through yours.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

Your voice was barely steady. “I’m in love with you, dammit,” you laughed a little. “I’ve been in love with you since Sam sent us on that mission to that cramped motel with one bed and no hot water. Since you patched me up in Munich. Since before Munich. Since always.”

Fuck. 

He didn’t wait.

He kissed you.

Not carefully.

But like hellhounds that had been caged too long had finally broken loose.

It was desperate. It was breathless. Mouths crashing, bodies colliding like you’d done this in every dream you hadn’t dared speak of. His hands slid into your hair, holding you close like he was terrified you’d vanish. And yours gripped the back of his neck, pulling him in like you were afraid you’d wake up.

By the time you pulled apart, you weren’t sure whose heart was beating faster. But you stayed close—foreheads pressed, noses brushing, sharing oxygen.

For a long moment, you didn’t move.

Then Bucky’s hands slid down from your face, fingers tracing along your jaw, your neck, and your shoulders like he needed to relearn you. Like he needed to prove to himself this was real.

“You’re shivering,” he pointed out, brushing his thumb over the hollow of your throat. 

“I’m not cold,” you said, breathless.

He chuckled. “No. You’re not.”

His lips brushed yours again, slower this time, like a promise instead of a question. And when your mouth opened under his, when your hands slid beneath his hoodie and found bare skin, the heat roared to life like it had just been waiting for permission.

The kiss deepened—a little reckless, all tangled need and pent-up frustration. His hands found your waist, your hips, pulling you flush against him, and God—you’d felt his strength before, on missions, in training, but this was different. This was personal.

This was want.

“You always smell like gunpowder and cinnamon,” he muttered against your jaw, lips brushing the spot just below your ear.

“I just smell like gunpowder,” You laughed—half-dazed. “You smell like cinnamon.”

“Hmmm,” he said, trailing kisses down your neck, “whatever.”

You sighed, tilting your head to give him more space, your fingers tugging gently at the waistband of his sweatpants.

He groaned as his hands slid under your shirt, palm flat against your lower back. You gasped at the contact and he froze, just for a second.

“You okay?” he asked. “I don’t want to screw this up.”

You looked at him—his hair was mussed, lips swollen. He had a familiar crease between his brows that said he was afraid of wanting too much.

So you kissed it.

“We’ve survived everything else together," you whispered, "Don’t you think we can survive wanting each other, too?”

He backed you toward the headboard slowly, lips never leaving yours, hands exploring like he’d been dying to touch you for two years and finally had the courage. You fell back with a breathless laugh, legs tangling instinctively around his hips.

Bucky settled over you like he belonged there—which he did. Every inch of him was familiar and new all at once.

“Still in pajamas,” he complained, grinning against your collarbone.

“What, don’t like em’?”

“Never,” he said, mouth sliding lower, “but they’re in my way.”

You gasped as his fingers hooked in the waistband of your pants, his eyes locking on yours. You nodded as he peeled them off.

This wasn’t just chemistry. It wasn’t just lust.

This was two years of friendship, late-night missions, teasing over meals, arguments that always ended in laughter—this was trust.

This was love, finally allowed to want.

-end.

​​General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125

@buckybarneswife125 @wingstoyourdreams

[nickfowlerrr]

didn’t know if you’d care if i came back

pairing: bucky barnes x curvy!reader

warnings: sweetness. tiny bit of angst but mostly fluff fluff fluff. grumpy x grumpy sweethearts who haven’t defined the relationship lol. cuddling. blink and you’ll miss it mention of body insecurities. uhhh if i’m missing something that should be tagged pls let me know!

words: 1.7k

notes: idk where this came from but if you’re noticing repeating themes in my writings - no you’re not.

anyway! thank you in advance for reading, i hope you enjoy. as always, reblogs and comments are welcome and so appreciated! let me know your thoughts 🩵

“Get out,” you speak, your ever present annoyance clear in your voice while your stone face is completely unaffected as you type on your phone, not bothering to so much as glance at the door. You’re comfy in your bed while your space heater hums and you keep typing away as you hear the door click shut once again.

Your blanket is pulled and your bed shifts beneath you as you type faster, working to finish your thought before it slips away completely. Still not looking at anything but your screen,

“Get off my bed,” you demand to no avail.

“Shut up,” he grumbles, his own constant annoyance audible as he easily wraps you up in his strong arms. Your soft body presses against his as you maintain focus on your phone, rolling into his hold while maneuvering your device from hitting him. One last sentence and you’re done. You hit save and then let your phone drop after locking it.

“What happened to hello?” he asks harshly as he holds you close.

“You were busy,” you shrug matter of factly, face in his chest as you get comfortable.

“Look at me,” he demands, forcing you to angle your face to meet his eye as you sigh with a roll of your eyes.

“What?” you humph. “I’ve been gone three days, you haven’t even had time to miss me.”

“I don’t care if you’ve only been gone three minutes,” he squeezes your jaw a bit, eliciting a sharp breath from you as your gaze softens up at him. “If you’re not right next to me, doll, I’m missing you.”

The sincerity and warmth in his normally icy blue eyes has your heart melting just a little more. He missed you… he really missed you?

It’s atypical for you, but you don’t have anything to say in refute as you stare back at him - a part of you waiting to see something that will give him away and confirm your suspicions that he’s lying. The other just wanting to commit that look in his eyes and the gorgeous color to memory.

He missed you.

No one’s ever missed you before…not really.

He came to your room of his own free will, just to see you? He’s holding you so close and you don’t think you’ve ever felt so warm or welcome.

Or wanted.

And he’s not even trying to get you out of your clothes. He’s just here. To be here. To see you. Because he missed you.

He missed you.

“And for the record,” he continues speaking, interrupting your thoughts, “I won’t ever be too busy for you.” His eyes soften even more as he notices the growing emotion welling in them as you work to maintain your facade of careless, feel nothing, grump. He knows the feeling. He knows you.

He brushes his lips softly on your forehead and he feels your fingers tighten ever so slightly in his shirt as you let yourself relax a bit more into him, “Not for you,” he mumbles his promise.

You fight a shudder as you blink your eyes, batting your lashes in an attempt to fight the sting of welling tears before they have a chance to fall. Damn this man and his uncanny ability to have your walls crumbling around him within mere minutes.

You’re still not even sure how this all started. It was one night together on a mission.

And then another night together back home.

And then another.

And another.

And then an afternoon together. And then a morning.

And then a full day.

Into the next.

And then it was sharing beds every now and again.

And dinners.

And then more and more frequent sleepovers. And now it’s? You aren’t sure.

It went from just desperate late night sex to…to whatever this is.

But, whatever it is, you think it might be for the better. Bucky helps you feel…better.

Safe.

Cared for.

Loved.

You push that thought away. That’s just…too much.

Isn’t it?

You cuddle into him despite yourself, nuzzling into his chest for comfort.

“Sorry.”

It’s nearly a whisper, but he hears you. His big hand rubbing soothingly up and down your back as he keeps you to him.

“I wan-,” you bite your tongue, swallowing the lump growing in your throat.

I wanted to, you were going to say, to see you first. Just didn’t want to bug you.

You hear his response in your mind as you thoughtlessly press your lips. ‘You’re not a bug. You’re not a burden.’ You know what he’ll say, and you want to believe him. But you don’t think you can hear him say it right now without the damn breaking.

You try to clear your throat as you let your hands wander him and speak a little louder now,

“I missed you.”

He’s smiling softly, not that you can see it, as he grabs your hand gently caressing his side and brings it to his lips. Your gaze follows the movement curiously before you watch him kiss your hand. Your stomach flutters at the small act of affection.

Bucky tugs you closer and you lift your leg to hook over his, just wanting to be closer, to feel him more.

“And how dare you try to kick me out of my own room,” he scolds.

You laugh, real and true as you shove him a bit. “This is not your room,” you deny.

His toothy grin is infectious as he eyes you. “Oh yeah?” he says, reaching behind you to grab something, “then what’s my pillow doing in here?”

You freeze for half a second, he notices but doesn’t mention it, as your eyes widen ever so slightly. No, you think, you definitely put that back before you left.

You quirk a brow as you turn to see his pillow in his hand before he drops it back on the bed. You know you put his pillow back, and wait…that wasn’t even the pillow you had.

Why would his pillow be in here, unless…

“You slept in here?” you ask, your voice much softer than you intended as you look in his eyes.

His smirk has lightened drastically, but still gently tugs on the corner of his lips as he tries to read your thoughts. He nods a little, breaking eye contact for a quick moment as he wets his lips out of habit,

“I missed you.”

Your own lips quirk at the corner as you feel your heart swell.

“And you were due back here at four this morning,” he adds.

He was waiting for you.

You knew someone at the tower was monitoring the flight itinerary but you’d assumed it was Stark or Fury. Now you know it was him. And your heart somehow feels like it’s gonna burst out of your chest as your tummy tingles with something you don’t think you can actually name.

But it’s good.

Better than good.

Oh god.

Maybe it is love…

He turns to lay on his back and takes you with him as he does.

You groan a bit and try to shuffle off him, not wanting to crush him despite his super soldier status. He doesn’t let you, not that you’re surprised. He keeps his hands on you, one on your bent thigh and the other around your back, resting protectively on the curve of your waist meeting your hip.

He loves the feeling of your body on his, revels in your weight resting on top of him - in every circumstance. Your curves, your softness, your warmth.

You.

“Don’t even think about it,” he grumbles, letting his eyes close as he relaxes into the mattress. You sigh, staring at his contented face while his hands gently squeeze you comfortingly.

You watch him for a while, enraptured by his peaceful rest until you really feel his breaths even out. He’s sleeping like a baby as you lay on top of him and you can’t help your disbelieving titter. How this is comfortable for him, you’ll never know.

You let a hand touch his cheek gently, your fingers brushing his five o’clock shadow. You angle yourself to put a delicate kiss on his stubbly jaw. You don’t notice his nose twitch a bit or the tiniest furrow of his brow as you pull away.

Your fingers card through his hair as you admire him. You take a deep breath. If you can feel it, you can say it…

Another stuttered breath. “I,” you start, “I love you,” you murmur softly, sure he can’t hear you. You lean just a touch closer, lips just brushing his cheek. “I really love you.”

You feel a little proud of yourself as you pull away. You said it. You don’t know the last time you told someone you loved them. Can’t remember the last time you really felt it, or felt safe enough to say it. Sure, he’s sleeping, but still. You said it. And if you said it now, you know you can say it again. One day. When he’s awake. When you’re ready. You smile to yourself before you let your head rest on his chest, content now to sleep for a bit too in the comfort of his presence.

Bucky’s heart is beating so damn loudly he’s a little terrified you’ll hear it as you make yourself more comfortable atop him. He wants to squeeze you and tell you how much he loves you too, to kiss you til you’re dizzy and make sure you really understand just how deeply in love with you he is.

But he knows he wasn’t really meant to hear that just now. And despite that, he’s really glad that he did.

Because you love him.

You really love him.

He knows this is new to you, and you’re still trying to get used to it, to figure it all out, despite the fact that there’s no mystery here for you to solve. But he doesn’t mind moving at whatever pace you want or need. After so long, he never thought he’d find this. Never thought he’d feel this again.

And then came you.

You’re his perfect match. And his best friend.

And you love him.

Bucky’s never really felt lucky in his life. But here and now, with you starting to mumble softly as you lay on his chest, trusting him, loving him, well he’d consider himself the luckiest man in the world.

[semper-nox]

Just... One

Summary: Two exhausted surgeons get sent to a conference after a brutal week on call, only to discover their chief “accidentally” booked one hotel room. With one bed. Too tired to fight the front desk (and even more tired of pretending), you and Bucky call a temporary truce… that doesn’t stay professional for long.

Wordcount: 11.6k

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader (no use of Y/N)

Warnings: MDNI, porn with plot (for once), p in v, surgeon au, idiots in love, only one bed, forced proximity, mutual pining, romcom vibes, fluff to smut, friends to lovers, coworkers to lovers, protective bucky, soft bucky, sleepy cuddles, post sex cuddling, domestic fluff, steve rogers being a menace, strong language, sleep deprivation, exhaustion

Elixir's Arcade Event: Three of a kind with only one (bed/room/etc) + surgeon AU + idiots in love

A/N: This is the first time ever that I write the "only one" trope, and it was fun. Might do more in the future. Anyway. This has been approved by @blobfishlol

Masterlist

The hotel lobby looked like it had been through a natural disaster.

Not the dramatic kind – no smoke, no alarms – but the slow, grinding kind where everything was technically still standing and yet nothing was functioning the way it should. A line of exhausted conference attendees snaked past the reception desk. Someone’s rolling suitcase had given up and lay on its side like a fallen soldier. The air smelled like wet coats, burnt coffee, and defeat.

You adjusted the strap of your carry-on higher on your shoulder and stared at the “WELCOME SURGICAL INNOVATIONS SUMMIT” banner hanging slightly crooked above a sad tray of complimentary cookies.

Five hours of flying. A layover from hell. A week so brutal you were fairly certain your soul had clocked out around Wednesday and never returned.

All you wanted was a shower, a bed, and eight uninterrupted hours of unconsciousness.

Preferably without anyone bleeding.

Bucky stood beside you, posture deceptively relaxed, jaw set in that way that meant he was holding himself together with discipline and spite. His hair was still damp from the rain outside, and his blazer was wrinkled from travel. He looked like a man who had been told “we’re out of gauze” one too many times and had taken it personally.

The receptionist’s smile was the kind people wore when they were trying not to cry.

“Name?” she asked, fingers hovering above the keyboard.

You gave it. She typed, frowned, typed again, then brightened with forced cheer. “Ah! Yes. Doctor–”

She glanced at the screen again.

“–and Doctor Barnes.”

Bucky’s head snapped up. “Yes,” he confirmed, polite and deadly calm.

The receptionist nodded. “You’re all set. One room. Fourth floor.”

Your stomach dropped, slow and heavy. You leaned forward slightly. “One room?”

“Yes,” she said, and the way she said it implied that many people had asked her that tonight, and she had learned to weaponize cheerfulness. “King bed. Non-smoking. City view.”

Bucky blinked once, as if his brain had refused to process the phrase king bed on principle. “There should be two rooms.”

The receptionist’s smile didn’t falter. “I only have one reservation under your names.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. You could already see it – Steve in his office, doing that overly earnest thing where he tries to be helpful and ends up committing administrative crimes.

Bucky leaned onto the counter, still calm, still courteous. “Can you check again? It might be under Rogers. Steve Rogers.”

“Oh,” you muttered. “Of course it would be.”

The receptionist typed. Her brow furrowed. Typed some more. Then she made a small noise of understanding that didn’t bode well.

“I do see the booking,” she said slowly. “It’s… one room. One bed.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you like he wanted to apologize on Steve’s behalf and also potentially strangle him with a lanyard. “That can’t be right.”

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said, and you could hear the sincerity under the rehearsed tone. “We’re at capacity. There’s been a flight cancellation, so we’re oversold tonight. I don’t have any other rooms available, and I don’t have any with two beds.”

Bucky didn’t move. “None? At all?”

“I can put you on a waitlist, but…” She gestured vaguely at the lobby, where the line had doubled in the last five minutes. “It’s unlikely anything opens up.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed.

You stared at the counter for a second, then let your forehead rest against your fingers. Every part of your body screamed don’t fight this. Not tonight. Not after the week you’d had. Not when your nerves were still buzzing from the last emergency case and you’d slept, what – four hours in three days?

You straightened, exhaled. “It’s fine.”

Bucky turned to you so fast you almost laughed. “It’s not fine.”

“It’s fine,” you repeated, because saying it made it more real. “I genuinely do not have the energy to wage war at a front desk.”

“We can find another hotel.”

“And teleport there?” you shot back gently. “We’re in a city full of conference attendees, stranded passengers, and other people who also want beds. I’m not walking into another lobby to hear the exact same sentence.”

Bucky looked like he wanted to argue anyway – like the concept of surrender offended him on a molecular level.

Which, honestly, tracked.

You reached into your bag, pulled out your phone, and opened your messages with the speed of a woman about to make a very specific man regret his entire existence.

Steve’s name sat at the top.

Steve Rogers (Chief)

You typed: Did you book ONE room?

Three dots appeared immediately.

Then: What? No. It should be…

Then: Oh no.

Then: Oh my God.

Then: I’m so sorry.

You showed the screen to Bucky.

His stare was flat. “Oh my God,” he echoed, deadpan.

You typed again: We have one room. One bed. Hotel is full.

Steve: No.

Steve: I’m calling. I’ll fix it.

Bucky leaned closer to read, like he could intimidate the pixels into producing a second reservation.

You typed: Do not call. Please. I will set myself on fire in this lobby if you start a phone argument with a receptionist.

Steve: …I can at least TRY.

You: Steve.

Steve: I will personally take over your administrative paperwork for the next two weeks.

Bucky’s eyebrows rose. “He’s offering to take that in charge?”

“He’s being dramatic,” you said, though you couldn’t deny the mental image was almost endearing.

Bucky straightened, expression sharpening into something determined. “Give me the phone.”

You hesitated. “Bucky–”

“I’m not going to yell,” he said, like that was a promise he had to make out loud to be believed. “I’m just going to… try.”

He took the phone anyway, because he was Bucky Barnes and he’d probably once taken a motorcycle away from someone by simply deciding it was his now in an alternative universe.

He typed with the careful, hunted-peck precision of a man who could rebuild a chest cavity but considered emojis a war crime.

Rogers. You booked one room. You owe us.

He hit send.

Then he turned back to the receptionist, voice perfectly polite. “Is there any possibility of a rollaway bed? Anything.”

The receptionist shook her head apologetically. “We’re out. I’m sorry.”

Bucky nodded like he accepted the answer, but you could see the frustration behind his eyes – the way he hated situations where effort didn’t fix the problem.

You, on the other hand, were one yawn away from falling asleep standing up.

“Okay,” you said, decisive. “We take the room.”

Bucky stared at you. “You’re just… accepting it?”

“Yes,” you said. “Because if I have to advocate for myself one more time today, I’m going to start speaking in Latin and no one will survive it.”

Something in his expression eased – just a fraction. Then he turned back to the receptionist and forced his tone into normal human. “We’ll take it.”

Relief flickered on her face. “Thank you. I’m so sorry again.”

“It’s not your fault,” you said automatically, because it wasn’t, and because you were too tired to be anything other than kind.

She handed over the keycards. Bucky took them like he was accepting a sentence.

The elevator ride was silent except for the soft hum of the cables and the occasional ping as it climbed.

You leaned back against the wall, eyes half-closed. Your feet throbbed. Your shoulders ached. Your body felt like it had been wrung out and hung up to dry.

Bucky stood beside you, jaw still tight, staring at the floor indicator like he might physically will it to change directions toward a second room.

“You don’t have to be mad,” you murmured.

“I’m not mad.”

You opened one eye. “You’re mad.”

He exhaled through his nose. “I’m… annoyed.”

“Mm-hm.”

“At Steve.”

“Valid.”

“And at the universe.”

“Also valid.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked to you. “You’re really okay with this?”

You studied his face for a second. Under the exhaustion and irritation, there was something else – concern, maybe. That steady attentiveness he always wore around you in the hospital like you were something precious that needed guarding.

You swallowed, then forced lightness into your voice. “I’m okay with sleeping. Anywhere. As long as it’s horizontal.”

His mouth twitched. “We could still ask for–”

“Bucky,” you said gently, “if you make me stand at that desk for another five minutes, I will start reciting the entire ACLS algorithm as a threat.”

He looked like he wanted to laugh and was offended by the impulse.

The elevator dinged. Fourth floor.

He swiped the card at room 412, pushed the door open, and you both stepped inside.

One bed, right in the center of the room, crisp white sheets, perfectly made. Like the hotel was proud of itself.

Bucky stared at it.

You dropped your bag onto the desk chair and didn’t even pretend you weren’t going straight for the bathroom. “I’m taking a shower,” you announced. “If you try to talk to me through the door, I will drown you.”

Bucky held up a hand like he was swearing an oath. “Understood.”

You disappeared into the bathroom, turned on the water, and let the sound fill your head. You peeled off your clothes like they were evidence, stepped under the stream, and felt your muscles loosen for the first time in days.

When you came out ten minutes later in your pyjama shorts and a t-shirt, hair damp and face flushed from heat, Bucky was still standing by the bed like he was negotiating with it.

He looked up when you emerged, and for a second his expression softened into something almost helpless.

Then he cleared his throat and looked away so fast it was almost funny.

You leaned against the doorframe, watching him with tired amusement. “You’re acting like the bed is going to jump up and bite you.”

“It might,” he muttered. “I don’t trust it.”

You smiled, small and sleepy. “You’re a surgeon.”

“That’s exactly why I don’t trust it.”

You crossed the room and dug in your bag for your own sleep clothes. “Okay,” you said, practical. “We do this like adults. You take one side. I take the other. We build a pillow barrier. No one crosses the border without written consent.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you again. “Written consent?” he repeated.

“Don’t start,” you warned, but you were smiling.

He exhaled slowly, the anger ebbing into resignation. “I’m still going to try again,” he said, stubborn.

“Bucky–”

“Not right now,” he amended quickly, then added, almost softer, “Just… in the morning. I’ll check if something opens up.”

You studied him, the way he couldn’t help trying to fix things. The way he carried responsibility like it belonged on his shoulders.

“Okay,” you said, and meant it. “In the morning.”

He nodded once, as if that agreement anchored him.

You both moved around the room with the quiet efficiency of people who worked too much: bags unzipped, chargers plugged in, clothes folded with tired precision. There were no dramatics, no awkward flailing – just the strange, intimate normality of sharing space after spending all week side by side in ORs and hallways.

Bucky took the armchair cushion and two pillows like he was building a fortification. He stacked them down the center of the bed with surgical seriousness.

You watched, amused despite yourself. “That’s… a lot of pillows.”

“I’m ensuring structural integrity,” he said, dead serious.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Takes one to know one.”

You climbed into bed first and immediately felt your whole body sag with relief. The mattress cradled you like a mercy.

Bucky hesitated a beat longer, then sat down on the other side, careful, as if the bed was a trap. He lay back stiffly, hands folded over his chest like he was being assessed for a CT scan.

You turned onto your side, facing the pillow wall. “If you sleep like that, you’re going to wake up with a spine injury.”

“I sleep like this all the time.”

“No you don’t.”

Bucky paused. “Okay,” he admitted. “I don’t.”

You smiled into the pillow. “Relax, Barnes. The bed isn’t going to file a complaint with HR.”

He made a quiet sound that might have been a laugh.

Silence settled, warm and heavy.

The kind of silence that only happened when you were too exhausted to pretend you weren’t comfortable together.

Your phone buzzed.

Steve: I AM SO SORRY. I WILL FIX THIS. I SWEAR.

You typed back: Go to sleep, Chief. We’re surviving. Barely.

Bucky’s phone buzzed too. He glanced at it, and you saw his mouth twitch.

“What did he say?” you asked.

Bucky held his screen up. Steve had texted.

Barnes. If you so much as breathe wrong in her direction, I will make you present at M&M.

You stared.

Then you burst out laughing – quiet at first, then helpless.

Bucky’s expression went flat. “He’s threatening me with morbidity and mortality.”

You wiped at your eyes, still laughing. “That’s the most Steve Rogers threat I’ve ever seen.”

Bucky exhaled, the tension finally cracking. “We’re going to kill him.”

“Later,” you said, voice softening as the laughter faded. “After sleep.”

Bucky glanced toward you over the pillow wall. His eyes were darker in the low light, tired but steady. “You sure you’re okay?”

The question landed differently this time – less about the bed, more about the week. The cases. The weight.

You swallowed, suddenly aware of how much you were holding in.

“I’m okay,” you said quietly. Then, because honesty was easier in the dark, you added, “I’m not okay, but I’m… here.”

Bucky nodded once, like he understood exactly what that meant.

His voice went softer. “Yeah. Me too.”

And that should have been the end of it.

Two exhausted surgeons, one stupid booking mistake, a pillow wall between them, and sleep waiting like a cliff you could finally jump off.

But your heart didn’t slow down.

Because even with a barrier of hotel pillows, you could still feel him there – warmth through the mattress, presence like gravity.

And you had a feeling the universe hadn’t made this “little mistake” just to let you both sleep peacefully.

Not when you and Bucky Barnes had been circling each other for months like idiots with scalpels.

The room had gone dark in that soft, hotel-dark way – curtains pulled, city glow leaking around the edges like a tired halo. The heater clicked on and off with a rhythm that almost worked as white noise. Almost.

You’d been on the edge of sleep at least four times now. That drifting, delicious moment where your body finally stopped bracing for alarms that weren’t there – and then Bucky moved.

A shift of weight. A low, irritated grunt. The faint rustle of sheets like he was wrestling with them.

Each time it yanked you back to consciousness like someone had snapped a rubber band against your nerves.

The first time, you’d told yourself it was fine. Jet lag. Stress. He was a light sleeper. Whatever.

The second time, you’d rolled over and buried your face deeper into the pillow.

The third time, you’d counted backwards from one hundred with the grim focus of someone placing a central line.

By the fourth time, you could feel the urge to commit a felony buzzing behind your eyes.

Bucky shifted again – more abrupt this time, a frustrated exhale that sounded dangerously close to a growl.

You sat up, hair falling into your face, and stared at the pillow wall like it was the only thing keeping you from strangling a coworker.

“Barnes,” you hissed, voice tight, “for the love of God, what is wrong with you?”

On the other side, there was a beat of silence.

Then Bucky’s voice, low and rough in the dark. “Nothing.”

You let out a laugh so humorless it was basically a threat. “That’s a lie.”

He shifted again, slower this time, as if he’d been caught. “I just… can’t sleep.”

You stared at the ceiling for one long second, jaw clenching so hard you were surprised you didn’t crack a molar.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

A tiny huff came from his side. Possibly a laugh. Possibly a sigh.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed and turned toward the pillow wall like you were about to address a patient who’d decided now was the perfect time to “mention something” they’d been ignoring for three months.

“Okay,” you said, too calm in the way surgeons got when they were five seconds away from losing it. “You’re going to tell me the truth.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

You waited.

The heater clicked.

Somewhere outside, a siren wailed and faded.

“Bucky,” you said again, softer but more dangerous. “I mean it. What is it?”

Another pause. Longer.

Then the mattress dipped slightly as he rolled onto his side. You couldn’t see his face, but you could feel him turning toward you, like the dark didn’t matter as much as the fact that you were there.

His voice came out quieter. “It’s… nothing to do with you.”

“Mm.” You didn’t believe that for a second. “Try again.”

He exhaled, slow, controlled. The sound of someone choosing his words like he was disarming something delicate.

“I’m just… wired,” he said. “The week’s been rough. The travel. The… everything.”

You could have accepted that. You should have accepted that.

Except you’d worked the same week. You’d been on the same flights. You were in the same stupid room with the same stupid bed and the same stupid pillow wall.

And you were not the one growling into the dark like a trapped animal.

You leaned forward, elbows on your knees. “Barnes.”

A faint sound of resignation. “Yeah?”

“You’re doing that thing,” you said.

“What thing?”

“The thing where you pretend you’re fine, and then you suffer dramatically in silence like it’s your job.”

“I’m not suffering dramatically.”

“Bucky,” you said, deadpan, “you have groaned six times like you’re dying in a Victorian novel.”

His laugh this time was real, brief, and immediately cut off like he’d regretted letting it out.

You let the silence stretch until it got uncomfortable.

Then you added, very simply, “Tell me.”

On the other side of the pillow wall, he didn’t move for a long moment.

When he finally spoke, it was careful. Guarded. Like he was stepping onto thin ice.

“I don’t sleep well in… unfamiliar places.”

That was closer. But not all of it. You could hear the omission like a skipped heartbeat.

“And?” you pressed.

Bucky’s breath hitched, barely.

“And,” he admitted, voice dropping, “I don’t sleep well when I’m… tense.”

You tilted your head. “Tense because of the week?”

A pause.

“Tense because…” He stopped.

You stared into the dark, suddenly wide awake in a way that had nothing to do with travel.

“Because what?” you asked, quieter now.

Bucky’s answer came out on an exhale, like it hurt to let it go.

“Because I can feel you there.”

Your chest tightened.

The words weren’t explicit, but they didn’t need to be. Not with his voice like that – raw at the edges, stripped of its usual control.

You swallowed. “You can feel me there,” you repeated, slow, testing.

Bucky’s silence was answer enough.

You glanced at the pillow wall – your ridiculous little border, your attempt at being “civilized adults” – and something sharp and tender twisted in your stomach.

“So,” you said, voice carefully neutral because if you let any emotion bleed into it you might break something, “you’ve been tossing around like a possessed Roomba… because I exist within a five-foot radius?”

Bucky let out a quiet, frustrated breath. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

He shifted, and the pillow wall rustled as his hand pressed against the mattress near it.

“You asked for the truth,” he murmured. “I’m giving it to you.”

Your pulse thudded hard once, then again.

You could be angry. You could be smug. You could make a joke.

Instead, what came out of you was blunt, because exhaustion stripped you down to essentials.

“Why does it make you tense?”

Bucky’s inhale was audible. Like he hadn’t expected you to ask the next question. Like he’d hoped you’d stop at the first answer and let him keep the rest.

You didn’t.

The silence stretched.

Then he said, very low, “Because I’m trying not to…”

He stopped.

You waited, breath held.

“…want you,” he finished, barely above a whisper.

The room went impossibly still.

Your skin prickled hot under your t-shirt. Your throat went dry.

You stared at the pillow wall like it had suddenly become the thinnest thing in the world.

“You’re trying not to want me,” you echoed, voice softer now, not teasing. Not at all.

Bucky didn’t answer.

But the tension in the air did.

You dragged a hand down your face, heart hammering, brain racing through a thousand thoughts at once.

Part of you wanted to laugh – of course. Of course it was this. Of course the universe had shoved you into one bed after a week of absolute hell just to see what would snap first: your patience, or your denial.

You turned, shifting until you were facing the pillow wall, close enough that if you reached out you’d touch it.

“Bucky,” you said, and your voice came out different than before. Less sharp. More… real. “Look at me.”

A pause.

Then the mattress dipped again as he moved closer on his side, the pillow wall the only thing between you.

In the faint light spilling from the street outside, you could make out the shape of his face now – the line of his nose, the shadow of his lashes, the tension in his jaw.

His eyes were on you like he couldn’t decide if this was relief or danger.

“You’re not making this easier,” he said quietly.

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “You’re the one who kept groaning like you were being exorcised.”

His mouth twitched, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmured.

“I know.” Your voice softened. “But you did.”

Bucky’s gaze dipped to your mouth, then snapped back up like he’d caught himself.

And oh… there it was.

The truth, sitting between you with the pillow wall pretending it had any authority.

You swallowed, then said, very carefully, “Do you want me to help?”

Bucky froze.

His eyes widened a fraction – surprise, and something darker, something that made your stomach flip.

“Help?” he repeated, voice rough.

You nodded once, slow. “Yes. Help. Because if you keep doing this, neither of us is going to sleep. And I am going to commit actual crimes.”

A beat.

Then, quietly – so quietly you almost didn’t hear it – Bucky said, “You don’t know what you’re offering.”

You stared at him, exhausted and stubborn and honest. “I do.”

Bucky’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. His hand hovered near the pillow wall like he wanted to reach through it and didn’t trust himself.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice strained.

Your heart hammered.

You could still back out. You could still pretend this was about sleep and not the way your body had gone warm the second he admitted the word want.

Instead, you looked him dead in the eye and said, “Move the damn pillows, Barnes.”

And the way his expression shifted – like something inside him finally gave – told you that sleep was about to become the least of your problems.

You pulled the pillows away one by one and let them fall to the floor with soft, muffled thuds, like you were dismantling a ridiculous little treaty. The bed immediately felt larger – and somehow more dangerous – without that stupid barrier pretending you were still strangers.

When you lay back down, you did it slowly, as if any sudden movement might spook him. Bucky mirrored you. In the low light, you ended up facing each other, close enough that you could count his breaths if you wanted to.

He didn’t touch you.

Not yet.

He just watched you with that careful stillness he wore in the OR – hands steady, mind sharp, body held in control. But there was something in his eyes that didn’t belong to a surgeon. Something rawer. Warier. Like he was waiting for the moment you’d change your mind and he’d have to snap himself back behind professional distance.

“Hey,” you murmured.

Bucky’s throat bobbed. “Hey.”

He looked like he hesitated on every inhale, like he was choosing to stay here one second at a time.

So you reached out.

Your fingertips brushed his cheek, warm skin beneath your touch, the faint roughness of stubble. Bucky froze for half a heartbeat – then he leaned into it so subtly you almost missed it, like a cat pretending it didn’t need affection while unmistakably asking for more.

The sight of it made something in your chest ache, soft and fierce all at once.

“You’re allowed,” you whispered, thumb stroking along his cheekbone.

His eyes fluttered, then opened again, fixed on you like he couldn’t decide whether this was comfort or a trap.

You swallowed, and then – because honesty was easier in the dark, because you were too tired to keep circling – your mouth moved before your brain could talk you out of it.

“Did you know Steve has been telling me to ask you out for a year?”

For a second, Bucky didn’t react at all, like the words had missed him.

Then his eyes widened, unmistakably. He blinked once – hard – like he was trying to reboot.

“He what?” he said, voice hoarse.

You let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “He did. Repeatedly.”

Bucky stared at you as if you’d just told him the hospital had started handing out paid vacation. His expression was pure disbelief, sharpened by exhaustion and – underneath – something like wounded hope.

“A year,” he repeated, slow.

“A year,” you confirmed. “Ever since that fundraiser dinner. The one where you stole my chair because the room layout was a hazard.”

His mouth twitched, but it didn’t quite become a smile. “It was a hazard.”

“I’m not arguing that.” Your thumb traced the corner of his jaw. “I’m telling you Steve has been acting like a matchmaker with a scalpel for twelve months.”

Bucky’s brows drew together. “Why didn’t you?”

The question was so simple it hit harder than it should have.

You held his gaze and let the truth sit there between you, unvarnished.

“Because I was terrified,” you admitted. “Because I didn’t want to make things weird. Because I didn’t know if you…” You hesitated, your hand still on his cheek. “If you even wanted that.”

Bucky’s eyes softened in a way that made your stomach flip.

He exhaled, shaky, and his gaze dropped to your lips before he pulled it back up again, like he didn’t trust himself.

“I wanted it,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t think you did.”

You stared at him, the irony almost cruel. Two grown adults. Two surgeons. Both brave enough to cut into living bodies without flinching, and yet…

You leaned a little closer, not touching him fully, just letting your breath brush his.

“So we’ve both been idiots,” you murmured.

Bucky’s mouth twitched again, and this time the smile did appear – small, crooked, disbelieving. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Looks like it.”

Your fingers slipped from his cheek to the back of his neck, gentle. Bucky’s lashes lowered for a second, and he leaned into your hand again, like he couldn’t help himself.

“Steve is going to be unbearable,” you said.

Bucky let out a quiet, breathy laugh. “He already is.”

You smiled, and then your voice softened into something honest, something that didn’t hide behind humor.

“I would’ve asked,” you said. “If I’d been sure.”

Bucky’s expression shifted – something in him easing, like a knot finally coming undone. His hand lifted, hesitated in midair for a beat, then settled against your waist with careful reverence, as if he was still asking permission with every inch.

“You’re sure now?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded, forehead almost touching his. “I’m sure now.”

Bucky’s thumb moved, a tiny stroke at your hip, and his gaze held yours like he was memorizing the moment.

Then, finally, he leaned in.

The first touch of his mouth against yours almost felt like a question.

A hesitant press – soft, careful, as if he expected you to pull away, as if he was testing whether you were real or just another half-asleep hallucination conjured by exhaustion and hotel lighting. His lips were warm. He tasted faintly of mint from whatever toothpaste the hotel had provided and something darker underneath – coffee, probably, because Bucky Barnes ran on caffeine and spite.

You didn’t move at first. Not because you didn’t want it – God, you wanted it – but because your brain stalled in the strangest, most absurd way.

This is Bucky. This is actually happening. We have an 8 a.m. keynote. Steve is going to be unbearable.

Then your body caught up.

Your fingers tightened at the back of his neck, your thumb brushing the short hairs at the nape like you were grounding yourself in the only solid thing in the room. You answered the kiss with a slow, steady pressure that made him exhale through his nose like relief had finally found a way out of him.

Bucky’s hand remained at your waist, still careful. Still asking. His palm warmed the fabric of your t-shirt, fingers curled lightly like he was afraid to hold too hard and ruin it.

The innocence of it – how gentle he tried to be even while you could feel the tension coiled in him – made something twist in your chest.

You broke the kiss by a breath, barely separating.

His eyes stayed closed for a second longer, lashes dark against his cheeks. When he opened them, the look he gave you was so raw it stole the air from your lungs. Like he had been starving and you had finally set food in front of him.

“Okay?” he murmured, voice rough.

You nodded, your forehead brushing his. “Okay.”

It was all the permission he needed.

He kissed you again, and it was still soft at first – still that careful, tentative exploration – but it deepened almost immediately, like the restraint he’d been clinging to all night finally snapped. His mouth opened against yours. His breath hitched, and then his hand at your waist slid higher, firming like he couldn’t keep himself at arm’s length anymore.

The sound you made was embarrassingly loud in the quiet of the room, but it was enough.

Bucky froze for half a heartbeat – like he’d heard it, like it had gone straight through him – then he surged closer, and the kiss went from testing to wanting in one breathless shift.

He moved with the same precision you’d watched a hundred times in surgery: deliberate, controlled, no wasted motion. But there was nothing clinical about it. Not when he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for a year and trying not to.

Your mouth parted under his, and he took it – slow at first, then more insistent. His tongue brushed yours once, tentative, and you felt his entire body go taut as if he’d been shocked by the fact you didn’t pull away.

You didn’t.

You kissed him back like you’d been holding your breath for months.

Bucky’s hand cupped the side of your face, thumb sliding along your cheekbone, and you leaned into it without thinking. That simple gesture – steady, anchoring, almost reverent – made your stomach drop with a heat that had nothing to do with the room.

His other hand shifted at your hip, pulling you closer until your knees tangled and there was no safe distance left. The mattress dipped under the combined weight of you both, and the sheets rustled as your bodies aligned – close enough that you could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the strength of him, the way he was holding himself back with sheer will.

You broke the kiss again, not because you wanted to stop but because you needed air.

Bucky’s mouth followed, landing at the corner of your lips, then your jaw, as if he refused to let you fully go. His breath was hot against your skin.

“Jesus,” he murmured, and it came out like a confession.

You huffed a laugh that turned into a shaky inhale when his lips pressed to the soft skin just below your ear. A jolt went straight down your spine.

“Still think you can’t sleep because I’m five feet away?” you whispered, voice unsteady.

His laugh was low and broken, almost a growl. “Shut up.”

The words were sharp, but his hands were gentle – so gentle it made you ache. He kissed your neck once, then again, slow enough that you felt it in the space between heartbeats.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, not pulling, just holding. You felt him shiver beneath your touch, and the knowledge that you could do that – that you could make Bucky Barnes react – sent a rush of something heady through you.

He lifted his head, eyes dark, and for a second he looked almost… stunned. Like he couldn’t reconcile the reality of you in his bed, in his arms, with the months of restraint and silence.

“Is this okay?” he asked again, quieter now, the question threaded with a seriousness that made your throat tighten. Like he meant it. Like your answer mattered more than the want he was drowning in.

You swallowed, then slid your hand from his hair to his cheek, mirroring what you’d done earlier. His skin was warm under your palm. His stubble scratched lightly against your fingers.

“Bucky,” you said, and you heard how your voice softened around his name. “Yes. It’s okay.”

His eyes flickered, something in them loosening – relief, maybe, or disbelief.

“And you’re not going to stop?” you added, a whisper that was half challenge, half plea.

Bucky stared at you for a beat, then he leaned forward until his mouth brushed yours again.

“I’ve been stopping for a year,” he said, voice low. “I’m done stopping.”

And then he kissed you like he meant it.

The innocence vanished completely – replaced by heat, by urgency that had been throttled for too long. He kissed you deeper, harder, his hand sliding behind your neck to hold you in place as if he was afraid you’d disappear if he let you go.

Your body responded immediately, blood rushing, skin heating. You shifted closer, pressing into him, and the sound he made against your mouth was a rough exhale that turned your knees weak.

He broke the kiss only to breathe, forehead pressed to yours, and you felt the tremor in his inhale like he was fighting for control.

“We’re–” he started, then stopped, as if he didn’t know what words could carry this. His thumb stroked your cheek again, slow, grounding.

“Tired?” you offered faintly, because your brain was still trying to cling to humor like a life raft.

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Yeah,” he murmured, and then his gaze dropped to your lips again. “But not too tired for this.”

You laughed softly, and he kissed the sound away.

The kiss shifted again – slower, more deliberate, like he was learning you. He tasted you like he was committing it to memory, alternating between gentle and demanding, coaxing your mouth open and then easing back as if giving you time to breathe.

Your hands roamed, not confident at first, then bolder – over his shoulder, down his arms, over the heat of his chest through his t-shirt. You felt the solid muscle, the tension he carried, the way his body reacted when your fingers traced him.

Bucky’s breathing changed immediately – deeper, rougher. His hand slid from your cheek down your throat, stopping at your collarbone like he’d caught himself before he moved too fast. The control in that tiny pause did something unbearable to you.

“You’re thinking,” you whispered.

He gave a short, strained laugh. “I’m trying not to.”

“Don’t,” you said, and your voice came out softer than you intended. “Just… don’t.”

His eyes snapped to yours, searching your face like he needed to make sure you meant it.

You nodded once, decisive, and tugged him back into the kiss.

Bucky gave in with a quiet sound that could’ve been relief, could’ve been want. He rolled slightly closer, careful with his weight, the bed creaking softly as he shifted above you. His watch on his arm caught a glint of light as he braced himself, and the contrast between the cold sheets and his warm skin made your breath stutter.

His mouth moved to your cheek, then your jaw, then down your neck again, and you tilted your head back without thinking – offering him more.

Bucky paused there, lips hovering, as if the sight of your throat bared to him was its own kind of temptation.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against your skin, voice rough. “If you want me to stop, I will.”

You threaded your fingers into his hair and held him there. “Don’t stop.”

The words came out as a breath, but they were enough.

Bucky kissed your neck – slow and open-mouthed, then gentler, then again with more pressure. Each kiss landed like a pulse. Each one pulled something out of you you hadn’t planned to give.

You tried to hold onto composure – tried to keep this tidy, controlled, like everything else in your life – but it was impossible when he touched you like that. When he held you like he’d wanted to for so long it had become a habit to deny it.

You made another soft sound, and Bucky’s entire body went still for a fraction of a second. Then he lifted his head and looked at you like you’d just undone him.

His eyes were darker now, pupils blown wide. His lips were slightly swollen from kissing. His breathing was uneven.

“Still think Steve made the mistake on purpose?” he murmured, voice thick.

You managed a shaky smile. “Please don’t talk about him now.”

Bucky’s laugh came out as a low exhale, and then he kissed you again before you could say another word – fierce, hungry, like he was tired of talking, tired of pretending.

Your hands slid down his back, gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space left between you.

The kiss intensified fast – mouths moving, breaths tangling, the world narrowing to heat and pressure and the way his hands held you like you were something precious and inevitable. The week, the travel, the conference – all of it blurred into nothing.

There was only Bucky. Only the way he kissed you like a man who had spent a year biting his tongue and had finally decided he deserved to stop hurting.

He pulled back just enough to look at you again, as if he needed to see your face – needed the proof.

“This is real,” he whispered, almost dazed.

You swallowed, your thumb brushing his cheek. “Yeah,” you murmured. “It is.”

Bucky’s expression softened – just for a heartbeat – before it sharpened again with want.

Then he kissed you once more, and the gentleness was gone entirely, replaced by something urgent and aching that made your whole body light up.

In the dim hotel room, with the pillows on the floor and the city humming outside like background noise, the kiss stopped being a question and became an answer.

His breath mingled with yours, warm and ragged, as he shifted his weight, carefully maneuvering his body until he hovered above you. The mattress dipped under his frame, and you felt the solid press of him settling between your legs, his hips aligning with yours in a way that sent a thrill racing through your veins.

Instinctively, your arms slid up, wrapping around his neck, fingers threading into the soft strands of his hair at the nape. You pulled him closer, the kiss breaking only for a gasp of air before your tongues tangled again, exploring with a fervor that had been building for far too long.

Bucky's stubble grazed your chin, a rough contrast to the smooth glide of his mouth, and you arched slightly beneath him, craving more of his heat.

His hands, strong and calloused from years of precise surgical work, roamed down your sides with deliberate slowness. They traced the curve of your waist, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through the thin fabric of your tank top before dipping lower. The hem of the shirt rode up as his fingers slipped underneath, cool skin meeting the warmth of your bare hips.

He caressed there, palms flattening against your flesh, kneading gently as if memorizing every inch. The touch ignited sparks along your nerves, making your body respond with a subtle shiver, your thighs parting just a fraction more to accommodate him.

Bucky groaned into the kiss, the sound vibrating through your chest, and his grip tightened, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the hard line of his arousal pressing against your core through the layers of clothing, a promise of what was to come, and it only fueled the ache building inside you.

The kiss lingered, heated and unhurried, as your hands fumbled between your bodies, tugging at the fabric that still separated you.

Bucky's mouth left yours just long enough for you to yank your t-shirt over your head, the cool hotel air hitting your exposed skin and raising goosebumps. He followed suit, peeling off his t-shirt with a swift motion, revealing the taut muscles of his chest. Your fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers next, sliding them down his hips along with your own underwear, kicking them aside in a tangle on the sheets. Now bare against each other, skin flushed and slick with anticipation, you pressed back into the kiss, bodies aligning without barriers.

“Condom?” you whispered against his lips, the word breathless amid the swirl of tongues.

Bucky froze above you, his body going rigid, eyes widening in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

“Shit...” he muttered, the curse low and frustrated as realization hit him.

He started to shift back, propping himself up on his elbows to create distance, but your hands clamped onto his shoulders, nails digging in just enough to hold him in place.

“I was clean on my last test,” you murmured, voice soft but steady, locking eyes with him to convey the truth.

“I haven't had anyone since, and I'm on the pill.”

A long exhale escaped him, tension melting from his frame as relief washed over his features.

“Clean too,” he replied, his thumb brushing your cheek in a gentle reassurance.

You nodded slowly, the simple exchange bridging the last thread of hesitation between you.

Bucky leaned down, capturing your mouth in a tender kiss, slower this time, lips moving with a reverence that spoke of the trust you'd just solidified. His tongue traced the seam of your lips before delving in, savoring the moment as his hand cupped the back of your head.

Then, with a deliberate shift, he broke the kiss and trailed his mouth lower. His lips brushed your jaw, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin there, before descending to your neck. He sucked gently at the pulse point, drawing a soft moan from your throat, his teeth grazing just enough to send sparks down your spine.

Lower still, his kisses dotted your collarbone, then the swell of your breasts, tongue flicking over one nipple until it hardened under his attention. He lavished the same on the other, mouth warm and insistent, while his hand kneaded the soft flesh, thumb circling the peak.

Your back arched off the bed, fingers twisting in his hair as he continued his path southward.

His stubble scraped along your ribs, a delicious rasp that made you squirm, and he pressed open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, tongue dipping into your navel briefly. The heat of his breath ghosted over your skin, building the ache between your thighs until it throbbed insistently.

Finally, Bucky settled between your legs, his broad shoulders nudging your thighs wider apart.

He looked up at you once, eyes dark with hunger, before lowering his head. His lips met the sensitive folds of your pussy, parting them with a slow lick that had you gasping. Tongue flat and firm, he dragged it upward, circling your clit with teasing pressure, then sucking it gently into his mouth. The sensation was electric, wet heat enveloping you as he worked, alternating between long strokes and focused flicks that made your hips buck involuntarily.

One hand gripped your thigh, holding you steady, while the other slid up to join his mouth, a finger pressing inside you, curling to stroke that spot that drew a sharp cry from your lips.

“Bucky,” you moaned, the sound escaping your lips in a desperate, breathy plea as waves of pleasure built relentlessly under his skilled mouth.

His tongue swirled around your clit with insistent pressure, finger pumping inside you in a steady rhythm that matched the pounding of your heart.

“That's it, sweet girl,” he growled against your slick folds, the vibration of his voice sending fresh shivers through your core.

“I want you to come in my mouth.”

His words were rough, laced with raw hunger, as he sucked harder, drawing your swollen nub between his lips and flicking it with the tip of his tongue.

Your hands clutched at his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands and pulling him closer, urging him on as the tension coiled tighter in your belly. You surrendered to the sensation, hips rocking against his face, chasing the edge that loomed so close. Every lap of his tongue, every curl of his finger against that sensitive spot deep inside, pushed you higher until your body trembled on the brink.

Bucky didn't let up, his mouth devouring you with fervor, humming low in his throat as he tasted your arousal coating his lips and chin.

He added a second finger, stretching you gently, thrusting deeper while his free hand pinned your thigh to the bed, keeping you spread wide for him. The pressure built to an unbearable peak, your breaths coming in ragged gasps, muscles tensing as ecstasy crashed over you.

You came with a cry, back arching off the mattress, thighs clamping around his head as pulses of bliss ripped through you.

Bucky stayed right there, lapping at your pussy through the spasms, his tongue soothing and prolonging the waves until they ebbed into soft aftershocks. He drank you in, murmuring praises against your skin – “So good for me, just like that” – his breath hot and ragged as he guided you down from the high.

As the haze cleared and your body relaxed into the sheets, panting and spent, you noticed the subtle shift of his hips.

Bucky was grinding his erection against the mattress, the fabric bunching under him with each desperate roll. His cock, hard and leaking, sought friction in the makeshift rhythm, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he chased his own relief amid the taste of you still on his tongue.

“Bucky...” you whispered, your voice husky and trembling from the afterglow, as your fingers grazed his broad shoulders.

The muscles there flexed under your touch, warm and solid, drawing him upward from between your thighs. You tugged gently, a silent invitation in the way your hands urged him closer, needing the weight of his body over yours again.

He rose slowly, his blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your pulse stutter. His lips glistened from your release, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before crawling up your frame, the mattress dipping under his knees.

You pulled him down, your mouths crashing together in a deep, hungry kiss. The taste of yourself lingered on his tongue as it swept against yours, mingling with the faint salt of his skin, and you moaned into him, wrapping your arms around his neck to hold him there.

Bucky shifted his hips, aligning himself with your entrance, the thick head of his cock nudging against your soaked folds. He paused for a heartbeat, searching your gaze for any hesitation, but you nodded, your legs parting wider to welcome him.

With a shared breath, he pushed forward, sliding his hard length into you inch by inch. The stretch was exquisite, your pussy clenching around him as he filled you completely, bottoming out with a low, guttural groan that vibrated through his chest into yours.

You both groaned in unison, the sound raw and satisfied, as if the world had narrowed to this perfect union. He was so deep, pressing against every sensitive nerve inside you, and the fullness made your toes curl against the sheets. Bucky buried his face in the crook of your neck for a moment, inhaling your scent, his breath hot against your skin as he adjusted to the tight heat enveloping his cock.

Then he lifted his head, resting his forehead against yours, your noses brushing in an intimate press. His eyes fluttered half-closed, but he held your stare, the connection unbreakable.

“God, you feel incredible,” he murmured, voice rough with restraint, before he began to move. A slow, deliberate roll of his hips pulled him almost all the way out, only to thrust back in with measured force, grinding against your clit at the end.

The pleasure hit you like a tidal wave, surging through your veins and making your breath hitch. You closed your eyes, surrendering to it, your body arching up to meet his rhythm.

Each thrust sent sparks dancing along your spine – his cock dragging along your inner walls, the friction building heat that coiled low in your belly. Bucky's hands braced on either side of your head, caging you in as he picked up pace, his breaths coming in sharp pants that fanned across your lips.

You hooked your ankles behind his back, pulling him deeper, your nails digging into his shoulders as the sensations overwhelmed you.

The slap of skin against skin filled the room, mingled with your shared moans, and you felt him throb inside you, his control fraying with every plunge. Sweat beaded on his brow, trickling down to mix with yours, and he captured your mouth again in a messy kiss, tongues tangling as he fucked you steadily, chasing the rhythm that bound you together.

Bucky's thrusts grew faster, more urgent, his hips snapping forward with a rhythm that drove you both toward the edge. His strong hands slid down your sides, gripping your ass firmly as he lifted your hips off the mattress just enough to shift the angle. The change was immediate and devastating – his cock now plunged deeper, hitting that perfect spot inside you with every stroke, sending jolts of electric pleasure radiating through your core.

You gasped at the intensified friction, your pussy fluttering around his thick shaft as it stretched and filled you relentlessly.

Your fingers tangled in his dark hair, tugging sharply – not hard enough to hurt, but enough to elicit a deep, satisfied growl from his throat that rumbled against your skin. The sound vibrated through you, heightening the heat building between your legs.

You yanked him down, crashing your lips against his in a desperate, open-mouthed kiss. His tongue met yours with equal fervor, tasting of salt and shared desire, as he swallowed your whimpers.

The pressure coiled tighter in your belly, every nerve alight from the way he pounded into you, his balls slapping against your skin with wet, rhythmic smacks.

You broke the kiss just long enough to cry out, but he captured your mouth again, muffling the sounds as your orgasm crashed over you. Waves of bliss pulsed through your body, your walls clenching hard around his cock in rhythmic spasms, milking him as you moaned your release directly into his mouth.

Your back arched off the bed slightly, toes curling, and you rode the high with him buried deep, your juices coating him completely.

Bucky groaned low and primal against your lips, his pace faltering for a split second as your climax triggered his own.

He thrust once, twice more – hard and deep – before his body tensed, muscles locking as he came undone. Hot spurts of his cum flooded inside you, his cock throbbing with each pulse, filling you to the brim. He buried his face in your neck, biting down gently on your shoulder to stifle his ragged shout, his hips grinding erratically as he emptied himself completely.

The warmth of his release mingled with yours, slick and intimate, as you both trembled in the aftermath, breaths mingling in heavy pants.

He collapsed onto you carefully, not pulling out yet, his weight a comforting anchor as the aftershocks rippled through you. His lips brushed your ear, whispering your name like a prayer, while his hands stroked soothing circles on your back.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Bucky was still above you, braced on his forearms, his weight held back with that same careful control he used everywhere else – except now his arms trembled faintly with the effort, and his breathing was still uneven, warm gusts of air against your lips and cheek. The room felt too quiet for what had just happened, like the hotel itself had been holding its breath and didn’t know what to do now.

Your chest rose and fell in short, shaky waves. Your skin was warm all over, oversensitive in that sweet, lingering way, your limbs heavy and loose at the same time. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn sounded and faded, but it felt like it belonged to another world entirely.

Bucky’s gaze stayed on you, dark and steady, like he was trying to memorize the way you looked right now – hair mussed, eyes half-lidded, mouth still a little swollen from kissing. His jaw flexed once, and the corner of his mouth softened into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but close.

You lifted a hand to his hair.

Your fingers combed through it slowly, tenderly, smoothing back strands damp with sweat, scratching lightly at his scalp in the way you’d seen people do absentmindedly when they were comforting someone they loved. The motion wasn’t complicated. It didn’t have to be. It was simply the truth translated into touch: I’m here. You’re here. I’ve got you.

Bucky’s eyelids fluttered, and he leaned down, his mouth finding the curve where your neck met your shoulder. He pressed a kiss there – soft, almost reverent – then another. He lingered between them like he wasn’t ready to pull away from you, like he was still grounding himself in the reality of your skin under his lips.

You let out a slow breath that turned into the faintest laugh. Your hand stayed in his hair, stroking through it, tugging gently at the ends.

“Hi,” you murmured, voice hoarse.

Bucky huffed a quiet sound against your neck – half a laugh, half a hum of contentment – and kissed you again, lower this time, just beneath your collarbone. “Hi,” he echoed, muffled.

Your eyes drifted shut.

The afterglow wrapped around you like a blanket you hadn’t realized you’d been desperate for – warmth, relief, a softness you didn’t have to earn. Your body still trembled in little aftershocks every time he breathed against you, every time his lips brushed your skin.

You should have said something clever. Something teasing. Something that would make him roll his eyes and pretend he wasn’t smiling.

Instead, exhaustion hit you like a wave.

It crept up from your bones, from the depth of the week, from the travel and the adrenaline and the way you’d been holding yourself together with sheer stubbornness. It rolled over you without warning, heavy and unavoidable.

And before you could stop it, a yawn slipped out.

It wasn’t even subtle.

It was the kind of full-body yawn that stole the last bit of tension from your spine and made your eyes water at the corners.

For half a second you froze, mortified.

Bucky went very still above you.

Then he let out a soft laugh – low and warm, vibrating against your skin where his cheek brushed your throat. The sound was so gentle it made your chest ache.

“You’re kidding,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement.

You groaned and covered your face with your free hand. “Shut up.”

“I’m not–” He laughed again, quieter this time, and you felt it against your neck like a kiss. “I’m not making fun of you.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I swear I’m not,” Bucky said, and his tone made it worse, because he sounded fond. “That’s just… incredible timing.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “I have had a week from hell,” you muttered. “My body is prioritizing survival.”

Bucky’s smile finally appeared, unmistakable now, softening his whole face in a way that should have been illegal. He brushed a quick kiss to your jaw, then lifted his weight carefully, as if he suddenly remembered you were still human and not made of steel and adrenaline.

“All right,” he murmured. “Come here.”

Before you could protest – before you could even decide whether you wanted to pretend you weren’t falling asleep mid-conversation – he rolled to the side in one smooth movement, tugging you with him gently so you weren’t left stranded in the middle of cold sheets.

He settled on his back, then turned toward you and pulled you in.

It wasn’t clumsy. It wasn’t awkward. It was instinctive, sure, like he’d been waiting for permission to hold you like this for a long time and now he wasn’t going to waste it.

Your cheek pressed against his chest. His arm wrapped around your shoulders, firm and protective, drawing you close until you fit against him perfectly. You felt the steady beat of his heart under your ear, felt his breath slow as he exhaled, felt the heat of him seep into you.

You let out a small, helpless sigh.

Bucky’s hand slid up and down your back once, soothing, and then he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, right into your hairline.

“Sleep,” he murmured, voice rough but gentle. “You’re done for tonight.”

You tilted your face up just enough to look at him. “You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m not,” he whispered, still smiling. “I’m… happy.”

The word hit you softly, like something fragile.

You swallowed, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Yeah?” you breathed.

Bucky’s smile faded into something quieter, something honest. He brushed his thumb along your shoulder, barely there. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”

You didn’t have the energy to answer with words.

So you just nestled closer, your hand slipping back into his hair – one last gentle stroke – before your body finally gave in.

Bucky held you like it was the simplest thing in the world, like it was what he’d been meant to do all along, and you heard his breath against your forehead and the soft, steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Bucky’s arms stayed around you like a promise you weren’t allowed to doubt.

His breathing had slowed, deepening into something steadier, but you could still feel the faint tremors in his chest if you paid attention – like his body hadn’t entirely decided whether it was safe to let go yet. Your cheek rested against him, warm skin and worn cotton beneath your face, the quiet thud of his heartbeat matching the way your own pulse was finally easing down from its sprint.

You should have been asleep already.

You were so close. So close you could feel that soft, floating edge where consciousness turns to fog.

But your brain – cruel thing – latched onto one last detail, one last practical concern, as if you were still in the hospital and not in a hotel bed with Bucky Barnes holding you like he’d been born to do it.

You lifted your head just enough to speak, voice muffled and sleepy.

“So…” you began, then yawned quietly into his skin, blinking. “So do we… keep the room as is?”

Bucky’s chest rose with a sound that was immediately a laugh – low and warm, vibrating under your cheek.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured, amusement threaded through the softness of his tone.

You squinted up at him, trying for stern and landing somewhere around barely conscious. “It’s a valid question.”

His smile widened, that rare, boyish curve that made him look younger – less like the unshakable surgeon everyone in your department relied on, more like the man underneath who still couldn’t quite believe he got to have something good.

“Yeah,” he said, and his thumb traced slowly along your shoulder, absent and tender. “Yeah. We keep it.”

“Good,” you mumbled, satisfaction immediate, ridiculous. “Because I’m not moving.”

Bucky huffed another laugh, then leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Noted.”

You let yourself sink back against him, boneless with relief. His hand slid up your spine once, a slow stroke that felt like a lullaby. The hotel room was dark and quiet, the city outside muted behind thick glass. Even the heater seemed to have calmed down.

You breathed in – soap from your shower, faint cologne from him, something warm and human – and you finally let your eyelids fall.

Bucky held you closer, as if he could keep you from slipping away by sheer force of will, and you both drifted off together, tangled up in the kind of sleep you only got when your body believed you were safe.

Morning came too fast, as mornings always did.

You woke to pale light spilling around the edges of the curtains and the faint hum of the city waking up outside. For a second, you didn’t remember where you were. Your brain tried to place the texture beneath your cheek, the warmth surrounding you, the steady weight at your back…

Then Bucky shifted, still half-asleep, and tightened his arm around your waist like he was holding you in place.

Reality settled.

Heat rushed to your face so quickly you felt ridiculous.

You stayed still for a moment, listening to his breathing, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back. The room smelled different in daylight – less like night and adrenaline, more like clean sheets and morning air. Somewhere in the hallway a door clicked shut. Someone laughed quietly, muffled by the walls.

Bucky made a low sound, somewhere between a sigh and a grumble, and pressed his face into the back of your neck.

“M’not getting up,” he muttered.

You smiled into the pillow. “We have to.”

“No,” he said, more firmly, and you could hear the sleep in his voice. “We don’t.”

“We’re literally here for the conference.”

He shifted again, eyes still closed, and kissed the skin just beneath your ear like he was trying to bribe you into silence. It worked, briefly.

Your breath hitched, and you swatted at him weakly. “Barnes.”

“Mm.”

“You’re going to make me late.”

“Let them start without us.”

“They will not start without the trauma surgeons.”

Bucky finally cracked one eye open, gaze heavy and warm. “That sounds like their problem.”

You stared at him for a second, then laughed – quiet, helpless. “You’re insufferable.”

His mouth curved. “I’ve been told.”

You both eventually got up – slowly, complaining the whole way like your bodies had aged ten years overnight. You showered in turns, got dressed in the efficient, practiced way of people who had spent their lives preparing for early mornings and impossible schedules. You ended up in clean clothes with your hair mostly tamed, a conference badge clipped back where it belonged.

But the energy in the room had changed.

There was no pillow wall anymore. No careful distance. No pretending.

When you reached for your phone on the nightstand, Bucky’s hand brushed yours, and instead of flinching away, you let your fingers catch his for a second – brief, quiet, intimate – before you both moved on.

The simplicity of it made your chest tighten.

The hotel restaurant was bright and busy, filled with conference attendees in sensible shoes and half-buttoned blazers, murmuring over plates of eggs and pastries as if they weren’t about to spend the day in lecture halls under fluorescent lights.

You and Bucky found a small table near the window. The city outside looked crisp and awake, cars moving like bloodstream through the streets.

Bucky glanced at the buffet line, then at you. “Coffee?”

You nodded immediately. “Please. Black. And if there are toasts, I want them.”

He gave you a look that said of course you do, then stood, stretching his shoulders once like he was shaking off the last of sleep. He looked unfairly good for someone who’d had the same week you had.

You watched him weave through the crowd with that quiet, steady confidence he carried everywhere – head up, movements economical, expression calm even when he looked tired. People moved around him without realizing they were doing it.

Your phone sat on the table.

Steve’s name hovered in your recent calls, practically taunting you.

You glanced toward the buffet line again. Bucky was busy at the coffee machine, back turned.

Perfect.

You tapped Steve’s contact and lifted the phone to your ear.

He picked up on the second ring. “Please tell me you’re alive.”

You stared out the window, keeping your voice low. “I don’t know if I should kill you or thank you, Rogers.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Steve’s voice turned instantly smug in that very specific way that meant he’d been waiting for this moment like it was a movie he’d already seen.

“I’m going to take that as a sign you didn’t commit homicide at the front desk.”

“Not for lack of trying.”

Steve chuckled. “So…?”

You narrowed your eyes, even though he couldn’t see it. “So what?”

“So,” he said, dragging it out, “I’m concluding that you and Barnes are finally going to stop throwing hungry looks at each other every time the other one turns their back.”

You made a face. “Ha ha. Very funny.”

“It’s not funny,” Steve insisted, sounding genuinely pleased. “It’s been painful. Like watching a slow-motion car crash. I’ve been waiting a year for you two to grow up.”

Your cheeks warmed, because the worst part was… he wasn’t wrong.

You cleared your throat. “You know what?”

“What?” Steve asked, suspicious now.

You leaned back in your chair, voice sweet in the way it only got when you were about to be a menace. “Joke’s on you.”

Steve paused. “That’s never a good start.”

“Now,” you continued, perfectly calm, “we’re going to take our vacations at the same time.”

There was a long, stunned silence on the other end.

Then, very faintly, you heard Steve inhale like he’d just realized he’d signed his own death warrant.

“I…” he started.

You could practically see him blinking behind his desk, mentally scrolling through the schedule, the staffing rotations, the holiday requests.

“I hadn’t thought about that,” he admitted, voice hollow.

You smiled with pure, exhausted satisfaction. “Exactly.”

“Wait,” Steve said quickly, “let’s be reasonable–”

You cut him off. “Have a good day, Chief.”

And you hung up.

The moment the call ended, you let out a small laugh under your breath and set your phone down like you hadn’t just threatened your boss with administrative chaos.

You looked up just as Bucky returned to the table.

He held two steaming cups and a small plate with toast stacked neatly, like he’d approached breakfast with the same seriousness he approached surgery. His gaze flicked over your face, then to your phone, then back.

“Who did you call?” he asked, already suspicious.

You smiled too innocently. “No one important.”

Bucky set your coffee in front of you with exaggerated care, then placed the toast down like an offering. “That’s a lie.”

You wrapped both hands around the warm cup, inhaled the scent, and sighed like you could feel your nervous system rebooting. “Thank you,” you murmured, meaning it.

Bucky sat across from you, then hesitated – just a flicker – before reaching across the table.

His hand was warm when his fingers found yours, rough knuckles and steady grip, the kind of touch that said I’m here without needing any extra words. You laced your fingers with his easily, as if you’d been doing it for years instead of… hours.

The simplicity of it made your throat tighten.

Bucky’s thumb brushed over your knuckles once, slow, absent. “You’re smiling,” he observed.

You took a sip of coffee – too hot, perfect – and looked at him over the rim.

“I warned Steve,” you said.

Bucky’s brows rose. “About what?”

“About consequences.”

His mouth twitched. “You’re terrifying.”

“I’m a surgeon,” you replied dryly. “It’s in the job description.”

Bucky snorted, leaning back slightly, but he didn’t let go of your hand. His gaze stayed on you, quieter now, warm in a way that made the noisy breakfast room feel like background.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

The question wasn’t about the coffee. Or the toast. Or the conference.

It was about everything.

You squeezed his hand once, grounding yourself in the contact, then nodded.

“Yeah,” you said. “Yeah. I think I am.”

Bucky’s expression softened, and he lifted your joined hands to press a brief kiss to your knuckles – quick enough that no one would notice unless they were looking for it, intimate enough that your pulse jumped anyway.

“Good,” he murmured.

You stared at him, toast forgotten for a second, coffee warming your palms, his fingers threaded with yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And for the first time in days – maybe weeks – the thought of the conference, the lectures, the long hours ahead didn’t make your stomach knot.

Because whatever happened today, you weren’t doing it alone.

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[w1nter-fairy]

Tune In To The Radio

main masterlist

pairing: Congressman Barnes x assistant!Reader

word count: <1.3k

summary: After another exhausting day working as Congressman Barnes' assistant, all you want is a cup of tea and a quiet evening with your grandfather's old radio. What you don't expect is a love confession hidden between the static and the music.

warnings: tooth rotting fluff, mutual pining, Bucky navigating modern dating with old-fashioned courtship, soft Bucky.

a/n: I've been dealing with a terrible writer's block lately, but this idea came to me after listening to one particular song from my childhood about someone calling the radio to dedicate a song to the girl they're in love with, this is a very common courtship method in Mexico, or at least it used to be before YouTube and Spotify came to us lol | thank you @kileyking for clarifying some questions I had regarding that and thank you @herejustforbuckybarnes & @buckysdecaflove for beta reading this. ᝰ.ᐟ dividers by @sister-lucifer

read on AO3

You let out a long, weary sigh as you finally pushed open the door to your apartment, kicking off your heels. Another sixteen-hour day as Congressman Barnes' assistant had left you thoroughly drained. Your brain was still spinning with draft speeches, policy briefs and scheduling conflicts.

But it was a good kind of tired. The kind that came from working for someone who actually wanted to make a change, someone who definitely made the long hours feel worthwhile… someone who made your heart do ridiculous little flips every time he smiled at you.

You shook your head, trying to banish the image of Bucky's soft blue eyes and the way his voice dropped to that low, warm register when he spoke to you after everyone else had gone home. It was hopeless, really. You'd had a crush on him for months now, ever since you started working for him. You convinced yourself it was just professional admiration, but late nights alone in the office had a way of making feelings impossible to ignore.

You padded into your small kitchen, filling the kettle for tea. Your apartment was cozy, filled with mismatched furniture and stacks of books, but your favorite thing was the vintage radio sitting on the windowsill. It had been your grandfather's and you've grown up listening to it with him, learning to love the crackle and hiss, the way the music seemed to surprise you with every new song.

You reached over and turned the dial, letting the familiar static fill your quiet apartment. It was your nightly ritual, a small comfort after long days. You hummed along as a commercial for a local diner played, then another for a car dealership.

You were about to head to the bathroom to change when the smooth voice of the DJ, Frankie, cut through the air.

"Alright, folks, we've got a very special dedication coming up tonight. I'm telling you, this one's a real old-school romance, the kind that will make you believe in love letters and slow dances."

You paused, a smile tugging at your lips. You loved dedications. There was something so wonderfully old-fashioned about them, so personal in an increasingly impersonal world.

The crackle of a record filled the air, and then the voice of Louis Armstrong began to sing. You recognized it immediately, your breath catching in your throat.

"I'm confessing that I love you, babe.

Tell me, do you love me too?"

It was your favorite song. The one your grandfather used to play on Sunday mornings, the one you'd secretly always imagined a future love might dedicate to you someday.

You leaned against the kitchen counter, closing your eyes and letting the music wash over you. The saxophone, the gentle piano, Louis' velvet voice wrapping around every word like a warm embrace.

"Am I guessing that you love me? Mm Dreaming dreams of you in vain? Oh I'm confessing that I love you over again."

The song faded out, and you sighed ready to head to the bathroom. But then Frankie's voice returned.

"That was the one and only Louis Armstrong, a classic for a classic request. And that request came from a gentleman who wanted to send a little message to a very special lady."

Your heart skipped. You didn't know why, it was just a dedication, probably for someone else entirely.

"He says," Frankie continued, clearing his throat. "To my favorite person, who stays late, works hard and has a smile that makes the long nights a little shorter. This one's for you. Hope you like it as much as I do. And signs as J.B."

Your knees felt weak, and you had to grab the counter to steady yourself.

No. It couldn't be.

Your favorite song? A message signed with "J.B."?

Your mind raced, flashing through every late night in the office, every time Bucky had brought you coffee, every lingering glance, every soft smile. The way he always asked about your day, the way he remembered little details you've mentioned weeks ago. The way he told you to call him Bucky when it was just the two of you, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

Your phone buzzed on the counter, the screen lighting up. The name on your screen made your heart stutter.

Congressman Barnes.

You answered on the second ring, your voice was barely a whisper. "Hello?"

"Hey." His voice was that same low, warm rumble you heard every day, but there was something different now. "By any chance, were you listening to the radio?"

You could hear the nervousness in his voice and it made your chest ache in the most wonderful way.

"I… yes," you breathed, sinking onto your small couch. "Bucky, that was… did you really…"

"Did I really dedicate a song to you on the radio?" he finished, a soft laugh escaping him. "Yeah, yeah, I did."

"But how did you… how did you know it was my favorite song? How did you even know I listen to that station?"

"I pay attention," he said simply. "I pay attention to you, I notice the little things, like the way you hum along when you think no one's listening, or how you always turn on your radio when you think I'm not watching. I notice everything about you."

You felt tears prick at your eyes, hot and unexpected. "Bucky…"

"Look, I know it's old-fashioned," he continued, and you could picture him running his hand through his hair, a nervous habit you've noticed a hundred times. "I know I should've just said something in person, but… I wanted to do it right, and make it special. You deserve special."

"It is special," you whispered. "It's the most special thing anyone's ever done for me."

"Really?"

"Really." You laughed, a wet happy sound. "You dedicated my favorite song to me on the radio. That's… that's like something out of a movie."

"Good." You could hear the smile in his voice now. "Because I meant every word of it, you know. Every single word."

There was a pause, and you could hear him take a breath.

"So," he said softly, "did you like the song?"

You smiled, curling up on your couch, the radio still playing softly in the background. "I loved it," you admitted. "But I think I loved the message even more."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

There was another pause. Then, "Can I see you? I mean, not right now, it's late, but… tomorrow? Maybe for coffee? Or dinner? Whatever you want, I just…"

"I'd love that," you interrupted, your heart soaring. "I'd love to see you. I'd love to do anything with you."

You heard him exhale, a breath of pure relief. "Good. That's… real good."

You talked for another hour, the conversation flowing easily, filled with soft laughter. When you finally hung up, your cheeks hurt from smiling, and your heart felt so full it might burst.

You lay back on your couch, listening to the radio, and let yourself daydream about the next day. About Bucky and the beautiful thing that was finally beginning… and somewhere across the city, Bucky was doing the exact same thing, a smile on his face that hadn't been there in years.

taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @wintersoldier-gal @globetrotter28 @elisexoxo-buckysversion @angelryex @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @erina00 @buckysdecaflove @jai200700 @squishyfruitloop @broadwaybabe18 @abyy1838 @juniebjonesin @mostlymarvelgirl @gilwm @ghost-of-barnes @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @bi-incog-btch @phoenix-in-writing @julinkapipinka @i-loveyoubutyourenotmine +add yourself here

[heldbybarnes]

Could we get bucky physical touch headcanons? Or just general established relationship fluff :)

Bucky Barnes has always been careful with his hands.

It’s instinct now—something carved into him just as deeply as the ghosts in his head. His strength is something he’s constantly aware of, constantly measuring, constantly holding back. Even after everything—after Wakanda, after the deprogramming, after learning how to exist as just Bucky again—there’s still that quiet hesitation in the way he reaches for things.

For you.

Especially for you.

In the beginning, it showed up in small, almost invisible ways. The way his fingers would hover just shy of your skin before actually touching you. The way his metal hand would stay tucked behind his back or buried in his pocket when you sat close. The way he’d brush his knuckles against yours instead of lacing your fingers together, like he was testing the waters, waiting for you to pull away.

You never did.

When you first noticed it, you were sitting on the couch together, some movie playing that neither of you were paying attention to. Your legs were tangled, your shoulder pressed into his side, and his arm was draped along the back of the couch behind you.

Not around you.

Behind you.

Close enough to feel, but not enough to hold.

You turned your head, studying him quietly. His eyes were fixed on the screen, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the subtle flex of his fingers against the cushion. Like he wanted to touch you and didn’t trust himself to do it.

So you fixed it.

Without saying anything, you reached up and took his metal arm and pulled it down into your lap.

Bucky froze.

His entire body went still, breath catching like you’d just done something dangerous. His eyes snapped to yours, wide and uncertain.

“Doll…” he murmured, voice low, almost warning.

You just shrugged, like it was nothing. Like your heart wasn’t beating a little faster at the vulnerability in his expression. “You can touch me, you know.”

His brow furrowed. “I am touching you.”

“Not really,” you said softly, guiding his hand so his palm rested properly against your thigh. “This is touching me.”

The metal was cool against your skin, but not unpleasant. Different, yes—but you leaned into it, pressing your hand over his, holding him there.

For a long moment, he didn’t move.

Then, slowly, so slowly you almost missed it, his fingers curled.

His thumb brushed once, tentative, against your leg.

You smiled.

And something in his expression cracked open.

From that moment on, things changed—but not all at once. Bucky doesn’t do anything all at once. He learns you the way he learned everything else: carefully, patiently, like he’s committing every reaction to memory.

He starts small.

A hand at the small of your back when you walk through doors. Light at first, barely there—but steady. Grounding.

His fingers brushing yours when you sit beside each other, lingering just a second longer each time until one day they stay, sliding between yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He figures out quickly that you like it when he touches your face.

The first time he cups your cheek fully—flesh hand warm, metal hand resting just beneath your jaw—he watches you like he’s bracing for impact. Like he expects you to flinch.

Instead, you lean in.

Close your eyes.

Press into his palm like you belong there.

The breath he lets out is shaky.

After that, it becomes his favorite thing.

Bucky is not subtle about the things he loves.

He touches you constantly, not in a way that’s overwhelming, but in a way that’ deliberate. Intentional. Like every point of contact is a reminder, for both of you, that you’re here. That you’re real.

When you’re in the kitchen, he stands behind you, chest to your back, arms wrapping around your waist. Sometimes he just rests there, chin hooked over your shoulder, breathing you in like it steadies him.

Sometimes his hands drift.

Up your sides, slow and absentminded. Over your stomach. Down your hips. Never rushed. Never careless.

Always aware.

When you’re out with the others, he keeps a hand on you—your thigh under the table, your back when you’re standing, your wrist when he wants your attention. It’s grounding for him, you realize. A tether.

You’re his anchor.

And he makes sure you know it.

At night, it’s different.

Softer.

There are nights when the past creeps in, when sleep doesn’t come easy and his body is too tense, too alert. On those nights, he doesn’t always say anything—but he reaches for you.

Carefully, at first.

Like he always has.

But now, instead of hovering, his hand settles.

Finds your hip. Your arm. Your waist.

And when you shift closer in response, when you tuck yourself into him without hesitation, something in him unwinds.

He holds you tighter then.

Not enough to hurt. Never enough to hurt. Just enough to feel.

His metal arm curls around you sometimes, hesitant even now, but you always pull it closer. Press it where you want it. Teach him, over and over, that you’re not fragile. Not in the ways he fears.

“C’mere,” you’ll mumble, half-asleep, guiding his hand to your stomach or your chest.

He always follows.

And once he’s there, once he knows you want him there, he doesn’t hold back as much.

His touch becomes confident.

He learns the exact pressure you like when he rubs your back. The way your body melts when his fingers trace slow patterns along your spine. The way you sigh when he presses a kiss to your shoulder, his hand splayed wide over your ribs like he’s memorizing you.

Sometimes, when you’re lying together in the quiet, he’ll map you.

His fingertips dragging lightly over your skin. Your arms, your stomach, your thighs. Not sexual. Not urgent.

Like he’s reminding himself that you’re here. That this is real. That he’s allowed to have this.

You.

“Still okay?” he’ll ask sometimes, voice low, almost unsure, even after all this time.

You always answer the same way.

You take his hand—metal or flesh, it doesn’t matter—and press a kiss into his palm.

“More than okay.”

And every time, something in his shoulders loosens. Something heavy lifts, just a little.

Bucky Barnes has always been careful with his hands.

But with you, he’s learning that he doesn’t have to be afraid of them.

Because every time he touches you, you don’t pull away.

You lean in.

More than anything, that is what teaches him how to hold you.

[inbred-eater]

FRIENDS?

pairing .ᐟ tfatws!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings .ᐟ tooth rotting fluff. grumpy x sunshine. friends to lovers. obvious age gap. alpine mention. misogynistic comments toward reader (not from bucky). slow burnish. bucky’s fuckass therapist mentioned.

summary .ᐟ you’re bucky’s overly friendly neighbour, having never had an actual conversation with him yet you’re always smiling or waving at him. after alpine wonder’s into your apartment, prompting you to return the feline to her owner, bucky decides he has to be friends (or maybe slightly more) with you.

acknowledgments .ᐟ divider (1) creds: @pommecita | divider (2) creds: @cursed-carmine

a/n: just something short and sweet for my favourite old man ;p

integrating back into society after spending century after century fighting against your will wasn’t as easy as everyone painted it out to be. it was a lonely, hard and daunting process, adjusting to a time after being full throttled into it.

after steve left, bucky had been alone, yes sam was there but they weren’t the closest, and he was always busy, too busy to be saddled with a 100 year old super soldier with a fragile state of mind.

so he steered clear from most people, besides your odd person here and there, which included you, his neighbour.

he’d never spoken to you, not once, but in passing offered a look here and there, a nod and eventually sometimes a wave and a smile, which was always reciprocated by the toothiest grin on your end; the apples of your cheeks shining as you smiled, eyes crinkled at the corners.

bucky began realising he’d started looking forward to these mundane greetings, the interactions bringing some form of normalcy into his life, something he could keep for himself, a routine of sorts.

today had started like any other; he’d gotten up to get ready for his day, searching for alpine, his cat, for a few minutes to feed her but ultimately moving past not being able to find her, (she always wondered off now and then so this didn’t worry him) to eventually resorting to having some black coffee while he mulled over the impending mandatory therapy session he had in a bit; except today wasn’t like any other day, the tap of knuckles against his front door pulling his attention, brows furrowed in confusion.

before you could knock again, the door flung open, your brooding neighbour who only ever seemed capable of a grunt, nod and grumble, standing on the other side, his steel blue eyes moving from your face down to the feline asleep in your arms, his feline.

“morning, i hope i’m not bothering—she wondered into my apartment through the fire escape last night, and i would’ve been fine with leavin her be but i gotta get going somewhere so i wanted to return her before leaving,” you hummed out, looking down at alpine asleep and curled up in your arms.

you sounded different to what he imagined you to, but he welcomed it nonetheless, his adam’s apple bobbing as he nodded.

“oh uh thanks—sorry about her showing up unannounced,” he awkwardly rasps, moving from one foot to the other, nearly cursing himself for acting like an alien in his own skin, all because of the pretty neighbour from down the hall.

you simply dismissed his words, smiling gingerly, “no it’s no problem, i love cats so i have no issues with her showing up unannounced, just didn’t wanna leave her in a locked up apartment all day while i was out,” you hummed, your eyes glittering as you really took in his features. it was obvious he was handsome, but up close? god could strike you down if you were lying but your knees nearly buckled when that damn door opened.

after awkwardly hovering, you extended your arms out, offering alpine to him, in which the sleepy feline stretched as bucky took her, softly placing her down inside his apartment before turning back to you, his arm above his head as he held the top of the door.

“well thank you for bringing her,” he nodded, his smile a little larger than what you were used to, only nodding in response, turning on your heels to leave, softly waving at him over your shoulder before disappearing around the corner.

the ticking of the clock was slow and methodical, his hands clenching as they moved to rest atop his jean clad thighs, his face set and sullen, eyes fixed on doctor raynor, his therapist.

every question she asked was met with nothing more than a grunt, a nod or a grumble, or the occasional roll of his eyes.

“james, i asked you a question,” she sighed, “are you still having nightmares?” she spoke up again, clearing her throat as she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, “no,” he all but mumbled in response, that line between his brows prominent, etched into his skin from years of frowning and brooding.

doctor raynor only sighed, lifting her glasses up and onto her head, rubbing her eyes before pinching the bridge of her nose, “we’ve been doing this long enough that I can tell when you’re lying.” she murmurs, tilting her head toward him.

bucky kept his face stoic in response, sucking his left cheek in, his eyes darting to the loud ticking hands of the clock.

“you’re a civilian now, with your history, the government needs to know that you’re not gonna—“ she cuts herself off, rethinking her words before speaking up again, “it’s a condition of your pardon.” she reminded him, her leg restless as she watched him, already knowing his tells off by heart, it was clear he was keeping something from her, but getting through to him? that was a whole other story.

when her response was met with more silent brooding she shook her head, opening the notebook in her lap before clicking her pen, glaring at him for a moment before pressing her pen to an open page in her notebook.

he groaned at the sight in front of him, that damned notebook his kryptonite; “oh, come on, really?” he scoffed, shaking his head all grumpily; “you’re gonna do the notebook thing? why? it’s passive aggressive.” he clicked his tongue, hoping if he stared long and hard enough at the notebook and pen in her hands, that it’d explode.

“you don’t talk, i write.” doctor raynor responded, in which bucky raised his hands in mock surrender, followed by finally speaking up on his most recent doings, which names he’d crossed off of his list and how he went about it.

doctor raynor closed her notebook as he spoke, sighing at his continued closed off demeanour, his shoulders still tense, meaning he still wasn’t getting what he needed off of his chest.

“look…” she hums, setting the notebook down onto the coffee table in front of her, “one day, you’re gonna have to open up and understand that some people really do want to help you and that they can be trusted.” she nods, tilting her head to emphasise her words.

“i trust people,” bucky mumbled defensively, his brows cinching at the centre; “who? and don’t say alpine cause she doesn’t count,” doctor raynor responds with equal fervour, stopping bucky in his tracks.

he goes quiet for a moment, biting the bullet as he mumbled your name without thinking, cursing to himself before deciding to speak up, “she’s uh—she’s my neighbour, and i-i trust her,” he nods, so sure of himself, to which doctor raynor just quirked a brow, scoffing at his once again, obvious lie.

“oh really? give me your phone,” she holds her hand out, bucky’s brows furrowing in response before reluctantly fishing for his flip phone in the pocket of his jeans, handing it over.

she scrolls through his contact list, almost wincing at how dry and barren it was, “you don’t have ten phone numbers on this thing,” she scoffs, her eyes widening as she goes into his unanswered texts, “oh, and you’ve been ignoring the texts from sam, that’s great!” she responds sarcastically, only furthering bucky’s already sour mood.

“look, you’ve gotta nurture friendships.” she sighs exasperatedly, causing bucky to groan once again, “i told you—i have friends—my neighbour! she’s my friend, always greeting me, i greet her, she looks after alpine, that’s a friend is it not?” he frantically rants, fidgeting in his seat.

“so why’s her number not here then?” doctor raynor asks, holding up the ancient cellphone before handing it back over to him.

he accepts it with a roll of his eyes before speaking up, “i was getting to it,” he shrugs, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek as he listened to the rest of doctor raynor’s berating; this was going to be a long session.

later that day as he walked to his apartment unit, he hovered by the front door, thinking over doctor raynor’s words; as much as he hated to admit it, she was right, he was lonely, isolated and everything someone with his history shouldn’t be.

he needed friends.

his foot tapped against the carpet, his metal hand hovering over the door handle to his apartment before dropping it, his eyes landing on your apartment door number, contemplating his next move before sighing, grumbling a barley audible ‘fuck it’ before his feet carried him over to yours, his knuckles rapping against the door before he could even register it.

“just a second!” you called out from the other side, rushing to the front door before opening it, a smile gracing your features as you looked up at bucky, your very crabby, very mysterious, very handsome neighbour.

“oh hi,” you faintly spoke, lashes fluttering as you unconsciously bat them, your body responding to him before your mind could catch up.

“hi,” he awkwardly mumbled, adding a subtle, almost pathetic wave before speaking up again, his eyes muddled with confusion and uncertainty at the idea in his head, pushing back his overthinking the moment he heard doctor raynor’s words echoing through his mind again, clearing his throat before speaking up, “god this is—this is way out of my comfort zone but i just realised i’ve lived here for some time now and i don’t really know anyone so would you—would you like to go grab something to eat? together i mean, you and me?” he awkwardly rambles, your cheeks heating at the display.

upon seeing his face once you opened the door, this was the last thing you were expecting but you can’t say you weren’t displeased with it, so you nodded, smiling wide, “yeah—why not? always open to making more friends,” you swallowed, still nodding; “uh let me just—freshen up then we can go?” you asked, brows raised.

“yeah! that’s alright by me, i’ll just—i’ll wait here then.” he smiles, nodding as he turned on his heels once the door closed, leaning against the wall adjacent to your door, surprised at how easy that was.

“you know, i know who you are,” you mumbled after swallowing some of your drink, your legs folded on your chair as you dipped a piece of sushi into your soya sauce.

bucky’s eyes pierced at your words, clearing his throat, “oh you do?” he asked, his face almost falling at that exact moment. most people ran for the hills once they’d realised who he was, they didn’t care for the pardon he’d received or to learn that he was brainwashed into becoming the winter soldier; so to see you still seated comfortably in your chair, nonchalantly speaking of his past as if it were nothing, it was refreshing and for sure solidified your place in his life for years to come.

“what and you’re not running off?” he hummed, his tongue darting out to wet his lips before taking a sip of his drink.

you simply shook your head, brows furrowed almost in offence that he’d think you’d do that, “why would i?” you asked, lips quirking up in a smile before changing the topic, rambling on about something mundane.

bucky just sat there, watching you in awe, those three words doing more for his healing than any therapist could; this moment set to change the trajectory of his life indefinitely.

from that day on, you were stuck to his side like thorns on a rose, constantly dragging him along with you, whether for coffee, little errands here and there, or to just be around him.

you’d taken him furniture shopping, having mumbled something along the lines of, “god this is really sad buck,” the first time you came into his apartment, bringing some life and ambiance to his place, leaving little touches of your own personality to the space, something bucky found himself smiling at when he was alone, his eyes trailing over the little trinkets you’d leave here and there.

you’d watch over alpine when he’d go on missions, making him promise you to come home in one piece, practically jumping him when he’d knock on your apartment door a few days or weeks later.

you even had a key to his apartment, inviting yourself in at all times of the day; often times he’d find you curled up on his couch coming home, alpine next to you as you napped, the sight making his cheeks pink with adoration.

his two favourite girls.

the first time you’d done it, it was at that moment, his hands pulling a throw blanket over your curled up figure, he realised he’d fallen for you, hard; the baggage in his mind lighter and lighter by the second all because of you.

he started talking to sam more, even going out with him, opening up to him, hell even doctor raynor could spot the difference.

you changed his life for the better.

you were currently getting ready over at yours, you and bucky had made it a ritual almost, to visit this one bar each friday evening. you did the finishing touches to your makeup before bucky let himself in, his eyes meeting yours through the mirror.

“oh you’re here! i’m almost done, just finishing a few things,” you hummed, unaware of bucky’s gaze; his eyes gleamed with admiration as he stared at you, the shade of your blue dress matching that of his eyes, those same eyes lingering on the skin of your thighs peeking out, before clearing his throat, mentally face palming himself for staring at you like that.

“kay, i’m done—how do i look grumpy?” you asked, grabbing your purse before turning to face him, twirling around to show him your full outfit, the ends of your dress flowing as you did so.

he stared in awe, scratching the back of his neck as he looked at you, that disgusting feeling of fluttering in his stomach returning, all because of the light in your eyes; “beautiful,” he hummed, that sweet smile of his you’ve grown to love, etching its way onto his features, melting your heart.

“so sweet when you wanna be,” you joked, pecking his cheek as you’ve done many times before, waiting at your door for him.

he all but rolled his eyes once your lips left his cheek, looking to the heavens for the strength to not just kiss your lips right there and then before following after you.

the ride to the bar was quick, filled with mostly your voice chatting his ears off, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“god i haven’t danced since the 1940’s…it feels like,” he laughs into his beer, your face warm from the cocktail you’d been nursing. “i keep forgetting you’re like an old man,” you snort, “one hundred and six, wow that’s fucking insane,” you guffawed, covering your face in embarrassment; “yeah yeah laugh it up—call me an old man,” he nods, fighting back a smile at your giggly nature, keeping a firm hand on the back of your chair as you rocked back and forth with laughter, the chair shaking as you did so, always looking out for you without you even realising.

there was this time you were raving on and on about this almond croissant you had at some cafe, your boots clacking against the pavement as you walked in front of bucky, your back to oncoming folk, walking backwards like the fool you were, your face expressive as you went on and on about the pastry. bucky’s brows furrowed as he placed his hands on your elbow’s, manoeuvring you when someone would come walking from the direction you were walking in, preventing you from a head on collision, muttering a small “sorry,” to anyone he’d dodged, almost wincing at your oblivious nature.

there was another time where you’d both been in his apartment, your brows furrowed in concentration as you tried following a recipe you’d seen online, swearing up and down to bucky that you were sure it would turn out amazing; you’d foolishly kept your eyes on the recipe, blindly cutting the tomato’s you needed for the dish; you were so close to chopping your finger off before the knife faltered, bucky’s metal hand pressed under it and on top of your other hand, effectively stopping the blade from piercing your skin. “jesus kid—watch it,” he huffed out a laugh, shaking his head as he took over for you, ushering you to sit on the couch while he finished the food.

you felt so comfortable around him, you’d unknowingly resorted to relying solely on him for your safety, your brain turning off whenever you were with him and god bucky loved it. he loved feeling needed, loved being someone’s safe space after so many years of solely bringing terror wherever he went.

it was clear he needed you, but you needed him too.

you had left for the bathroom, laughing over your shoulder at a joke he made, leaving bucky to his lonesome self, flagging the waiter down for another beer when he heard a wolf whistle from the next table over, three sleazy looking fellow’s with cigarettes hanging from their lips, their eyes beady as they watched you walk to the bathroom, their words even filthier, detailing rather loudly what they’d do to your “sweet piece of ass” if they got the chance. bucky’s fists clenched as he listened, his metal hand moving to grip the table, the edge of it giving way under his vibranium hand, wood splintering as it broke away, muttering a “shit” under his breath as he kept his eyes on the three guys.

as you came back from the bathroom, the smile on your face was rapidly wiped off once you’d seen bucky standing rather defensively with three other men, your eyes widening as you rushed over.

“no, you shouldn’t talk about ladies like that,” you heard him say as you approached them, the three guys laughing slyly as you tapped his arm.

“hey, hey everything okay here?” you asked, ignoring their obnoxious whistling and filthy words.

bucky’s jaw clenched as they continued on, your hand on his arm grounding him as he looked at you, “yeah just—they shouldn’t speak about you like that,” he murmurs, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

“it’s fine—let’s just settle the bill and leave, please?” you begged, voice soft and small as you squeezed his arm, ready to leave the now shitty atmosphere.

the moment he saw that look in your eyes he was ready to go, keeping his anger at bay as he turned to follow you, only to stop in his tracks when one of the guys called out again, “bet he can’t even fuck that sweet pussy the way you want can he baby?” his voice slimy as you looked back with a grimace, bucky’s body going rigid under your touch as he turned, his blue eyes black with anger now.

he swore he turned into the winter soldier at that split second, metal hand hitting the guy square in the jaw, sending him flying across the floor. your jaw dropped as your eyes widened, hand coming up to cover your mouth as you followed after bucky, his steps heavy and deliberate as he crouched down, his hand gripping the front of the guy’s shirt, “now you’re going to apologise to her,” he grumbles, his face stoic as he stared daggers into the now trembling man, his jaw slightly crooked from the left hook bucky delivered.

“buck it’s alright—can we just g—“ he cut you off, looking over his shoulder at you, “no, he needs to apologise, he shouldn’t have said that to you,” bucky spoke, his voice soft with you in comparison to how it sounded when he had just spoken to the man trembling at his feet.

“i’m uh—i’m sorry ma’am—really i am— me and my buddies shouldn’t—we shouldn’t have said what we did about you,” the man croaked out, taking a breath of relief when bucky let his shirt go, clearing his throat as he straightened up, apologising to one of the staff members for the mess he caused before taking out a few bills to cover your bill, his hand on your lower back as you both rushed out.

the ride back to your apartment complex was quiet, his voice only sounding out once you were both in his apartment, alpine on your lap.

“i’m sorry you had to see that—i shouldn’t have punched him, i know, it’s one of the stupid rules my shrink’s always telling me about—but i-i don’t know—when i heard him say that—about-about you, i couldn’t control it,” he huffed, sitting down cautiously next to you, his brows furrowed almost as if he were waiting for you to scold him.

your eyes softened at his tone, gently moving alpine to the side before turning to face him, tucking your legs under your bottom.

“are you kidding? that asshole deserved it—thank you for standing up for me buck,” you smiled, batting your lashes, a faint smile making its way onto your face.

bucky nearly fist pumped the air at your words, letting out a breath of relief as he awkwardly laughed, “he was an asshole wasn’t he?” he smiled, his blue eyes gentle and attentive as he looked at you.

you nodded in agreement, “seeing you punch him was kinda hot too—“ you blurted out, slapping your hand to your mouth once you realised what you’d said.

bucky’s brows raised at your words, feeling like a teenager again as he blushed profusely. “oh was it now?” he said cockily, your entire being burning with embarrassment, shoving his shoulder playfully as he laughed, his hand coming up to enclose around your wrist, softly tugging you forward almost halfway in his lap with this new air of confidence.

the world quieted around you at that split second, everything else blurred but the super soldier under you, your heart thumping in your chest at the close proximity.

yes, you and bucky had been this close before, snuggling together while watching a movie, or accidentally falling asleep on his shoulder, but something about this time felt different, something about the way his eyes traced your features before settling on your lips, his pupils dilated when they finally locked back onto yours.

he swallowed before biting the bullet, tongue darting out to wet his lips before speaking up, “can i kiss you?” he hesitantly asked, brows almost furrowing, preparing himself for rejection, god, if 1940’s him could see this he’d be disappointed for sure, he thought.

you smiled at the words you’ve been waiting months to hear, frantically nodding, your bottom lip tugged between your teeth as you couldn’t trust yourself to speak right now, not with all the emotions soaring through your body due to the man before you.

bucky smiled, his flesh hand warm as it moved from your wrist, goosebumps rising over your skin as he trailed his hand up to your jaw, softly cradling it as his thumb stroked your cheek, moving the digit down to pull your lip from your teeth, sucking in a breath before pressing his lips to yours.

you swore fireworks exploded behind your eyelids when he kissed you, his lips soft but pressured against yours, his touch gentle as he cradled your jaw, almost as if he were scared you’d break.

you swallowed his hisses as you moved properly into his lap, your hands moving into his hair as you kissed him harder, smiling into the kiss before pulling away, leaning your forehead against his as you caught your breath.

“guess i should start punching more assholes in your honour then,” he spoke after a beat of silence, pulling a laugh from your chest as you shook your head at his cocky words, pecking his lips a final time before pressing your face into the crook of his neck.

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꩜ .ᐟ sebastian stan + characters masterlist

[poindextersgirlforever]

Clingy Bucky, who comes home from a long mission wanting nothing more than to be smothered by you and lie on you. You bring him peace and comfort, so hugging you makes everything better for him.

Clingy Bucky, who does not care about the stares he gets from his teammates. Often calls them jealous because they do not have a hot and kind wife like his.

Clingy Bucky, who would also pull you to shower with him; he would not let go of you. After you guys shower, he would lay you down and lay on top of you, holding you close so you don't disappear.

Clingy Bucky, who will eventually fall asleep to the sound of your breath and rhythm of your heart. You are stuck underneath him, smothered by his big body. You love the feeling of being underneath him and him lying on you.

Clingy Bucky, who would not move at all. When you fell asleep, he would wake up and check the surroundings. He checks that you are still underneath him and gets extremely happy. Which makes him kiss all over your face and bury his face in your neck, immediately falling asleep.

[heldbybarnes]

what about some congressman barnes angst??? maybe reader doesn’t answer her phone for a bit and Bucky’s ready to abuse his power and send out the cavalry

love your stuff, keep doing you!!!

Contrary to popular belief, Bucky does not panic when you miss his call.

He’s in the middle of a meeting—long polished table, too many suits, too many voices all talking over one another about funding allocations and policy optics—and his phone buzzes once against the wood near his elbow. He glances down out of habit, just quick enough to see your name lighting up the screen.

You.

He almost smiles.

Almost.

He lets it ring out. Figures you’ll text. Figures you’re busy. Figures you’ll call back.

You always call back.

By the second missed call, there’s a tightness in his chest he can’t quite explain.

He excuses himself—Congressman Barnes doesn’t ask, he excuses—stepping out into the quiet hallway, already dialing you back. It rings. And rings. And rings.

No answer.

“Okay,” he mutters under his breath, pacing once down the length of the corridor, free hand dragging over the back of his neck. “Alright. You’re busy. That’s fine.”

It’s not fine.

By the third attempt, the old instincts start creeping in.

The ones he hates. The ones he buried under therapy sessions and late nights learning how to be something softer, something safer. The part of him that was trained to anticipate worst-case scenarios before they even had time to happen.

His thumb hovers over your contact again.

He calls.

Straight to voicemail this time.

That’s when something cold settles in his stomach.

“Hey,” he says when the beep sounds, voice already rougher than he intends. “It’s me. Just—call me back, doll. When you get this. Okay?”

He hangs up and stares at the screen for a second too long.

Then he dials again.

Still nothing.

The hallway suddenly feels too small. Too quiet. Too far away from you.

He checks the time. Does the math. Replays your morning in his head, where you said you’d be, what you mentioned in passing, whether you sounded tired, distracted, off.

Nothing. Nothing stands out.

Which makes it worse.

Because if there’s no reason, then...

No.

No, he’s not doing that.

He exhales sharply through his nose, trying to ground himself, but his heart is already picking up pace, that familiar, dangerous edge creeping in.

You should’ve answered by now.

You always answer.

His phone feels too light in his hand.

Too useless.

And suddenly, he’s moving.

Back into the meeting room, grabbing his jacket without so much as a word, ignoring the way a few heads turn, the way someone starts to ask if everything’s alright.

It’s not.

“Sir?” his assistant calls after him as he strides down the hall. “You have another—”

“Cancel it.”

His voice leaves no room for argument.

By the time he hits the elevator, he’s already dialing a different number.

“Wilson,” Sam answers on the third ring, casual, unaware. “What’s up, man—”

“She’s not answering.”

There’s a beat.

“A—okay?” Sam says slowly. “Did you try—”

“I called four times.”

That changes things.

Bucky can hear it in the way Sam straightens on the other end, the easy tone dropping. “Alright. Where is she supposed to be?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky snaps, frustration bleeding through. “She said she had errands. That was it. She should’ve been home an hour ago.”

“You don’t know that something’s wrong.”

“I know she’d answer.”

The elevator dings.

He barely registers it.

His mind is already spiraling, pulling up every possible scenario, every threat, every face that’s ever looked at him and seen leverage.

Congressman Barnes has enemies and you just so happen to be the easiest way to get to him.

“Buck,” Sam says carefully, “don’t jump straight to worst-case—”

“I’m not jumping,” he cuts in, voice low, dangerous. “I’m being prepared.”

And there it is.

The line he’s not supposed to cross.

The one between caution and control.

Between protection and something darker.

Sam exhales. “What are you thinking?”

Bucky doesn’t hesitate.

“I want eyes on her route. Traffic cams, storefronts, anything between here and the apartment.”

There’s silence on the other end.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“That’s—illegal. And you know that.”

“I don’t care.”

The words come too fast. Too easy.

Because the truth is, he doesn’t.

Not when it comes to you.

There’s a long pause.

Then, quieter, “This is exactly the kind of thing you said you didn’t want to become.”

Bucky closes his eyes.

He knows.

God, he knows.

But all he can picture is your phone ringing in an empty room. Your keys dropped somewhere they shouldn’t be. The sound of your voice cut off mid-sentence.

He swallows hard.

“I won’t sit here and do nothing.”

“You don’t know you’re doing nothing,” Sam pushes. “You know she’s not answering her phone. That’s it.”

“That’s enough.”

Another silence.

He can feel the edge of himself sharpening, slipping into something colder, something more decisive. Orders forming. Contacts lining up in his head. The quiet, terrifying certainty that if he just makes one call, he can have people moving within minutes.

Find her.

Now.

“Buck,” Sam says again, softer this time, “give it ten more minutes.”

Ten minutes.

It feels like an eternity.

It feels like a risk he can’t afford.

He opens his mouth to argue and then his phone buzzes.

Everything stops.

His breath. His thoughts. The entire goddamn world.

Your name lights up the screen.

Calling.

He answers on the first ring.

“Hey, baby!” you say, bright and completely unaware. “Sorry, my phone died—I just got to the car and found my charger. You would not believe the line at—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“Where are you.”

It comes out sharper than he means it to. Rough. Almost frantic.

There’s a pause.

“Uh… parking lot?” you say, confused. “Why?”

He presses a hand to his face, dragging it down slowly, trying to get his breathing under control.

“You didn’t answer,” he says, quieter now. “I called.”

“Oh my god,” you breathe, realization dawning. “Buck, I’m sorry—I didn’t even realize how long it had been. I’m okay. I promise.”

You’re okay.

The tension in his chest loosens all at once, leaving something shaky in its wake.

“You sure?” he asks, softer now.

“Yes,” you say gently. “I’m literally just sitting here. Nothing dramatic. No kidnappings. No conspiracies.”

A weak huff of laughter escapes him despite himself.

“Don’t joke about that.”

“Sorry,” you murmured, voice turning fond. “Did you get worried?”

He hesitates.

Because the truth is ugly.

Because the truth is that he was seconds away from turning his office into a surveillance hub. From pulling strings he swore he’d never touch again.

“Yeah,” he admits finally. “A little.”

There’s a soft pause.

Then, warmer, “I’ll come home, okay? We can order takeout. I’ll even let you pick.”

He leans back against the elevator wall, eyes closing.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, come home.”

He hangs up and stares at the dark screen.

His reflection looks steadier than he feels.

Because for a second there, just a second, he’d been ready to burn the line between who he was and who he’s trying to be.

All for you.

And that terrifies him more than anything.