Did you just say you made an educated fucking wish?
@hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall
Polish / Pretend to know how to write / I'd do anything for chocolate chips cookies Masterlist
AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imtheonetheycallme/works
Hey! I’m a big fan of The Staff because it’s very different from most congressman au fics where they just acknowledge their feelings or they worked at a different job and Bucky is their boyfriend. This one blew my mind because they went public.
I sincerely hope this doesn’t come off as rude or offensive but I am so sorry to say that the interaction with Alessia irked me. I know Alessia’s not central to the plot and she’s the reminder that reader’s feelings ARE reciprocated and people notice their chemistry but it rubbed me the wrong way. I guess it might be because she sounded haughty? Or it felt intrusive to me especially when her and reader didn’t really interact and Alessia came off as if giving reader her permission to act on her feelings for Bucky.
But I love how reader withdrew in on herself when Bucky made the terrible mistake of calling her as just staff because I tend to withdraw too haha. I also love the slow burn and how Bucky tries to show up everyday. But yeah, this is just a really great read!
Oh god this is really wow! Thank you ♥️
And of course not it doesn't come off as rude, I love when readers interact with my writing. I wanted Alessia to be seen as a woman of power. She wasn't evil in any way. She knew what she wanted and she knew associating with Bucky would give it to her. But as I mentioned, she wasn't a bad person. People talk and she saw more than others so she spoke when others wouldn't.
Maybe I haven't portrayed that well enough, so I'm sorry, but thank you for pointing it out?
I think the craziest thing that happened in hannibal nbc has to be hannibal's schedule because my man was out there murdering people, eating them all while going unnoticed, working full time as a psychiatrist, playing several instruments + composing music, working with the FBI to lead them away from him, flirt with the guy trying to catch him, have random hookups, cook michelin star worthy meals, host dinner parties, go to the opera, frame the guy he fell in love with for his own crimes, go to therapy (more like yap about his crush to bedelia), spend several hours a week at the swimming pool, spend hours on tattlecrime reading about himself and that's not even all of it je lui tire mon chapeau like we say in french oh yes right he also speaks multiple languages!
Summary You share something with Dean that an ex used to say to you. Leave it to a Winchester to tickle the truth out of you. Kind of literally.
CWs Dean being his most charming self. Casual sex. Dumb exes. Squirting. Dean talkin' filth. Lots and lots of bodily fluids.
18+. 1.6k words
AN Something short and sweet to start us off! Welcome, my darlings! ❤️
Smutober prompt Squirting
Smutober masterlist ⏐ Dean Winchester masterlist
“And that’s the thing,” witness number 5 says, not bothering to keep his gaze off your cleavage even for a second. “I like a chick who’s insatiable. Who wants to keep going even after we’ve gone over and over, you know?” He chuckles, looking into your eyes for the first time.
“Uh huh,” you say, wondering how the hell you got from talking about the last time anybody saw the victim alive to talking about this asshole’s preference in regards to chicks. Remember what Sam said, you tell yourself. Punching witnesses bad. Punching witnesses bad. Punching witnesses–
“A wild cat, kinda,” he continues and you need to physically restrain yourself from rolling your eyes and relocating his nose a couple inches deeper into his head. “Just can’t get enough, the little –”
“And that’ll be all, Mr., uhm…” you say, looking down at your notes. “Ambrose. Thanks for the info.” You throw a look over his shoulder at Dean, but not quickly enough to miss the douchebag in front of you fucking winking.
Four hours later, and you’re throwing your head back to down another shot. The glass lands on the table with a loud thud, and you suppress a violent burp.
“Jesus Christ!” you groan over the loud music being played in the bar, bringing up your hand to brush it over your forehead. “What is wrong with these people?”
Dean pushes your new beer towards you and you reach for it, shaking your head.
“They get someone who listens to them and they think you’re their shrink,” Dean says, taking a sip from his own beer.
“But still, they just tell on themselves,” you say, the mask of disgust slowly turning into a grin. You lean forward, one arm going out to steady yourself a little. Maybe the last two shots were a bit of a mistake. “This one guy, the sleazy one? He told me…”
You laugh, feeling some heat rise to your cheeks, but this is Dean. If anyone’s gonna love this story, it’s him.
“He told me all the women he has sex with are insatiable,” you continue, dramatically emphasizing the last word. “No matter how many rounds they went. Or he went, I guess.”
Dean’s eyebrows go up and the corners of his mouth quirk up in one of those endlessly charming smiles he has.
“Is that right?” he says, his voice all scratchy and curious.
“Yeah,” you say, regaining some of your composure. “I have this feeling he was getting insatiable and unsatisfied mixed up.” Dean scoffs, then chuckles.
“Some people just love oversharing,” he says, lips pouty. “Or maybe that’s what he was into? Like those guys that like it when you laugh at their dicks?” Now it’s your turn to raise your eyebrows.
“Dean!” you say and he laughs, evidently loving that he was able to surprise you. You shake your head, pick at the label on your bottle. “Well, can’t ever do it right, that’s what I learned. As a woman, I mean. Either you’re not coming often enough, or you’re too fast or too slow or you’re too loud, too… enthusiastic.”
Dean’s just taking a sip of his beer and he puts the bottle down with a frown.
“Sweetheart,” he says, “I don’t think there’s a man on this planet would complain about that last one.” You give an awkward chuckle, shift around on your stool.
“You’d be surprised,” you mutter, brushing some hair behind your ear, looking down at the table. You only look up when you notice Dean leaning back. He’s studying you, an unreadable expression on his face.
“You’re serious?” he says. “What kind of douchebag–”
“My ex,” you interrupt him. Maybe you really shouldn’t have had those two last shots, but damn, it feels good to talk to someone about it. “He found it off-putting, said I got too…”
You look into Dean’s eyes and he’s looking back and all of a sudden, it feels like there’s something in the air between you, something fiery and heated, like a gas leak someone held a match to, something that makes your breath catch in your throat. Could be the shots. Could be, well, just Dean.
“Wet,” you finish what you were saying. Dean’s eyes narrow just the tiniest bit, and then there’s that smile again.
“Not gonna lie,” he says, voice a little lower as he leans in again. “But I’m kinda itchin’ to see that for myself.”
Dean rolls the two of you so you’re on top of him and you push yourself up, hands on his chest, before you continue fucking yourself down on him at the same pace he just picked - which is fast and relentless. There’s loud, desperate sounds coming from your throat every time Dean’s cock hits that magical spot inside you, and for the first time in you can’t remember how long, you’re simply letting them out.
Dean’s not faring much better. He’s vocal, and you had no idea he would be, but it’s a damn nice surprise. One of his hands is on your hip, the other traveling up your side, squeezing the skin. He looks down at where he’s appearing and disappearing inside of you, his mouth dropping open.
“Jesus, fuck, darlin’,” he pants, then looks back up at your face. “You’re fuckin’ drenching me. Fuckin’ sexy.”
You moan loudly, your head dropping back again as another orgasm shakes your body, your toes curling, muscles trembling.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” you cry out as all of you convulses, Dean groaning loudly under you as you keep riding him to prolong your release.
“Sit up, sit up,” he says, just as you’re coming down and your brain barely has the capacity to understand him, and it definitely doesn’t have the capacity to question him, so you do. Dean’s cock slips out of you and just as you’re wondering what the hell he’d want to go and do that for, Dean’s hand moves and then two thick fingers are pressing into you.
You see the tension in his underarm, the tendons and muscles playing, the strength there, and then you don’t see anything because you need to lean your head back and close your eyes as Dean fingerfucks you hard and fast, basically assaulting your g-spot. You nearly scream when another orgasm rips through you, and this time you feel it under you, the wetness, the spread, the all of it, as your stomach clenches and a volley of broken whines leaves you while your brain goes postal. But rather than express the disgust you expect, Dean seems to love it.
“Oh shit,” he presses out as you drop your head forward, try to focus on him, “you’re so fucking gorgeous. That’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.” Your brain is pretty much mush and you try to lower yourself again, but it’s impossible with how your legs have turned to jello. Dean sits up, quickly, toned muscles moving under sweaty skin, and wraps an arm around you, flips you around. Your back meets the mattress, your head hanging off the side and then Dean pushes into your sopping pussy again and goes to town.
Your fingers claw into the thickness of his arms while his other thickness pounds into you. You’re gasping and crying out, no longer chief to your physical reactions. Dean groans loudly over you, then grabs your hip, pushing himself up, switching to smooth, deep, rolled thrusts that make you whimper.
“Look at that,” he says, and blinking him into focus is about as hard as, well, as hard as Dean is. You follow his gaze, see it’s going between your legs. “That’s all you, sweetheart. All for me.”
Dean’s cock is glistening with your wetness when he pulls out, only his head remaining inside of you. There’s also, and your insecurity might return at that if Dean hadn’t fucked it right out of you, a white ring of your arousal at the base of his cock, wrapped around it like a crown, shoved there by his relentless fucking.
“Dean,” you whine, but he’s already positioning himself again. He looks down at you, pretty brow glistening, chest heaving.
“Let’s see how loud you can really be,” he says and rams himself into you so hard you see stars.
Ten minutes later, you’re still on your back, but Dean’s lying next to you. You can feel his spendings slowly dripping out of you, and you’re almost certain you’re gonna have to burn those sheets you’re lying on, though they might be too drenched to actually catch fire. Dean is catching his breath, completely out of it, while your heartbeat is still roaring loud in your ears.
He groans, turns his head towards you.
“I think I got third degree burns on my johnson,” he mumbles and you snort, then give a lazy laugh. He smiles at you, looking blissfully fucked-out.
“Tell me about it,” you reply. Dean pushes himself up with a groan, but it’s only to roll closer to you.
“So,” he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows, “still feeling insatiable? Or unsatisfied?” You raise your hand, run it over his shoulder and then his back, as far down to his absolutely delectable ass as you can without moving the rest of your buzzing body.
“I’m pretty sure,” you reply, “that was my orgasm contingent for the year.” Dean gives you a broad, proud smile, presses a kiss to your shoulder, which must taste salty.
“Anything else your asscrack of an ex complained about?” he asks and you purse your lips, pretend to think.
“There’s a few things I seem to recall,” you say, voice playful and Dean grins, taking your meaning.
“Alright,” he says, slinging his arm over you and pulling you in. “Rest up. Sounds like we got work to do.”
Summary: Letter C for the NSFW alphabet of Bucky Barnes Series.
Warning: MDNI, Smut things, PiV content, kinks, filthy language, sex talk, soft Bucky, Bucky in general, Cum kink
Author's notes: I think I rewrote it like 200000 times... I cannot believe 707 words took me so long to write. I hope you like this guys!
Word Count: 707
The room smells like sweat and skin and him. That sharp, heady mix of sex and warmth clings to the sheets, to your skin, to the air itself. Low light slants in through the curtains, painting the bed in soft gold, catching the sheen of sweat on your bodies. The world feels quiet, hazy, like it’s narrowed down to this one moment - his weight on you, his breath on your neck, the soft thrum of your pulse still racing beneath your skin.
You’re still catching your breath, chest rising and falling in slow, uneven waves. Bucky hovers above you, muscles taut, body still pressed to yours, slick with the heat you made together. Every inch of him touches you; his chest against yours, the scratch of stubble at your jaw, his thighs bracketing your hips.
His eyes don’t leave you. Not for a second. They’re dark, heavy-lidded, but soft. Like you’re the only thing he sees. Like he’s trying to memorize you breath by breath.
You feel him twitch inside you, the last lazy pulses of release fading. He’s still deep, still warm, still there. His weight settles a little more, like he’s sinking into you, melting into the softness of the bed and the shape of your body beneath his.
His metal hand is splayed against your thigh, holding you open with unconscious possessiveness. The other traces up your side, fingers light, reverent, like he’s touching something fragile. “You okay?” he murmurs, voice thick with affection, scratchy with want and the aftermath of it.
You nod, not trusting your voice yet. He smiles at that. Small, private, just for you.
Then he pulls back, slow, careful, just enough to see. His gaze drops between your bodies, and his eyes darken. You can feel it - the warm, wet slip of him starting to spill from you, lazy and slow, and his expression shifts. It’s awe. Pure and raw.
Bucky groans, soft and low, chest rumbling against yours. “Look at that,” he murmurs, not really expecting a response. “Fuck, baby. You’re so pretty like this.”
His hand drags down your belly, fingers tracing the curve of your waist before slipping lower. He pauses, like he needs to take in every detail, then dips between your legs. His touch is warm and gentle, fingers gliding through the slick mess of you both.
He watches your face as he gathers it up, two fingers slow and deliberate. Then, without a word, he pushes it back in; soft, steady pressure that makes you arch into him - breath catching.
“Gotta keep it in,” he says, voice rough, eyes on yours. “You feel that? Still so full of me.”
You whimper, hips twitching under the weight of his hand, overstimulated and open but not wanting him to stop.
He leans down and kisses you. Slow. Deep. His mouth moves like he means it. Like he wants to taste every sound you made for him. The heat of it rolls through you again, even in the quiet after. His tongue brushes yours, unhurried, savoring, and he hums against your lips like he’s drunk on you.
When he finally pulls back, it’s just far enough to speak. His words are a breath against your mouth. “You take me so well. Every time, baby. You’re perfect.”
His thumb skims over your inner thigh, painting lazy strokes in the mess he left there. His gaze drops to watch it, like he’s made something beautiful and can’t stop admiring his own work.
Then, quieter, more serious, he adds, “Stay here with me. Just like this. Don’t go anywhere.”
You reach up, brushing your fingers across his cheek, thumb grazing the line of his jaw. The stubble is rough under your touch, grounding. "I’m not going anywhere."
He exhales, a shaky breath that sounds like relief, and leans into your palm. Like he needs to feel that promise in your skin.
He shifts beside you, slow and careful, and curls an arm around your waist, tugging you closer until there’s no space left between your bodies. Your legs tangle, sticky and bare, a mess of warmth and soft exhales.
You close your eyes and feel the beat of his heart against your back, his breath soft at your neck.
✮ pairing: bucky barnes x y/n
✮ summary: bucky forgets what day it is and panics, convinced he missed your anniversary. you remind him what matters most: he’s safe, and he’s yours.
✮ genre: Fluff | Soft Angst | Established Relationship | Clingy Bucky
✮ word count: ~1.3k
✮ author’s note: I was writing this with a blanket over my head like it was a secret spell to summon the softest version of Bucky 😭 He’s just so in love, so overwhelmed by emotion, and you’re the grounding force that makes it all okay. Let this hug you from the inside 💖🫶
✦─────────────✦
You knew he wasn’t due back for another two days.
It was late way too late and you were halfway through brushing your teeth when your phone buzzed. Unknown number, which meant only one thing: secure line.
You answered without thinking, toothbrush still in your mouth
“It’s today, right?” His voice was raw and rushed “The anniversary. I missed it. I’m so sorry, doll, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t forget, I swear, I just didn’t know what day it was—”
He was unraveling in real-time, and you froze in place, blinking toothpaste out of your eye “Bucky,” you mumbled around the toothbrush.
“I’m the worst—”
“James.” Your tone sharpened just enough to cut through the panic. You spat the toothpaste out, heart thudding now for a different reason “It’s not today. It’s tomorrow.”
Silence on the other end. Not even static. Just him, probably staring at nothing with that creased brow and wide eyes like a kicked puppy.
“You sure?” he asked quietly.
“Positive.”
Another breath. Then another. You could hear him piecing himself back together.
“Even if it was today,” you added, voice softer now, “you being safe is literally the best gift I could ever get.”
That did it.
You heard a little sniffle, quickly muffled.
“God, I love you,” he said, voice thick.
“I know.”
And you did. You always had. Even when he was lightyears away on some stupid mission. Even when he forgot the date but remembered you.
“I was gonna bring you those little peach pastries you like,” he mumbled. “But I think I squashed ‘em in my pack.”
“Still the best anniversary ever.”
“Even if I forgot it?”
“Especially if you forgot it. Because I still win.”
“What’d you win?”
“You.”
There was a long pause on his end, and then— “Okay,” he whispered. “I’m coming home early. I need to hug you. Like… bad.”
✦ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader
✦ Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Slow Burn to Softness
✦ Word Count: 2,527
✦ Summary: Bucky hasn't touched pierogi since his mother died not from a lack of offers, but because no one ever got it right. He always refused. Always turned cold. Until you made them one night in the tower kitchen without knowing the weight they carried. And somehow, Bucky didn’t flinch. He ate. And every Avenger was left speechless.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ✦✦ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ✦✦ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
“Don’t.”
Sam paused, hand hovering over the covered plate in the fridge. “What’s this, man? Homemade pierogi?”
“Throw it out,” Bucky muttered, not even looking up from where he was oiling a knife.
Sam frowned. “Damn, okay”
“I said throw it out.”
He didn’t yell. But the bite in Bucky’s voice had the whole kitchen freeze. Nat arched a brow. Steve sighed, quiet and knowing. Wanda gently nudged the plate away from Sam with her powers.
Bucky stood and left without another word. He never ate pierogi.
Not on Polish holidays. Not at Wanda’s request. Not even when Steve once found an old photo of the Barnes family, his ma in an apron, flour on her cheek, arms wrapped around little James like he was her whole world.
No one pushed him after that.
Every time someone tried “Just a bite, Buck,” or “I followed an old Brooklyn recipe!” he went quiet. Shut down. Sometimes he pushed the plate away. Once, he dropped it in the trash without blinking.
It wasn’t cruelty. It was grief. That food belonged to someone who was gone. And if it didn’t taste like hers? It didn’t belong at all.
You found that out much later.
It started on a quiet Sunday morning one of those rare Tower days where no one was saving the world, getting blown up, or debating who left dishes in the sink.
You’d wandered into the kitchen in Bucky’s hoodie, hair messy, socks mismatched, humming some old tune you didn’t even realize he’d once loved.
And you cooked. No recipe. Just vibes. And memory.
Your grandmother used to make pierogi on slow days like this. The smell of sautéed onions, the dough soft between your palms. You’d learned by watching. Folding. Trying. Failing. Trying again.
You missed her. So you cooked.
Bucky walked in halfway through, towel slung over his shoulder from a morning workout. He stopped short.
You looked over your shoulder with a smile “Morning! You want some? It’s nothing fancy just pierogi, cheese and potato style.”
He froze.
Your smile faltered. “Too early for carbs?”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on the pan.
When he finally spoke, it was quiet “Where’d you learn to make that?”
“My grandma,” you said, gently, sensing something shift. “She used to hum while she folded them. I can’t do them nearly as good, but I try.”
He sat at the island stool slowly, like the weight of the air had changed.
You plated a few for yourself. Then paused “Want one?”
Bucky looked at you. Really looked.
And something in his face broke. Just for a second. He nodded.
You handed him the plate. No expectations. No teasing.
Just… kindness.
He took it with a tremble in his fingers. Watched the steam curl in the sunlight.
Lifted the fork. Took a bite. You didn’t speak. Didn’t even blink.
And when he exhaled like he hadn’t breathed in years you smiled softly and turned back to your coffee.
He finished every bite. The silence was warm. No one else walked in.
The universe held its breath. When he was done, he set the plate down with gentle hands.
“She used to hum that song too,” he said quietly. “While she cooked.”
You blinked. “Your mom?”
He nodded. “I haven’t eaten these since she died.”
You swallowed hard “Did I… was it okay?”
Bucky looked at you then. Like you’d done the impossible “You made it like hers.”
🫶 Later That Day…
The team found out at dinner. Sam screamed “You ATE THE PIEROGI?”
Nat actually dropped her fork. “Wait—he ate them?!”
Steve looked like he’d seen a ghost “He hasn’t touched them since 1943”
Wanda’s eyes went wide. “Did you make them exactly like his mom?”
“Nope,” you said simply, grinning at Bucky. “I made them like mine.”
He didn’t say anything. Just reached for your hand under the table. And held it like it was something sacred.
Prompt: "Pet Sitting" Day 2 of @flufftober
Pairing: TFATWS Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word Count: 6.3k
Synopsis: When Bucky Barnes needs to leave town for work, he turns to a pet-sitting app to keep his stubborn cat Alpine company. He expects scratched furniture, daily guilt, and a frazzled sitter, but what he gets is daily photo updates, a blossoming connection, and the warmest surprise of all: maybe he’s finally ready to trust again.
Tags/Warnings: Alpine mention! (duh), awkward flirting, Sam Wilson, bookworm reader, canon divergence from TFATWS show to fit my narrative, Bucky falls first and hard
Flufftober 2025 | Main Masterlist | AO3
There truly was an app for everything. At least, that’s what Bucky had deduced after spending the better part of his day trying to figure out how to hire someone to keep his cat alive.
When Sam Wilson had called with a new lead on the Flag Smashers, Bucky had said yes before he even really thought about it. Normally, he would have been on a jet to wherever he was needed to stop the anti-nationalist supervillains immediately.
But now? Now he had Alpine. A small, white cat he had adopted when his therapist said he needed connection. Something warm that didn’t involve punching people in the face and a companionship that wasn’t born out of a battle.
So why did it feel like such a battle to figure out how to save his sanity and furniture? Because he was not about to leave his cat alone with a bowl of food and a promise that he might be back in a week. Sam didn’t even know how long he would need to be gone.
And now here he sat, scrolling through an app called ‘Rover’ that Sam had deemed ”Tinder, but for animals”. Which already filled Bucky with dread considering his track record with the dating app. Nevermind that his cat was like him in the way she didn’t much care for strangers. So this almost felt like picking out a victim that was going to have to deal with her mood swings.
“What about this one?” Bucky asked Alpine, turning his phone so she could see a photo of a sitter. He figured that if whoever was going to be tasked with watching her, she may as well have some input. Maybe then she wouldn’t tear them to shreds. Not that she could really answer save for a slow blink, a flick of her tail, or an unimpressed yawn. She sniffed the phone, but the look of disgust was unmistakable in those bright blue eyes.
Bucky sighed again, continuing his scrolling. “We’ll have to pick someone you know. I can’t leave you alone. Not because I don’t trust you, but someone has to make sure you don’t starve or dehydrate while I’m gone.”
Alpine stretched her paws out in front of her, tail in the air curled like a question mark before hopping up to snuggle onto Bucky’s lap. She watched his thumb flick across the screen, ears perked high like she was now just as invested. Until she let out a quick mmrp and tapped her paws on his thighs.
“Her?” Bucky asked, pausing on a picture of a woman, a giant smile on her face as she cradled a dark grey cat and a golden-colored puppy in her arms. She had hundreds of glowing reviews, something called ‘Star Sitter Status’, and over 10 years of experience.
She was also – Bucky held the phone closer to his face – yeah, okay, she was kind of attractive. The kind that made something defrost in his chest.
“I really need to get out more,” he muttered. “Getting flustered by a woman holding an animal and talking to you like you can actually answer me.”
Alpine kneaded her paws again like she was confirming both his statement and choice of sitter.
“Alright, you know best.” He murmured, scratching behind her ears and already typing out a message.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
There hadn’t been time for a meet-and-greet – whatever that meant – not with Sam basically breathing down Bucky’s neck that their window for this lead was rapidly shrinking. You, thankfully, hadn’t seemed fazed. Bucky initially apologized for the awful timing, sending over a picture of Alpine as a bargaining chip, asking if you had any last-minute openings. You had responded nearly immediately.
Oh, she’s adorable! I had a cancellation last week, so the timing is actually perfect. I’d love to take care of her.
After a bit of back and forth that mostly consisted of payment methods and shot records, Bucky ended up standing outside a stranger’s apartment with Alpine in her carrier, and a duffel bag packed like he was expecting to be gone months instead of just a week. The guilt nagging at the back of his mind as he felt more like a deadbeat cat parent abandoning his fluffy child to someone he only knew through text message.
The door swung open to reveal you in an oversized blue pastel sweater and leggings, and a smile warm enough to melt asphalt. “Hi there!” you said brightly. Confident and friendly, like you’d known Bucky and his cat forever instead of less than 24 hours.
“You must be James, and this must be Alpine.” Your voice had a calming lilt, breezy and dangerously charming as you bent slightly to peer into the carrier.
You stepped aside so he could enter. The apartment was bright and cozy, pastels just like your sweater dotted every throw pillow, blanket, and fuzzy accent. Bucky hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t this much color or comfort. His apartment barely had a rug and a couch. But here? Every spot had a soft place to curl up.
“I set up a space for her by the window, a lot of the cats I care for like to watch the birds in the garden.” You added casually, closing the door behind him.
Bucky nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction as he took in the space. He loosened his iron grip on the carrier once he realized it was creaking under stress. The quiet warmth of this place was the complete opposite of the dreary New York City sidewalk. It smelled like vanilla and citrus, like someone had just baked and then did a deep clean. There was a faint hum of music, something soft and instrumental, that made it feel less like a stranger’s apartment and more like an upscale spa reception area.
A cream colored cat tree was set up right where you pointed, bowls were laid out along with a host of pillows. A basket of toys proclaimed “A house isn’t a home without a pet” in calligraphy in the corner.
“If you want to set the carrier down, and open it, we can talk while she gets acquainted with her surroundings.” The suggestion was gentle, with a confidence that may have been misguided considering the fluffy menace in the carrier wasn’t reacting the way Bucky had expected. He was fully prepared for mewling and screeching, though this could be the calm before the storm.
Still, Bucky did as instructed, maybe grimacing more than he meant to as the hinges to the carrier creaked open. “She…really doesn’t like strangers.”
And she really didn’t. He’d seen full-grown men flinch when Alpine got into one of her territorial moods. So Bucky was bracing himself for the worst.
You smiled, relaxed and completely nonchalant, “That’s okay, I get it. It’s weird being in a new place. I’m sure we’ll be the best of friends by the time you come pick her up. How long were you going to be gone again?”
Bucky rubbed at the back of his neck, “I know I said a week, but my…work trip may get extended.” He hadn’t wanted to tell a stranger where he was going or what he was doing. He figured a small white lie was best instead of saying ‘I’m going to go do some illegal shit and get shot at.’
Nodding, “That’s fine, just let me know. I have another client coming in 10 days, so if you’re still out I’ll make sure to keep them separate. And I work from home so I’ll always be around. Any medications or special instructions?”
He cleared his throat, now sheepish as he produced a paper with everything he thought you would need to know. Alpine had been kept on a strict schedule ever since Bucky had adopted her, finding it grounded him. “Figured this was easier. I know it’s kind of a lot,” he muttered, suddenly self-conscious. “The schedule helps…both of us, I guess.”
To his surprise, you didn’t laugh or tease him. Instead, your eyes lit up, taking it, but Bucky had noticed Alpine creeping out of her carrier. She padded right to your feet, sniffing at the socks you were wearing. He held his breath, waiting for the flurry of scratches and yowling, the puffed tail, or for her to bolt back into the carrier.
But it never came.
Alpine weaved around your legs like she had known you forever. And you? You stood unbothered as you read through the care instructions.
“Promise I’m not ignoring her,” you said without looking up, like you could sense his question before he even asked. “With cats I always try to have them investigate me on their own terms before I start showing affection. I’m just letting her warm up to me first.”
“Smart.” Even though Bucky didn’t know if it was or not. Too busy transfixed on the way your lips barely formed the words as you read silently. He shoved his hands back into his jacket pockets, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from drifting over your face.
“Food and everything in the bag?” You asked, looking down as Alpine brushed her head against your calf, leaving a streak of white hair on your leggings.
“Extra in case I am gone longer.”
You bent at the knees then, sitting on the ground. “I wish all my clients were as prepared as you.” Your smile could disarm a nuke with the softness behind it. Bucky grappled with the strange surge of feelings pushing behind his ribs. And then Alpine hopped into your lap, curling instantly against your thighs, and purring loud enough Bucky was sure the neighbors could hear.
“See?” You offered, two fingers lightly stroking down Alpine’s fur. “No longer strangers.”
Bucky was rendered speechless at the sight of his cat who had hissed and puffed up at anyone he brought into his apartment laying in your lap as the picture of contentment. A part of him felt relieved, that this wasn’t going to end up with you – a complete stranger – bloodied from sharp claws and teeth. But the other part? Softened completely at the sight of Alpine burrowing deeper into your arms like she’d known you her entire life.
Your arms shifted under Alpine’s body, scooping her up as you easily came back to standing. “We’ll be fine, I promise. I’ll send you updates, even hourly if you like. And if anything goes wrong, which it won’t, the first call will be to the vet, the second will be to you on the way to said vet.”
“Thanks.” Bucky fidgeted with the edge of his leather jacket, not sure if he should just…leave or stay to make sure Alpine wasn’t going to pull a complete bait and switch. You noticed the way he was lingering by the door awkwardly immediately.
“You want a minute to say goodbye?” You offered, holding her out to him.
“What?”
“To Alpine.” You grinned, lifting one of her paws. “I can step into the kitchen, let you have a moment. There’s no shame in crying, I totally get it.”
Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier. Was not going to cry as he dropped off his cat. His eyes were just…a little scratchy from the scent of vanilla. That was it.
Alpine let out a soft mmrp, completely unbothered as you handed her back to Bucky. “Just yell if you need a hug after.” You winked, disappearing into the kitchen like that was the most normal thing to offer a man with a vibranium arm and what Sam called ‘a resting murder’ face.
Bucky didn’t even dignify that with a response. Mostly because no one had offered him something like that in a long time, and the softness behind it had caught him completely off guard. It wasn’t with a trace of pity, more like…you actually cared about him too, not just his cat. Maybe you just weren’t aware of who he was. Instead of pondering too long on what an actual hug would feel like from someone who seemed to be sunshine personified, he scratched Alpine one last time behind the ears. “You be good, okay? I don’t want to hear how you became a terror after I’m gone.”
She yawned like she’d already forgotten who he was, and hopped down from his arms, trotting off to wherever you disappeared.
“She’s in good hands, I promise.” You reassured again, returning to the entry way, Alpine hot on your heels like a white magnet.
Bucky hesitated at the door still, fingers hovering just over the doorknob. He glanced back, not at Alpine this time, but at you. It had been a long time since he’d left something – or someone – he cared about in another person’s hands. Let alone a stranger. But something about the way you were looking back, casual and steady, made the guilt that had been in his chest loosen.
Then his gaze drifted, looking at how his normally standoffish cat sat obediently beside your feet, gazing up at you like she picked her new favorite human, Bucky couldn’t help but believe you when you said everything would be fine.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
The first few updates Bucky got from you were standard. Or…at least he guessed they were. He wasn’t sure what the protocol was in this situation. But you sent things along as promised to show that Alpine was settling in nicely. A picture of her, lounging on the cat tree by the window with the caption: ‘The queen has claimed her throne.’
A short video of her cautiously sniffing a piece of salmon you were cooking. Typical cat things. Though now he was mildly concerned he’d have to start buying fish to keep her happy.
Now, he was halfway around the world, holed up in a warehouse that reeked of mildew and rust. Sam was at a makeshift table, covered in blueprints and dossiers muttering to himself. Bucky was meant to be keeping watch. And he was, leaning near a window, eyes on the quiet street, trying to catalog anything remotely out of place. Until his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he just had to check it immediately.
A selfie. You and Alpine curled up on the couch, her paws mashed into your jawline and a smug expression on her face, while you looked a little helpless and amused. You’d captioned it: ‘She’s refusing to move. Guess I’m stuck until dinner at 5 pm sharp.’
Another ping.
‘Also, she loves instrumental jazz. Didn’t expect her to have such good taste in music. She may wear out some of my records by the end of this.’
Bucky exhaled through his nose. Not quite a laugh, and closer to it than he’d like to admit.
He scrolls back to look at the photo longer than necessary. Not at Alpine who was really meant to be the focus of it. But at you. How you had a halo of soft light around your shoulders, hair a little messy, and an oversized hoodie. There was a record player in the background, a little blurry, but Bucky could make out a few of them. Chet Baker, Ella Fitzgerald, John Coltrane. He really didn’t expect that. You with your pastel colors and sunshine smile screamed bubblegum pop music, not old jazz.
It didn’t match, and that somehow made whatever feeling Bucky was having about these updates worse. Or better, he wasn’t sure yet.
Another ping, another photo. This time, a close-up of Alpine who had buried her body halfway inside your hoodie, paws sticking, and her head pushed into your chin. The caption read: ‘Resistance was futile.’
And maybe it was the fact that Bucky knew once Alpine got comfortable she was an immovable object that got him. Or maybe it was finally having someone else know what that feels like that knocked something loose behind his ribs. But he smiled, full and unguarded.
Across the room, Sam’s head snapped up. “What was that?”
Bucky didn’t move, schooling his features back into his normal glower. “What was what?”
“That little…smirk.” Sam stood then, waving a pen in his general direction. “You’re smiling. We’re about to infiltrate a den of mercenaries and you’re smiling about it.”
“I’m not smiling.”
“You are too, is this a cat thing?”
Bucky pocketed his phone, “Just focus on making the plan, Wilson.”
“Who could you possibly be texting? Last I checked you only had like three numbers. And none of them should put that big of a smile on your face.”
He clenched his jaw, “I’m getting updates about Alpine. That’s it.”
“Oh, since when did Alpine learn to text?”
“I’m not – ” Bucky sighed, running a hand over his hair. “Just…let it go.”
Sam narrowed his eyes, “You’re acting weird.”
“I am not.”
“She’s cute isn’t she? That’s the issue, you picked an attractive sitter.”
“Alpine picked her.”
Sam chuckled, “Whatever you gotta tell yourself man.”
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
The mission in Madripoor took a toll, both physically and mentally, and somewhere deeper Bucky didn’t want to even name. Zemo’s plan to infiltrate Selby’s bar to get information had worked, sure, but it had meant slipping back into a version of himself he’d worked so hard to bury.
That part didn’t necessarily scare him. What did was how easy it was without the trigger words. That even without the Winter Soldier programming, violent instincts still lingered.
Bucky found himself scrolling through the updates he had missed, the room dissolving around him while Zemo and Sam argued about their next steps.
The most recent one was a photo of Alpine, but just her little white ears sticking out of the duffel bag Bucky had brought her supplies in. The caption read: ‘She found the snacks. I had to move them, but…she can also open drawers.’
“See? He’s texting his cat again.” Sam’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Can you focus up, man?”
“Again, I’m getting updates about my cat. She’s just…giving the sitter a hard time.” Bucky tried to make it sound casual. Like he wasn’t using these little check-ins and updates to keep himself tethered to something that wasn’t sharp and riddled with blood. Something normal despite how his day had gone.
He thumbed back up to a previous picture. You had Alpine swaddled tightly in the blanket Bucky had brought, only her nose and barely one paw sticking out, eyes half open. Her head was tipped back, looking up at the camera with adoration. ‘One of the only ways I could keep her from gorging herself in the treat drawer. But she seems to like it when I hold her, more so when I sing her lullabies.’
And just when Bucky was about to put his phone away, a new photo came in. You, curled up on the floor beside the cat tree. A book was open on your lap, and Alpine was perched like she was reading along with you. The angle wasn’t great, like you’d balanced your phone on the coffee table, but Bucky could just make out the title. The Hobbit. Well-worn and curling along the edges from use. You captioned it with: ‘Story time is mandatory in this household. She picked this one out herself. We’re starting a new chapter tonight.’
Bucky stared at the photo longer than he meant to. Not at Alpine this time, though it was cute how she seemed so invested. But at the way your fingers held open the book. At the way the light from the window provided a soft, dreamy glow to your figure. At the fact that you even owned a copy of The Hobbit, let alone one that looked like it had been read so often.
He was certain he had had you figured out, but the more accidental glimpses he caught into your life, the more he realized how wrong he was. The fact that you liked jazz. Enough to have vinyl records of albums. The fact that you were reading to his cat from one of his favorite books without even knowing.
He opened the message field, poised to type something. But the words just wouldn’t flow from his brain to his thumbs. He clenched his jaw, rolling his shoulders out like he could work the words free somehow. Started with: “She likes fantasy stories. What do you think of it?”
He deleted it with a grimace. Obviously you liked it or you wouldn’t have such a well-worn copy. You were watching his cat. He shouldn't want to ask about the book like it was a normal conversation with a normal person in a normal life. But that’s what you somehow felt like. A snapshot of a life that had nothing to do with mercenaries or war criminals or super soldier serum.
'Good choice. That’s one of my favorites too.'
Deleted that too. Because why would you care?
Eventually, he settled on 'Thanks for the updates. Looks like she’s having a great time.' Before locking his phone and letting it rest on his knee.
Zemo looked up from where he was lounging with a drink. “You have the smile of a man caught between two worlds.”
Bucky groaned, “Stop talking, Zemo.”
“I’m only observing, James. You have a particular softness in your eyes I never really thought possible from a man who just punched his way through a bar. It’s easier to smile for people who don’t know your sins, no?”
Bucky felt a muscle in his eye twitch. “You’re just really itching to get thrown back in prison, huh?”
Sam snorted from the corner. “Are you two done? We’ve got leads to chase. Sharon says she knows where Dr. Nagel is.”
Bucky said nothing in response, tucking his phone back into his pocket. But not before he stole one last glance at the photo. You and Alpine in the warm halo of afternoon light. A quiet reminder that maybe the world wasn’t as far gone as he’d been made to believe.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
“Can’t believe he pulled an El Chapo.” Sam muttered, staring at the open hole in the tiled bathroom.
“Yeah? I can.” Bucky sighed, still reeling from the fight with the Dora Milaje. He had tried to keep it civil, tried to act as a mediator, but when the Wakandan guards want something, there’s usually no sense in fighting back.
He found himself rolling his vibranium arm at the shoulder, testing to make sure it was still attached. He shouldn’t have been that stupid to think this piece of weaponry didn’t also come with stipulations. But having a person he trusted show that they had a fail safe if anything went wrong messed with his head a little bit. That even though he wasn’t the person he used to be, people still treated him like he was.
“I’m gonna make a call,” Bucky called over his shoulder as Sam typed out a message to Joaquin, who he thought would have some new leads.
He opened the messaging app, a new update from you had just come across. Alpine sitting on the cat tower, one paw pressed against the glass at a blurred spot of color in front of her. ‘She made a new friend today. Didn’t get a good picture, but it’s cardinal. Only hissed at it once.’
His thumbs hovered over the letters to type out some message. Anything to form a connection. Asking for another update, but that felt too demanding. You’d been amazing at sending photos and updates so far, he didn’t want you to think you weren’t doing enough. He did, however, see the little green icon next to ‘Online’. An option for ‘video chat’ was right next to it.
Leaning against a brick wall and out of the sunlight, he hesitated. He just wanted that glimpse into that life. Something that wasn’t life or death to counteract the thoughts pingponging around his brain. He hits the button before he can continue second guessing it and the one thread he can pull to ground himself goes offline. He didn’t know what he was hoping to get from this. Just…something steady. Someone who didn’t look at him like a time bomb or a weapon.
“Oh, hey! I was just about to send you an update saying Alpine was about to get tucked in for bed, but this works too.”
Your face filled the screen, only the glow of fairylights behind you. A soft shuffling followed by an unimpressed mmrp could be heard as you adjusted the screen. “Sorry, it’s dark in here, I was just about to head to bed.” Followed by the flicking of lights one by one until Alpine could be seen, cozied up in a makeshift box under a canopy of pastel sheets.
“I built her a little fort today,” you continue, likely trying to fill the silence as Bucky just…watches. Mostly in awe of how calm Alpine looked, her tail flicking lazily in the soft glow of the room. “But she hated having her cat bed in there, so…random box it was.”
You turned the camera slightly to show Alpine more, curled up in a perfect loaf inside the cardboard box you had lined with pillows. Again, Bucky could hear the soft jazz playing in the background. Something he couldn’t quite place, but gentle and melodic.
“She misses you,” you added gently, fingers scratching behind Alpine’s ears. “She keeps going to the door like she’s waiting for you to come back. Paces a little just before dinner. But the second I start preparing her food, she’s racing to the kitchen.”
A small throb pulsed behind Bucky’s ribs. He leaned further into the brick wall, tucking his chin down to try to hide the look on his face. He wasn’t even sure what the feeling he was having was. Fondness? Heartache?
You hesitated before speaking again. “So, how's the work trip?”
That did something that somehow caught him off guard. You asked like you cared. No agenda. No digging for leads. Just…asked unprovoked. He studied you for half a second, “It’s…fine. Just been a long day.”
“We’ve all been there. But Alpine will be here ready to bug you for salmon when you get back. I really shouldn’t have given it to her. That’s on me.”
Bucky tried to respond, but words seemed to fail him. Eventually he settled for a quiet: “Thanks.”
He stared at the video on the screen, Alpine, purring loud enough to be heard over the tinny speaker quality curled in her stupid little box fort, and you beside her. No expectations behind your expression – well, maybe just the promise to come pick up his cat – just…there.
He rubbed the back of his neck, forcing out a laugh. “Alpine’s really out here getting the royal treatment isn’t she?”
You chuckled in response, “Only the best for the princess. But don’t worry, I’m charging her ‘meowster’ card for the additional fees.”
That earned the closest thing to a laugh Bucky had managed in days.
“Glad to hear it’s at least going through, they must have upped her limit.”
You devolved into laughter then, with Alpine turning away from you with an unamused expression.
“Anyway, I should let you go.” Bucky said, seeing Sam waving at him from the door. “I just wanted to actually see if she was behaving or if she was holding you hostage and making you send those updates.”
“She’s been a perfect angel.” You reassured. “I’ll send more pictures in the morning.”
“Thanks.” Bucky said before ending the call.
Sam walked up, a quizzical look on his face. “Were you flirting with her? Is that what that was? If we weren’t having to chase leads, I’d be flabbergasted.”
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
The sun was dipping low on the Louisiana horizon, casting golden streaks across the dock. Bucky sat on an overturned bucket, a wrench flipping loosely through his fingers as he looked out over the water. Sam was beside him, leaning back on his elbows, eyes closed in the sunshine.
The day had been filled with boat repairs and dancing around the looming fact that the Flagsmashers were still out there, and that all of their leads had dried up. The least Bucky thought he could do while Alpine was safe in your care was make sure Sam, his sister, and his nephews stayed safe until something came up after the threats on their life.
His phone buzzed in his back pocket. He pulled it out, already knowing who it was. Another update from you. This time, a video of Alpine batting at a feathered toy that twitched in response to something you had hooked onto her collar. A familiar mmrp and the scratching of claws on hardwood echoed from the speakers.
“Sorry, I had to keep her distracted somehow. I was in the middle of an email and she deleted the whole thing. She’s kind of an attention hog.” Your voice flowed out.
Bucky bit back a smile before typing out a message in response. ‘Sorry, she gets like that. Hope it wasn’t anything too important.’
Your reply came quickly: ‘Nah, I’ll survive. Hope you’re doing okay.’
Bucky stared at the message longer than he meant to. The water lapped quietly at the dock while cicadas hummed somewhere in the trees behind them. A part of him wanted to say more, do something more for you after Alpine had disrupted your day.
He typed out a message ‘I really owe you dinner or something for putting up with her for this long.’
No, that seemed too forward. Delete.
‘I know a good salmon spot.’
What was he doing, asking out a grizzly bear? Delete.
He let out a frustrated sigh and leaned back, squinting into the light like the sun was the main source of his problems. This wouldn't have been an issue in the 40s. That version of him would have already asked you out and he knew it. The issue was technology.
Then, with as much forced casualness as he could muster – because he definitely hadn’t been rehearsing the question in his head for days – Bucy asked, “Hey…how do I ask out my cat sitter without it being weird?”
Sam’s eyes snapped open. He turned toward Bucky slowly, eyebrows raised. “You’re asking me for dating advice?”
“No, I can get by on my own.”
Sam barked a laugh. “Clearly not if you can’t even figure out how to ask her on a date.”
“There’s too many rules nowadays.” Bucky muttered, running his hand over his hair. “I can’t figure out how to not sound creepy texting on this thing.”
“Okay, then call her.” Sam said it as if it were that simple and Bucky hadn’t already deleted tens of iterations of ‘let’s go get dinner’. He could only imagine how awkward a phone call would be.
“No, that’s not – look we’ve only talked through cat updates. Is that enough of a connection to ask someone to dinner?”
“Well, do you want to ask her?”
As if summoned by the mere notion of romantic idiocy, Sarah Wilson appeared. “You two are just getting nowhere fast.”
She stepped down onto the dock with a tray of lemonade, raising one brow as she caught the tail end of the conversation. “What’s this about a cat sitter?”
Sam grinned, “Bucky’s got a little crush and he’s trying to act like it’s a hostage negotiation.”
Sarah nodded at the phone still in Bucky’s hand. “You like her?”
Bucky nodded, half-shrugging, the tips of his ears now turning pink.
“Then stop overthinking it and just ask her to dinner.” She waved a hand at him. “You’re a grown man. And she’s clearly into cats, so there’s your icebreaker.”
“But do it when you pick up Alpine,” she added, pointing a finger at him as she set the tray down. “Women like a face to face thing. Plus that way, if she says no, she can’t just dump your cat somewhere.”
“She wouldn’t do that.” Bucky defended immediately, turning the device over in his palm.
“Oh you’re so far gone, Barnes.” Sam chuckled, sipping on a drink. “You sure talk like you know her already.”
“I’m going to push you into the water,” Bucky grumbled, rewatching the short clip on mute.
Sarah huffed a laugh, “You’re both hopeless.” She turned then, and headed back towards the house. All the while muttering something about the “men” under her breath.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
The Flagsmashers had been dealt with, all either arrested or…otherwise indisposed. The world, for once, didn’t feel like it was actively ending. And Bucky finally had the space to breathe again.
Which meant it was time to go get his cat.
He didn’t send much when he let you know he was ready to pick Alpine up.
‘Alpine’s going to be mad when I mess up her new schedule isn’t she?’
Your reply came almost instantly. ‘She’ll forgive you if you bring extra salmon.’
Now, standing in front of your door again, Bucky shifted from foot to foot, trying to give himself a pep talk. He had salmon – some fresh, some precooked – depending on what kind of night this turned into. He’d debated bringing a classic, like a bouquet of flowers, decided they were too forward, and instead settled on a thank-you gift bag Sarah helped him put together. Chocolate, a pastel pink pair of fuzzy socks, a lint roller because he remembered how Alpine’s fur had clung to your leggings, and a small hand cream in a scent Bucky thought might match the vanilla-citrus of your apartment.
He knocked once, and the door opened immediately. Like you had watched him fidget through your peephole in an effort to calm his racing heart.
You looked just as he remembered. Soft and bright, that sunshine smile still present, but a little more guarded. “She’s been clingy all morning,” you sighed, opening the door wider. “I think she knew you were coming.”
And as if on cue, Alpine strutted lazily into view, stopping two feet from Bucky, and sat down like a statue. No meow. No chirp. Just one very pointed glare and tail swish.
He had expected Alpine to be a bit…disgruntled and standoffish. He had left her a little longer than he had said with a total stranger. But a stranger that she had picked.
Bucky crouched down and reached a hand out, only for her to turn her head and dramatically sigh. But a moment later, she pushed forward, headbutting his knee and letting out a long mmrrrp like she’d absolutely suffered in his absence.
“She missed you,” you said softly.
“I can tell,” Bucky huffed, scratching behind her ears. “She’s laying on the guilt pretty thick.”
He straightened, handing you the gift bag awkwardly. “For you, just a thank you. I know she can be a little demanding.”
You peeked inside, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Is…are these pink fuzzy socks?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping up into his cheeks, “They matched a blanket I saw. In one of the photos. I figured…y’know, you like that color.”
“That’s dangerously observant,” you said, smiling. “Thank you, this wasn’t necessary. She really was great, once she warmed up to me. She just kinda started following me everywhere.”
Bucky glanced down at Alpine, now doing figure-eights around his boots, occasionally sniffing at the other bag in his hand. “She chose you. I was scrolling for ages trying to figure it out until she just…tapped on your picture.”
“Well, she’s welcome anytime.” You hesitated, like you wanted to say more. “Though…hopefully next time it’s just a vacation, not an international incident.”
Bucky must have looked shocked, because for all intents and purposes, you thought he was just on a work trip. He had mentioned nothing of what he was up to. He didn’t even think you knew who he was.
“Saw you on the news with Captain America,” you said sheepishly, shrugging like it was no big deal.
He tilted his head in surprise, “You mean Sam?”
“Yeah,” you said matter-of-factly. “He looked real good in that flying suit. People should stop giving him so much shit about it.”
That landed harder than it should have. Most people were unsure when John Walker was labelled Captain America, and even more people were hesitant and skeptical when they saw Sam holding that shield. You’d just said it like it was obvious, without a shadow of doubt.
Bucky cleared his throat, “I won’t tell him you said that. It’ll go right to his already inflated ego.”
You laughed softly, nodding. “Noted. If I meet him, no more compliments.”
“Yeah,” he chuckled in return. “So…have you eaten yet?”
You blinked in surprise, eyes widening slightly. “No, not yet.”
Bucky lifted the second bag slightly. “There’s some food in here. I did bring extra salmon for Alpine, but also potatoes, broccoli, I think some kind of salad. Sam’s sister sent me off with enough to feed a family of six. I was just gonna reheat it at home, but…if you’re hungry, I thought maybe…”
“Yes,” you said, before he could finish. “I mean, sure. Yeah. Sounds good.”
Bucky relaxed a little, cracking the smallest smile. “Cool.”
Alpine let out a loud, impatient meow from between the two of your feet, rubbing around your ankles. You looked down at the little cat, “I think she either approves, or just wants her salmon.”
“Well, guess we shouldn’t keep her waiting.” Bucky said, nodding towards the kitchen.
“Right,” you agreed, taking the bag from his hand. “But just so we’re clear, I really enjoyed having Alpine around. I might demand visitation rights when I realize I miss her too much.”
Bucky followed, smirking, “We might need to get her approval first, but we can negotiate terms over dinner.”
Please drop a like or comment if you enjoyed! This author thrives off of words of affirmation. :3
Banners & Dividers made by me
Summary: Letter C for the NSFW alphabet of Bucky Barnes Series.
Warning: MDNI, Smut things, PiV content, kinks, filthy language, sex talk, soft Bucky, Bucky in general, Cum kink
Author's notes: I think I rewrote it like 200000 times... I cannot believe 707 words took me so long to write. I hope you like this guys!
Word Count: 707
The room smells like sweat and skin and him. That sharp, heady mix of sex and warmth clings to the sheets, to your skin, to the air itself. Low light slants in through the curtains, painting the bed in soft gold, catching the sheen of sweat on your bodies. The world feels quiet, hazy, like it’s narrowed down to this one moment - his weight on you, his breath on your neck, the soft thrum of your pulse still racing beneath your skin.
You’re still catching your breath, chest rising and falling in slow, uneven waves. Bucky hovers above you, muscles taut, body still pressed to yours, slick with the heat you made together. Every inch of him touches you; his chest against yours, the scratch of stubble at your jaw, his thighs bracketing your hips.
His eyes don’t leave you. Not for a second. They’re dark, heavy-lidded, but soft. Like you’re the only thing he sees. Like he’s trying to memorize you breath by breath.
You feel him twitch inside you, the last lazy pulses of release fading. He’s still deep, still warm, still there. His weight settles a little more, like he’s sinking into you, melting into the softness of the bed and the shape of your body beneath his.
His metal hand is splayed against your thigh, holding you open with unconscious possessiveness. The other traces up your side, fingers light, reverent, like he’s touching something fragile. “You okay?” he murmurs, voice thick with affection, scratchy with want and the aftermath of it.
You nod, not trusting your voice yet. He smiles at that. Small, private, just for you.
Then he pulls back, slow, careful, just enough to see. His gaze drops between your bodies, and his eyes darken. You can feel it - the warm, wet slip of him starting to spill from you, lazy and slow, and his expression shifts. It’s awe. Pure and raw.
Bucky groans, soft and low, chest rumbling against yours. “Look at that,” he murmurs, not really expecting a response. “Fuck, baby. You’re so pretty like this.”
His hand drags down your belly, fingers tracing the curve of your waist before slipping lower. He pauses, like he needs to take in every detail, then dips between your legs. His touch is warm and gentle, fingers gliding through the slick mess of you both.
He watches your face as he gathers it up, two fingers slow and deliberate. Then, without a word, he pushes it back in; soft, steady pressure that makes you arch into him - breath catching.
“Gotta keep it in,” he says, voice rough, eyes on yours. “You feel that? Still so full of me.”
You whimper, hips twitching under the weight of his hand, overstimulated and open but not wanting him to stop.
He leans down and kisses you. Slow. Deep. His mouth moves like he means it. Like he wants to taste every sound you made for him. The heat of it rolls through you again, even in the quiet after. His tongue brushes yours, unhurried, savoring, and he hums against your lips like he’s drunk on you.
When he finally pulls back, it’s just far enough to speak. His words are a breath against your mouth. “You take me so well. Every time, baby. You’re perfect.”
His thumb skims over your inner thigh, painting lazy strokes in the mess he left there. His gaze drops to watch it, like he’s made something beautiful and can’t stop admiring his own work.
Then, quieter, more serious, he adds, “Stay here with me. Just like this. Don’t go anywhere.”
You reach up, brushing your fingers across his cheek, thumb grazing the line of his jaw. The stubble is rough under your touch, grounding. "I’m not going anywhere."
He exhales, a shaky breath that sounds like relief, and leans into your palm. Like he needs to feel that promise in your skin.
He shifts beside you, slow and careful, and curls an arm around your waist, tugging you closer until there’s no space left between your bodies. Your legs tangle, sticky and bare, a mess of warmth and soft exhales.
You close your eyes and feel the beat of his heart against your back, his breath soft at your neck.
summary: you bake bucky his favorite cookies even though you're allergic to the cinnamon in them. when he finds out, he's not letting it slide.
warnings: reader is allergic to cinnamon, readers is kinda stupid, reader bakes, allergic reaction symptoms (migraine, rash, throat irritation), established relationship, protective bucky, domestic fluff, soft banter, kisses, food/comfort baking, happy ending.
wc: 3.5k
a/n: this may or may not be self indulgent.
masterlist
The kitchen is warm, the kind of heat that sticks to your skin from the oven running too long. You’ve already pulled one tray of muffins out, their tops cracked and golden, and the scent of vanilla still clings in the air. Baking has always been less about the end product and more about the ritual: measuring, stirring, waiting. It’s steady. It fills the silence in a way you like.
The front door clicks open and shuts, and a familiar shuffle of boots makes its way down the hall. Bucky always walks heavy, like he’s still bracing for cobblestones under his feet. He doesn’t call out when he gets home—never has—but the second his head pokes around the kitchen doorway, the tension he carries everywhere eases a little.
“What’s cookin’, doll?” His voice is rough in the casual way it always is, but softer at the edges, too. He leans against the counter, eyes immediately scanning the cooling rack.
“Muffins,” you say, sliding the tin closer to the edge of the stove to cool. “Chocolate chip. Thought it’d be nice to have something for breakfast.”
Bucky grins like you’ve just handed him a plate of gold. He’s never subtle when it comes to food you make—never hides the way he appreciates it. He reaches for one without hesitation, hissing when the heat bites his fingers.
“They’re hot,” you warn, unable to keep the laugh from your voice.
“That’s never stopped me.” He tears the muffin open with his metal hand, steam curling into the air, then takes a huge bite. His shoulders drop with the kind of relief you only ever see when he eats something homemade. “God. These are good. You know what I haven’t had in years?”
You glance over from where you’re wiping down the counter. “What’s that?”
“Snickerdoodles.” He says it so casually, like it’s nothing, but there’s this flicker in his eyes—nostalgia, maybe even longing—that catches you off guard. “Used to get ‘em at a bakery near my ma’s place. Big ones, soft in the middle, all that cinnamon sugar on top. Haven’t tasted anything like it since before…” He trails off, shaking his head as if to push away the thought. “Anyway. Muffins are amazing.”
You hum in response, trying not to let the word snickerdoodle lodge itself too firmly in your mind. Cinnamon sits on your tongue like a warning just hearing it. Still, you find yourself nodding, as if you’ve already made a mental note.
Bucky finishes the muffin in a few more bites, licking a smear of melted chocolate off his thumb. “You’re spoilin’ me, you know that?”
“Maybe I just don’t want you living off takeout,” you tease, setting the dish towel aside.
“Maybe I like that better,” he shoots back, half-smiling. Then his expression softens, the way it always does when he thinks you’re not looking. “Seriously though. Thank you.”
The oven ticks as it cools, filling the quiet between you. You watch him lick the last crumbs from his fingers and tuck away the image of that look on his face—the kind of happiness that’s unguarded, rare. And maybe, you think, it wouldn’t hurt to try.
The thought doesn’t leave you. Not after the muffins are gone, not after Bucky falls asleep on the couch later with the empty plate balanced on his chest.
Snickerdoodles.
It repeats in your head while you wash dishes, while you scroll aimlessly through your phone. You’ve never made them before—not for yourself, at least—but you can still picture the look on his face when he talked about them. The softness in his voice, the way his shoulders had gone loose like just saying the word gave him a little comfort.
By the next morning, you’ve already decided.
It’s a Saturday, the kind of day that feels too bright to waste indoors, and you find yourself walking the few blocks to the little family-owned market near the edge of town. The bigger grocery store would’ve been easier, but you want something better than the dusty jar of cinnamon you know is sitting in their baking aisle. If you’re going to do this, you want it to feel special.
The market smells faintly of ground spices and coffee beans. There are baskets of produce at the front, and hand-lettered signs taped to shelves. You take your time, weaving through the narrow aisles, letting your fingers brush over the jars lined up like they were placed there just for you to find.
There’s a whole section for spices—rows of glass containers with neat labels, cinnamon among them. Your hand hovers, your throat prickling just at the thought of what it’ll do to you. Still, you pick the jar up, its weight solid in your palm, the cinnamon dark and fine inside the glass. A better version than the kind you’d find in bulk, the kind you hope will taste like memory for him.
The rest of the list is easy: flour, sugar, eggs, butter. Things you already have at home, but you want them fresh. You stand in line behind a woman with a basket full of apples and listen to the cashier chat about the weather. It’s all so ordinary it makes you smile.
Back home, you set the groceries out on the counter like it’s an offering. The cinnamon jar catches the light from the window, glinting at you, daring you. You pull a mixing bowl from the cupboard and start to work.
There’s comfort in the rhythm. Creaming butter and sugar together until the mixture is pale, cracking eggs one at a time, folding flour into the dough until it sticks to the spoon in clumps. The air grows warm with the oven preheating, and your hands move almost automatically, muscle memory from years of baking everything except this.
You set up a shallow bowl with sugar and the cinnamon, whisking them together until the air carries that sharp, sweet spice. It burns faintly in your nose, makes your eyes water just a little, but you push it down. You roll the dough into small balls, coating them in the mixture until your fingertips are sticky with sugar.
The first tray slides into the oven, and you lean against the counter, wiping your hands on a dish towel. For a moment, you just stand there, breathing in the scent that’s beginning to bloom—warm, sweet, unmistakably cinnamon.
You can almost see it already: Bucky walking in, catching the smell before he even rounds the corner, his face lighting up with something unguarded and childlike. The thought makes your chest ache in the best way.
When the timer dings, you pull the tray out, and there they are—golden at the edges, soft in the middle, sugared tops crackling under the heat. They look exactly like every picture you’ve seen, exactly like something worth remembering.
You don’t taste one, you don’t need to. The joy, you know, will be in watching him.
The cookies cool while you rummage through the cupboard for the little box you’d picked up weeks ago at the craft store. It’s one of those things you’d bought without a plan, drawn to the neat fold-over lid and the window on top. White cardboard with a thin gold trim. Decorative but not flashy. Perfect.
You line the inside with a sheet of wax paper, stack the cookies in carefully, and fold the lid shut until it clicks into place. It feels almost silly, how much care you put into it, but something about giving them this way makes it feel like more than just a plate of cookies. It feels like a gift.
Bucky’s sprawled on the couch when you walk into the living room. He’s half-slouched against the armrest, one hand draped over his chest, the TV flickering in front of him. A news channel, muted. His hair’s a little messy, like he’d raked a hand through it a few too many times.
You clear your throat softly, and his head tilts toward you.
“What’s that?” he asks, noticing the box immediately.
“Something for you.” You offer it out, trying not to look too eager.
He sits up, curiosity flickering across his face as he takes the box into his hands. “For me? What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion.” You shrug, tucking your hands into your pockets. “Just… open it.”
The lid pops open, and for a second his expression doesn’t change. Then the scent hits him. His eyes widen, mouth parting like he’s not sure he’s seeing right.
“You didn’t.” His voice is low, almost reverent.
“Snickerdoodles,” you confirm, a little shy despite yourself.
The way he looks at you makes your chest feel too tight. He’s quiet for a beat, then sets the box on the coffee table and stands, closing the space between you before you can think. His hand finds the side of your face, rough palm against your cheek, and he leans in to press his lips against yours.
It’s not rushed. It’s not anything but soft gratitude poured into a kiss. Warmth blooming from the press of his mouth to yours. When he pulls back, there’s a tiny grin tugging at his lips, like he can’t help it.
“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your jaw before he finally lets go.
You’re still reeling when he sits back down and pulls the box into his lap. He takes one cookie out, studying it like it might vanish if he blinks too long, then takes a bite. His eyes shut almost instantly.
“Oh my god,” he says around a mouthful, half-laughing. “This is… this is perfect.”
He doesn’t stop at one bite. He devours the whole thing, licking cinnamon sugar from his thumb exactly the way you imagined he would. And then, still chewing the last bit, he leans toward you again. This time it’s a quick kiss on the cheek, careless with how happy he is, the taste of sugar still on his lips.
The spot tingles almost instantly. A faint burn spreads under your skin, just enough to make your throat tighten in sympathy. You cover it with a smile, force your hand to stay relaxed at your side instead of pressing against the flush you know is rising.
“Best thing I’ve had in years,” Bucky says, licking a stray crumb from the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t notice the way you swallow a little harder than usual, doesn’t see the way your eyes water just slightly before you blink it away.
All he sees is the box in his lap, and you standing there with that same quiet smile.
“Seriously,” he says again, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. “You didn’t have to do this for me.”
You laugh, soft and easy, even as your cheek still burns faintly. “I wanted to.”
The first time after that, it isn’t planned. You’re already in the kitchen, measuring flour for something else when you see the jar of cinnamon on the counter. Before you can talk yourself out of it, the flour and butter are going toward cookie dough again. By the time Bucky wanders in from a run, his hair damp and shirt clinging to him, the smell is already curling through the apartment.
“You’re kidding,” he breathes, peeling the damp fabric from his shoulder. “Again?”
You slide the tray out of the oven, the tops of the cookies glistening faintly with sugar. “Couldn’t help it.”
He doesn’t even wait for them to cool. Burns his tongue on the first bite and laughs around it anyway, crumbs sticking to his lower lip. You laugh too, but while his eyes are closed in bliss, you’re tucking the itch at the back of your throat away, swallowing it down with a sip of water.
Another time, it’s because his day has gone sideways. He comes home late, shoulders drawn tight, jaw set hard. You can see the storm in him from the second he shuts the door. He doesn’t say much—just hangs his jacket on the hook, kicks his boots aside, and drops heavily into the chair at the table.
You’d already made the cookies earlier, just because. They’re waiting in the kitchen, stacked in a tin. You slide it across the table to him, wordless.
He glances at it, then at you, suspicion softening into something else when he lifts the lid. “You’re trouble, you know that?”
But he takes one. Then another. By the third, his shoulders are looser, his sighs quieter, the sharp edges of his mood worn down by cinnamon sugar and the quiet way you sit across from him, pretending not to notice how he’s watching you between bites.
By the time the tin’s half empty, he leans forward, rests his hand over yours on the table, and says quietly, “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Your throat burns worse than usual that night, but you swallow it down with a smile, squeezing his hand back.
The third time, it’s just because the weather’s turned cold. Rain lashes against the windows, thunder rolling low in the distance. He’s curled on the couch under a blanket, reading something thick with a bent spine, when you bring over a small plate balanced in your hands.
“Guess what I made?” you say, though the smell gives it away immediately.
Bucky sets the book aside, his grin already spreading before he even sees the cookies. “I don’t deserve you.”
You sit beside him, tucking your legs up under yourself as he takes one, warm enough that the sugar leaves his fingers tacky. He chews slow this time, savoring, then leans into your side with a content sigh.
“Feels like home,” he murmurs. “You feel like home.”
You tilt your head against his shoulder, letting the heat of him soak into you, ignoring the faint prickle that flares when his lips brush the side of your temple in thanks.
It becomes a pattern after that. Sometimes he finds the box waiting for him on the counter when he gets back from missions, sometimes you bring a plate into the living room without warning. Each time, the joy on his face makes the tightening in your chest and the itching in your skin worth it.
You tell yourself it’s a small price. A handful of symptoms traded for the sound of his laugh, the rare softness in his eyes. The way he always kisses your cheek after the last bite, cinnamon sugar still on his breath.
It starts small. A headache you can’t quite shake, one of those dull, pulsing things that creeps behind your eyes after the third batch in a week. You tell yourself it’ll pass. It usually does. But then your nose won’t stop running, and your throat feels scraped raw like sandpaper. By the time Bucky gets back from the store that evening, your skin is prickling with a faint rash along your arms.
You’re on the couch, blanket pulled around you, trying to breathe evenly when you hear the door unlock.
“Hey, I grabbed milk—” he starts, but his words trail off when he sees you. His brow furrows instantly, groceries abandoned on the counter. “What’s goin’ on? You sick?”
“I’m fine,” you say too quickly, voice hoarse. You try for a smile, but it pulls weakly across your face.
He kneels down in front of you, metal hand resting on the edge of the couch, flesh hand hovering like he’s not sure if he should touch you. His eyes scan over the flushed heat in your cheeks, the way your nose is raw from tissues, the small red blotches climbing your neck.
“This ain’t just a cold,” he mutters. “What happened?”
You shake your head, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. “It’s nothing. Just—just a migraine.”
“Bullshit.” His voice is sharp, but not unkind. He leans closer, searching your face. “Don’t lie to me. What’s wrong?”
There’s no use pretending when his gaze is that steady, that unrelenting. The truth claws its way up before you can stop it.
“It’s the cinnamon,” you admit, voice low. “I’m allergic.”
The words hang heavy between you. You expect him to laugh it off, maybe scold you lightly. Instead, his expression twists, something almost like betrayal flickering there. He leans back just enough to take you in again, as though seeing you for the first time.
“All this time,” he says slowly, voice rough. “You’ve been makin’ those cookies. For me. Even though…” His jaw tightens. “Jesus, no wonder you’ve been lookin’ off some nights.”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first. Finally, you manage, “You love them. You light up every time. I just—wanted to give you that.”
His hand finally lands on your knee, grounding, though his touch is still tense. “At the cost of your own health?” His voice cracks in disbelief. “You think I want that? You think cookies matter more than you bein’ okay?”
You swallow hard, throat burning in a way that has nothing to do with the allergy. “It was worth it. Seeing you happy—”
“Don’t.” He cuts you off gently, shaking his head. His thumb presses harder against your knee, almost like he’s trying to anchor himself. “Don’t ever say that. You’re worth more than some damn cookies.”
The silence that follows is heavy, punctuated only by the soft hum of the fridge in the kitchen. His eyes are wet around the edges, though he blinks it away before it can fall.
“I can’t believe you hid this from me,” he murmurs, softer now, more hurt than angry. “You could’ve ended up in the hospital. And I never even—” He stops himself, jaw working, then exhales through his nose. “That’s it. No more snickerdoodles. Not in this house. Not anywhere near you.”
A small laugh slips from you despite the lump in your throat. “You’re really going to ban cinnamon?”
“Damn right I am.” His voice is firm, though the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Every jar’s goin’ in the trash tonight. I’ll tear through the pantry myself.”
You roll your eyes, but it’s hard not to melt when he shifts closer, brushing a hand carefully over the side of your face. His touch is gentle now, thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone as though he’s afraid you’ll break.
“No more secrets like this,” he says quietly. “Promise me.”
You nod, throat tight. “Promise.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead—soft, lingering, nothing rushed. And for the first time, you let yourself lean fully into him, letting the warmth of his presence settle into your bones.
The cookies were always for him, but this—this is for you.
True to his word, Bucky doesn’t even wait. The second you’ve steadied yourself enough to follow him into the kitchen, he’s already got the pantry door swung wide and his sleeves shoved up, scanning every jar on the shelves like he’s on a mission.
“Buck—”
“Don’t try to stop me,” he mutters, pulling down a spice rack with his metal hand. The glass jars clink together as he squints at each one, tossing cumin and paprika aside until he lands on what he’s hunting. The cinnamon.
You groan as he plucks it up triumphantly. “That’s the expensive one. I went out of my way for that, you know.”
He doesn’t even blink. The jar’s already heading toward the trash can.
“Bucky, seriously—”
“Nope.” He drops it in with a thunk and dusts off his hands like it’s a job well done. “Don’t care if it costs a hundred bucks. You’re not breathin’ that stuff in again.”
You cross your arms, trying to sound stern even as the corner of your mouth betrays a smile. “It wasn’t a hundred. It was twenty. Still. That was small-market, high-quality cinnamon.”
He turns, pulling his wallet from his back pocket with an exaggerated slowness. “Twenty bucks?”
“Twenty bucks,” you confirm, eyebrow raised.
Without hesitation, he peels out two twenties and presses them into your hand. “There. Paid you double. Hazard pay for even bringin’ it in the house.”
You stare down at the bills, incredulous. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah, well, get used to it.” His grin is crooked, but his eyes are soft as he steps closer, brushing his thumb over your knuckles before tucking the money deeper into your palm. “Not takin’ chances with you. Not ever.”
The kitchen is quiet except for the hum of the oven cooling, the faint scent of cinnamon still lingering in the air like a ghost. He leans down, presses a gentle kiss to your cheek this time—careful, sweet, without the sting that came before—and lingers there a moment longer than necessary.
“From now on,” he murmurs, lips close to your skin, “I’ll find somethin’ else to crave. Something safe.” His eyes flick to yours, soft and steady. “Got a feelin’ I already have.”
You laugh quietly, shaking your head as you lean into him, the crumpled twenties still clutched in your hand. The cookies were good, sure. But the warmth of him wrapping his arms around you now, holding you like you’re the only thing that matters—that’s better than any recipe.
I've been replaying Expedition 33 and I'm in Verso's room in the mansion and you know how there's piano and trains and then there are paintings ... And if you pay attention, in those paintings you can see Lune and Verso himself .... And then I think on the third one there's Sciel as well?
