Summary: You get used to living in the mansion of the big scary mafia leader, but you realize it's not so bad...until you get kidnapped. You quickly see how fast the scary mafia leader works to get you back, safe and in his arms.
Content warning: Language, violence, guns, little angst, jealous Bucky, murder, death, trafficking, kidnapping, abuse (reader gets hit), touch her and die vibes, teeny bit of fluff.
Type of Bucky: Morally grey mafia leader Bucky
Part 2/2
Read Part 1 here
"Good morning." You waved to Sam and Steve who were standing in the large kitchen.
"Morning Y/n." Sam leaned on the counter.
It had been a few weeks since you were 'taken', and you had a bit more freedom while living in the mansion. You no longer have anyone 'guarding' your door 24-hours; you can go anywhere inside the mansion and can only go outside if Sam, Steve, or Bucky himself joins you. It's not perfect, but it's better than being confined to one room like a bad dog.
Since Brock and his lawyer were, eliminated, you went back to your EA job, now working with Bucky.
He doesn't say much when he's at Hydra Enterprises, keeping to Brock's office he had freshly painted and loaded with new furniture.
The staff was somewhat concerned a new CEO was suddenly there, but everyone stayed on working and no one quit or was fired. The information Bucky provided to the staff about Brock was, he left and went to Europe to 'find' himself and left his company in good hands to his close friend Bucky.
You snorted thinking the two men were not friends nor did they associate amicably with one another, but people seemed to buy it. The office kept on as it did under new direction and you were grateful to have a job and still be alive.
Since being 'kidnapped' and brought to live at the Barnes Mansion, your life was still the same as before, just in a new environment with new people, and a grumpy mafia leader as a boss and...landlord? Roommate?
You rarely saw Bucky at the mansion and if you did, you were in his office going over files, contracts, and old correspondence from Brock. You're certain Bucky thinks your knowledge has been valuable and you were just as determined to stop the trafficking as he was once you learned a little more of what was happening.
You just wanted your old life back, but somehow, you knew it would never be the same again.
"I think I'm going to make cookies." You announced.
Steve and Sam looked at each other before they smiled, voicing their opinions.
"Chocolate chip."
"Oatmeal, no wait, peanut butter."
The two men bickered about flavours while you got the ingredients out.
Sometimes it was like living with college-aged racoons.
"I can do peanut butter oatmeal chocolate chip."
"What's going on here?" Bucky walked into the kitchen, glaring at Sam and Steve.
"Y/n's making cookies." Sam pointed to you.
Bucky looked over and said, "Is that so?"
"Was bored." You shrugged.
Whenever you were bored, which was a lot, you either baked or made food to pass the time and Sam and Steve were all too excited to sample.
Bucky looked around and sighed. "Meeting in 10, my office." He pointed at Sam then Steve. He took one last glance at you before he left and headed to his office.
You were about to say, 'have fun' to them when Bucky poked his head back into the kitchen and said, "Double chocolate chip please." Making the two men groan and you snort.
"I'll see what I can do."
You rolled your eyes at the supposed big scary mafia man.
You were slowly learning that Bucky was more bark than bite towards his men and more importantly you, but if he was crossed, it was like a switch was turned and he would instantly turn cold and cruel. You don't want that wrath turned on you, so you vow to stay on his good side.
Sam and Steve grabbed some water before they left for the office.
"See you later." They left you alone to create in the gourmet kitchen.
🔫👨🏻
"Last shipment Brock had set up is scheduled for tonight."
Bucky sat at his desk and leaned back in his chair. Sam and Steve sat across from him tense, waiting to hear the plan.
"And I plan on being there."
"We can go instead; you can stay here." Steve added.
"No. I need to see for myself."
This was the last 'shipment' Brock had set up while he was still alive, and Bucky wanted to make sure it was intercepted and finished once and for all. Since the pier was now in his control, they've busted and intercepted two 'shipments', eliminated the men behind them and saved countless women, but he knows Brock's connections are onto them for breaking up the operations.
Retaliation may come, and Bucky's prepared if it does.
Bucky's prepared for tonight with extra men, and his tech people have intercepted money transfers and dismantled accounts and according to his sources, this should be the final one scheduled to the Pier he now owns.
"It's going to be dangerous. We're expecting a lot of resistance but I'm confident this will end."
Sam and Steve nodded.
They could hear you in the background, making your cookies while listening to some music when Sam's voice cleared.
"So, what's going to happen to Y/n?"
Bucky's eyes flashed but he cleared his throat.
"She's free to go."
He said, leaning forward in his chair.
"She can leave, just like that?" Steve's eyebrows rose at his boss.
"We've paid her apartment rent and her other bills, so she can go home when I say she can. And it looks like that will be soon."
Bucky wasn't ready to admit he liked having you live at the mansion.
"Her job?" Sam asked.
"She can stay on as my assistant, as normal."
"Do you think she will?" Steve asked.
Bucky had thought there was a possibility you may quit altogether, but he was taking a gamble and is assuming you will stay working alongside him at Hydra Enterprises.
"So, she's not going to be eliminated?"
"No. Now get out." Bucky pointed to the door as the two men rose and left the office.
🔫👨🏻
"So, you guys are leaving tonight on a what, a mission of sorts?" You asked, sitting on the staircase eating a cookie.
"Yup."
Watching the men load their weapons was something you got used to. They tended to always carry their loaded guns in their holsters, but seeing the other things like knives, brass knuckles, and various other weapons being shoved into pockets and hidden pockets always mesmerized you.
Footsteps were heard down the marble floor and when you looked up, you saw Bucky in his signature black suit and white shirt.
"You're going to?" You were confused as Bucky usually stays behind and lets his men do the hard jobs.
"What, will you miss me doll?" He snorted, double checking his holster.
"Yes." You bluntly said making his head snap to you.
Lately, Bucky had been making comments to you, and dare you say, flirting a little? The man was frustrating as he was charming and it annoyed you, but you also played along. He turned and faced Sam and Steve, not replying to your admission.
"Ready?" They nodded.
"SUVs and teams are in place." Sam announced.
He and Steve left, leaving Bucky standing in the foyer looking at you.
"Be careful."
Bucky stopped what he was doing and watched you closely before he turned and placed his hand on the door.
"I'll try." Then he headed out the front door, with Clint quickly locking it up.
🔫👨🏻
You were in bed reading, seeing as how you couldn't sleep knowing the guys were out. For some reason, you cared about them and worried something bad was going to happen. You know something was going down tonight, and you were certain it had something to do with the fact that the pier was being heavily monitored, so you figured there would be a shipment coming in. Would this be the last one?
You had no idea but tonight felt different so perhaps it was. More final from the snippets of hushed conversations you caught in the hallways and at the office. This may be the end of the shipments, but something's telling you there may be more things coming from the backlash when you heard commotion in the house.
You got out of bed and headed downstairs to see what was happening.
🔫👨🏻
"I can't believe they did that!" Growled Steve.
He was holding an ice pack to his jaw while Sam was nursing what looked to be a broken nose.
"What's going on?" You asked, coming down the stairs.
"Shit went south." Sam muttered, sniffing and wiping a tissue over his nose.
"Oh?" Before you could ask, Bucky walked in.
"Holy shit." You gasped, looking at the mafia leader.
His usual pristine black suit was wrinkled, dusty, and rumpled and his white shirt had blood stains on it and was cut up so bad, it looked like he survived being put through a shredder. He held his arm and was breathing heavy.
"All good?" He glanced at Sam then Steve who both nodded.
"Good." Before he turned and was headed to what looked to be in the direction of his office.
"Hang on, wait." You said, running after Bucky leaving Sam and Steve behind.
He didn't stop, so you followed him in.
"Bucky!" You said, following him to where he stopped and poured himself a whisky.
"What?" He swallowed the dark liquid, pouring himself another.
"Let me see that." You pointed to his left heavily inked arm that was bleeding.
He scoffed, but relented seeing your glare, finally giving you, his arm.
"It's fine." He insisted.
You pulled the fabric back and gasped.
"You've been shot?"
You reached out and placed your hand on his warm, soft skin. You swallowed, feeling his muscles contract as you inspected the gash.
"It's a graze, nothing more. Been nicked before dollface, this is nothin'."
Your stomach fluttered at his words, but you ignored it.
You looked at his arm and saw the blood dripping down it, onto the plush carpet.
"Let me fix it." You said, walking him to the couch.
"Don't got a first aid kit in here." Bucky shrugged.
You glared at him and said, "Don't lie to me. I know there's a first aid kit here, I saw Sam use it when you punched Steve in the face last week." You muttered, opening a drawer in the side table.
You didn't see the smirk Bucky flashed you.
Low and behold, a kit was there, so you grabbed it and rummaged around, looking for what you needed.
Bucky huffed but let you fuss over him. He watched your steady hands move over his skin, sending tingles throughout his body. He watched you close as you took what you needed, placing the gauze and suture kit on the table.
"I can stitch you up."
How were you going to match up his skin and ink that was on it?
"No stitches. Just a butterfly bandage, nothing more."
You took the disinfecting wipes out and placed them on the wound, delicately cleaning it. The blood wasn't stopping, so you looked up at Bucky who huffed.
"It'll be fine. Butterfly bandage, nothing else needed."
You rolled your eyes at him but got the white strips of the bandages out, ready to place them. You were slightly relieved because if you messed up his ink, you're not sure how he would react.
"Fine but let me clean this well for you since I know you're not going to do it yourself."
You got the ointment out and wiped the wound down, making sure to clean it well. You heard Bucky inhale sharply as your hands were on him, dabbing at the wound.
"So, did you manage to complete what you set out to do?" You knew he wasn't going to divulge his mafia secrets to you, but you were curious to see if he was successful.
You gently blew on the open wound to dry the ointment making Bucky shudder. You saw goosebumps appear on his skin making you smirk to yourself.
"Yeah." He quietly said as you got one of the bandages out, placing it on the wound to hold it together.
"Good." Was all you said, as you got the other one placed.
"There we are, good as new...well...almost. It'll probably scar a little but...you're used to it." You sighed, putting the garbage away.
"Go and get yourself a cookie, you've earned it." You chuckled, getting up from the couch.
Bucky stood with you, inspecting your patch job on him when he stopped you. He reached out and turned you to face him. He cupped your neck, gently brushing your cheek with his thumb. You noticed the details of the skull and rose tattoo on his hand. Before you could sink into his touch, he dropped his hand.
Your eyes were level with his throat, seeing him swallow before he said, "Thanks." In his deep voice.
"You're welcome." You patted his good arm and turned to leave, heading back to your room.
You closed the door to your room and slumped against it, breathing heavy. Woah, that was the closest you've even gotten to him, and that sent shivers throughout your body. Bucky was hot as hell with his dark looks, impeccable clothes, and confidence, it was hard not to have a little crush on the scary mafia leader, but you know your time in his world is going to end soon.
In your mind, you, frankly, didn't belong with the mafia or anywhere near the mafia. You sighed and went to clean yourself up, before you got back into bed and slept a little better knowing everyone was safe. Was it weird you had started thinking of these men as friends and not scary mafia men?
🔫👨🏻
"We're celebrating tonight gentlemen." Came the voice of Bucky.
The following morning, you sat in the kitchen off to the side with some empty breakfast plates in front of you. You desperately wanted to get out of the mansion, having only been out once in the past few days to get some groceries with Clint, but you didn't push it.
You hadn't gone into the office since Bucky had told the employees he was 'out of the country', so you didn't need to be there. He advised them he would be back the following week, so you had some time to yourself. You were honestly fine living how you were, but you were feeling nervous seeing as how the 'shipping' situation was coming to an end.
What is going to happen to you now?
You also found out Bucky recently had Pierce eliminated as well as a few of Brock's old associates since they didn't stick to their word and comply with Bucky's new terms of the Pier deal. After last night, the pier would return to 'normal' operations, or as normal as they could be for a mafia, but Pierce wanted more. He was greedy and had plans to expand to another pier, but Bucky stopped that. No one went above him.
Trafficking women was not allowed on his turf, and he made it known to everyone, that if they were involved with that, instant elimination.
Pierce's death was described in the media as an 'unfortunate car accident' and everyone bought it.
"The club?" Steve asked. His face was a little swollen and Sam had a shiner, but they didn't seem to mind.
"We leave at 9." Bucky looked over at you, then left the kitchen.
You got up and loaded your breakfast dishes in the dishwasher when Sam asked, "Are you coming?" making you snort.
"Wasn't invited, so nope."
"Bossman invited you."
"Bossman was only looking at you two when he said that, not me. So, have fun tonight at your 'club', whatever that is." You left the kitchen and headed to the library.
🔫👨🏻
"What the hell are you doing here?" Bucky's voice sounded from the doorway to the library.
"It's a library, so, reading?" You were confused at him barging in and running his mouth since you haven't seen him all day since the morning.
"We're all waiting in the foyer for you."
You placed your book down and looked at him funny.
"I'm sorry?" You looked around, thinking someone else was hidden in the room with you.
"I said earlier, we're celebrating tonight, that means you too."
"Correction, you said, 'we're celebrating tonight gentlemen'. I was not aware you lumped me into the 'gentlemen' category since I am not a gentleman myself last time I checked, and I personally have nothing to celebrate seeing as how I have not done anything lately to warrant a celebration unless you count making cookies so if it's for that, I will gladly celebrate my baking competence."
Bucky's jaw ticked in annoyance, and he stepped into the room, walking to you then he stopped.
"We're headed to the club now. I'll send Clint back to pick you up. You have 45 minutes,"
Then, he turned and left, leaving you staring at his retreating back.
You huffed, looking around the cozy library and scowled in annoyance of being interrupted. "Stop scowling at my books." Bucky's voice sounded down the hall. "And get yourself ready. You now have 40 minutes."
Then you heard his footsteps leave.
"Fine, jerk." You muttered, leaving the room and heading to yours to change.
🔫👨🏻
You got to the 'club' Clint drove you to and stood outside, gawking at the massive line up to get in. In large silver lettering, the sign on the building said, "Vibranium" with backlit orange and yellow lights making it look like the name was showing in flames.
"Holy hell." You muttered.
A man by the name of Loki met you at the entrance to escort you in, and he was all to pleased to be doing it.
"This way, madame." He offered you his arm and a side of charm.
"Right."
You took it and headed to the VIP entry which bypassed the line. Many of the people in line were glaring and scoffing at you, but you didn't care. You had a small panic attack thinking you weren't dressed appropriately but shrugged.
You only had a few items of clothing to choose from you deemed 'club' appropriate, so you went with this. Loki seemed pleased with your low-cut burgundy dress and black heels seeing as how he was eyeing you up like a hungry wolf.
"There's the VIP area." Loki pointed to a darkened staircase that led to an upper level.
Two large men adorned either side of the staircase who were watching you and Loki. You looked up and saw people standing by a railing which made it look like they were looking down upon their subjects.
"Ok..." You looked at Loki who smirked.
"You can go on up love." He winked at you before he disappeared into the crowd.
You didn't really want to head upstairs to a VIP level, but seeing as how you were now completely alone, you figured why the hell not. The two men let you by without asking who you were, but you figured they saw you with Loki who is with Bucky, so you were in.
"Hello, and thank you." You said to the two men, climbing the stairs.
You got to the top and turned the corner, taking in the darkened couches and vibe of the upper level. People wandered the area with their drinks; talking and laughing with each other. A large bar sat at the back of the club that had a few people standing by it.
The faint thump of the music was heard from below as you made your way further into the crowd.
"Y/n!" Sam's voice sounded over the music. He sat and was chatting with a pretty blonde woman who wore a short pink dress.
"Hi." You gave him an awkward wave. You looked next to him and Steve was sitting on a black leather couch with a red head on his lap who wore a forest green bustier and black leather pants.
You quickly averted your eyes as they were making out with each other, and you didn't need to be seen gawking at them.
You looked away and saw Bucky sitting on a chair with a blonde woman draped all over him, but he was watching you close, not paying her any attention.
A weird feeling came over you seeing a woman all over Bucky. Not like you were 'with him', that would be silly you internally chuffed at yourself but seeing him with someone else put a sour taste in your mouth. You and Bucky had been getting along recently, talking more and dare you say, joking around with each other.
It was quite the turn around from when you were first brought to his home. You suddenly felt a little self-conscious not knowing anyone else, so you stepped away, choosing to turn away from them.
"Get yourself a drink and come on back and join us. Put it on the big guy's tab." Sam winked at you and pointed to the bar.
"Sure..."
You weren't a big drinker of any kind, usually choosing a glass of white wine or something light like a seltzer, so you wandered over to the bar to order something. The quicker you could down this drink, the quicker you could get back to finishing your book.
"What can I get you miss?" The cute bartender asked, with a wink.
"Umm, how about a white wine?"
He chuckled and said, "That sounded like a question. So, are you sure about the white wine, or did you want something else?"
He leaned towards you and placed his hands on the bar top.
"I'm quite good with my hands and can make anything you want." He added with a wink of his right eye.
"I'm sure you are, but just a white wine please."
He proceeded to get a glass for you. He finished pouring and placed the glass down, sliding it to you.
"Umm, that man, Sam, said to 'put it on the big guy's tab'?"
You took the glass and the bartender swallowed hard and nodded, entering some things in a machine.
"All set, enjoy." He nodded and quicky moved onto another patron.
You sipped your wine, taking in the VIP level. You could go back to where the guys were, but you didn't want to feel like a fourth wheel while women grinded all over them.
You looked around and wondered what kind of jobs these people did to warrant themselves a spot in the VIP level.
Did they even know they were at a mafia leaders bar?
You walked over to the railing to overlook the crowd on the main level, trying desperately to look like you know what you're doing when someone joined you.
"Hello." A deep voice sounded.
The man stood in front of you wearing a grey suit and white dress shirt.
"Hi."
"I'm Thor."
You raised a right eyebrow up to him making him chuckle.
"I know right? My dad's a big fan of Norse mythology..."
"Right."
"So, I've never seen you here before." Thor sipped his drink while you studied him.
He was handsome in a surfer Norse god kind of way. His blonde hair was long and tied back while his blue eyes focused on you.
"It's my first time here."
His eyebrows rose and said, "Is that so? Well, welcome to my club."
You snorted knowing damn well he was lying. You decided to have a little fun with him.
"So, you own this place?"
Thor seemed amused and nodded, finishing his drink. He placed the empty glass on a table.
"Yup."
"Wow."
"Yeah?" He seemed amused you were buying it.
This should be fun.
"So, how long have you owned it?"
"Few years." Thor shrugged.
"Really?"
Thor stepped closer and reached out to hold your hand in his, stroking your knuckles with his thumb.
You tried to pull away but he held firm.
"Yup. I own another on the other side of town." He boasted, sticking his chest out a little.
"That's so awesome of you." You lamely replied, looking down at his hand that still held yours.
"Yeah, made a few investments here and there which paid off so I figured why not? I'm kind of good with numbers."
You thought Thor's name should be Brad or Chad with the bragging he was doing.
"As I was saying, I made some investments and decided to buy this place. I'm thinking of giving it a facelift. New lighting, flooring, furniture, you know, a complete remodel. As it is now, it's kind of old."
"Wow, I'm impressed."
"Yeah?" He smiled at you.
He was handsome, but not your type when an arm came in front of you and carefully moved you back from Thor.
"Doll, why don't you come and join me?"
You saw Bucky's eyes narrow on your hand which was still being held by Thor. Bucky gently pulled you away from Thor, wrapping an arm around your waist.
You looked over at Thor who's face looked like he saw a ghost. He was white as a sheet and stood blinking at Bucky, then at you like an owl.
"Uh, sorry, I'm sorry." Thor kept apologizing to Bucky.
"Why don't you go on to that couch over there, and I'll be right there." Bucky whispered to you. You nodded and headed to the couch while Bucky stayed with Thor.
Bucky watched you safely walk to the couch and sit, smoothing your dress on your thighs. Bucky smiled to himself and turned to face Thor who also watched you with a smile on his face that quickly fell.
Thor looked over at Bucky and his eyes widened at the hardened demeanor and glare Bucky was sending him.
"Sorry. I didn't know she was your girl...I swear...I would never have approached her...I swear...please don't hurt me..."
Bucky watched Thor have a meltdown before he replied.
"You touched her." Bucky calmly said, picking a stray piece of lint from the sleeve on his suit.
He didn't give a shit about what Thor was lying to you about, but the fact that he touched you which made you uncomfortable made Bucky see red.
"I-I...what? I'm sorry...really...it was crowded, I have a nervous twitch that acts up sometimes, and well..."
"I don't take kindly to people who touch my things. Makes things...difficult..."
Thor put his hands up in surrender.
"I swear I didn't know..."
"Tell me, Thor. Do you often touch things that don't belong to you?"
"No." Thor instantly replied.
"Good that's what I like to hear, because you know that's wrong, right?"
Thor vigorously nodded.
"Good."
Bucky's eyes moved to one of his men who walked over and discreetly grabbed Thor's arm and held it tight.
Bucky leaned in close and said, "If I so much as hear you've touched something that isn't yours again, I will cut your arm off and feed it to my pigs."
Thor's eyes widened in shock, but Bucky wasn't done yet.
"If I ever see you or get word you have stepped into my club again, I. Will. End. You. Got it?"
Thor nodded like his head was going to come loose.
"Get him out of my sight, Scott. You know what to do with people who fuck with my shit."
Scott nodded and wrestled Thor to the back of the VIP level, through an unmarked black door and that was that.
🔫👨🏻
"Did you want another refill?" Asked Bucky while he walked up to you.
You looked down at your empty glass, then over at the bar. The bartender from earlier was missing and was replaced by a woman with blue hair.
"Uh, no thanks, I'm good."
Bucky sat next to you, his companion from earlier was nowhere to be found. You didn't see Sam or Steve either.
"Are you enjoying yourself?" Bucky asked, turning to face you.
He placed his arm on the back of the sofa, so it felt like he was surrounding you.
"I guess."
The area you were in was quiet where you could have a conversation with the perfect moody lighting where it made everyone look good.
"Why didn't you come over earlier?" Bucky asked.
You looked at him funny.
"What, and be in the middle of all your...women? No thanks." You scoffed.
Bucky raised an eyebrow at you then sipped his drink.
"Jealous?"
Your head snapped to his and you scoffed.
"Please."
You primly adjusted the hem of your dress.
Bucky leaned in close to you.
"I have no idea who she was; she just came over to me."
"Good to know you let randoms grind all over you." You said sarcastically.
You looked over at him. "Why are you telling me this Bucky?"
His face was close to yours making you lean back a little so you could see his eyes. His piercing blue eyes were searched yours and he said, "Just thought I needed to explain myself."
"Right. The big bad mafia leader needs to explain to me, his lowly assistant and captive for that matter, that the beautiful woman who was sitting in his lap earlier was a nobody who just happened to sit herself down to which you did nothing to get rid of her. She looked awfully familiar with you. Tell me, if she is a no one, why didn't you shove her off and tell her to hit the road? Did you enjoy her sitting on your lap? Do you need the attention that bad?" You asked, glaring into his eyes.
You saw his jaw tick with annoyance, but he didn't reply. You are certain steam would be coming out of his ears.
"You bring me here, and for what? To show off? To show me you can have whatever woman you want fall all over you while I sit back and watch you three entertain yourselves? Tell me Bucky, where did the bartender go? Or Thor for that matter? I know you had them replaced and removed, and for what? And why?"
He leaned back, not replying. It was like he was re-booting or something. The normal scary, confident, and powerful mafia leader was having an internal debate with himself and didn't reply.
"You can have your fun, but somehow I can't. Why is that?"
He looked down at his shoes but didn't answer.
"I'm done my wine, so I'll be heading back now." You announced, getting up from the couch.
You hesitated briefly to see if Bucky would do anything, but he didn't.
He watched you leave as you headed down the stairs. You're certain Clint was hovering around the doors, and sure enough, he was, so you had him take you back to the mansion.
🔫👨🏻
"Fuck!" Bucky yelled, throwing an empty glass against a bookcase that exploded everywhere.
He ran a hand through his shortened hair in frustration and was muttering to himself.
"You ok boss?" Sam asked as Steve looked on.
They stood in Bucky's office at the club. Bucky scowled at Sam but didn't reply.
"I'm guessing you didn't have a nice night?" Steve asked, sitting himself down on a chair.
Bucky rolled his eyes and flopped down in his black leather chair.
"Would this have anything to do with Y/n?" Sam asked.
Bucky glared at him.
"Got to tell you man, it wasn't a good look to have Yelena all over you when Y/n got here, especially if you're trying to 'woo' her." Sam shrugged.
"I'm not 'wooing' anyone. There was no 'wooing'. I don't 'woo'." Bucky scoffed and shook his head in disgust.
"You didn't exactly tell Yelena to leave when Y/n came up to us." Steve shrugged.
"How the fuck did you see? You were practically inhaling Nat's face..."
"Pfft, I can multitask." Steve shrugged a shoulder.
"So, you're into Y/n now?" Sam asked.
Bucky sent him a death glare.
"Cool, cool, just checking." Sam held up his hands.
"So, what was your plan with Y/n for tonight?" Steve asked.
Bucky folded his arms across his chest which made him seem like he was pouting. Steve sighed, looking over at Sam who nodded.
They had enough of their moody boss who was too busy avoiding his feelings about you.
"So let me get this all straight." Steve leaned forward.
"We kidnap the poor girl after she witnessed her boss being murdered, drag her with us to meet you only for you to be an absolute dick to her, hold her prisoner and make her give us everything she knows about Hydra. Force her to work alongside your sorry ass at a job you don't even want and continue to keep her at the mansion. You flirt with her and don't try to deny it we have eyes, drag her here under false pretenses of a 'celebration' but what you really wanted was to spend time with her only for her to see another woman all over you which you did nothing about. You then had the bartender fired for just doing his job, and a random douche thrown out and banned for what, talking to Y/n? Then Y/n leaves and you melt down because you refuse to tell her how you feel or tell her she's starting to mean something to you?" Steve recounted.
Both him and Sam sat back and waited for Bucky to reply.
"He touched her." Bucky grumbled, not addressing anything else Steve pointed out.
"I thought you had better game than this." Sam clicked his tongue.
Bucky quickly pulled a knife on him making him chuckle.
"Easy man, we're just trying to understand..."
Bucky put the knife down but left it on the desk, glaring at it.
"So, to confirm, you're into her?" Steve looked at the mafia leader and oldest friend.
Bucky gave him a slow nod but didn't say anything.
"We knew it." Sam shrugged.
"Well, we have to do something about that." Steve looked over at Sam who nodded.
"The gala dinner is next week when you're back from your supposed 'vacation.' You know the one your new company is having? Y/n finalized the details for it last week." Sam said, scrolling through his phone.
"Y/n is supposed to receive a dress tomorrow for it since she's going as your assistant. Sam helped her order it last week after she made your sorry ass dinner."
Bucky remembered the food you dropped off for him when you saw he was working late in his office.
"How did you manage that?" Bucky finally asked.
"We pay attention to her." Steve easily said.
"You know things have been busy..."
"We know. That's why we can help you with her."
"You two?" Bucky snorted.
Sam and Steve weren't known for being helpful in a personal sort of way. One liked to fire his gun and the other was too nosy and liked to gossip. God, why did he have these two as his main men?
"Fine."
"I need you to ask us nicely..." Sam smirked.
Bucky inhaled sharply then exhaled like an angry bull.
"Can you help me with Y/n? I'm into her and don't know what to do."
"That's better." Sam said with Steve nodding.
"We'll have Y/n falling for you in no time..." Steve assured his boss.
🔫👨🏻
You had gotten to the office early Monday morning since Bucky had an early meeting to attend. It's with a city official you're certain Bucky will more than likely pay off for him to 'look the other way' at the new warehouse build at the pier but you didn't say anything as you got the conference room ready.
You hadn't seen Bucky at the mansion since the 'celebration at the club' night as Sam and Steve told you he was away and dealing with some other issues, so this would be the first day you've seen him since. You were nervous to see him, and you cursed yourself for having that feeling. You left the club with a weird vibe, and you were hoping it wouldn't continue to your work when you saw Bucky walk into the office.
He stopped by your desk and placed a coffee on it.
"Here." Then he walked into his office and closed the door. Your eyes went wide at the gesture seeing as how the mafia leader had never given you anything before other than a place to live and some clothes, so this was weird.
After Bucky's meeting, he called you into his office. It still felt weird standing in it, but the new paint and furniture helped.
"The gala...it's Thursday?"
"Yes. Brock thought it would look good for the company to host a charity gala, so he had set this up almost a year ago."
Where is he going with this?
"You'll come with me."
"Uh, that was the plan since I can't go anywhere without a chaperone you approve of..."
"...As my date."
You stood gawking at him as he stood and rounded his desk, standing in front of you.
"But...I'm working it..."
"No, you're not. I've got it handled. You'll come as my date and that's that." He said before he grabbed his phone and tucked it into his pocket.
"I'm leaving for the rest of the day to deal with an issue on the new warehouse site. Clint will drive you home whenever you want."
You didn't have time for a response since Bucky left you standing in the office.
"Home? What the hell?" This was the first time he's mentioned the mansion as your home. You ran a hand over your face before you headed to your desk to over-analyze what he just said.
🔫👨🏻
"Where is she?" Bucky grumbled, looking at his watch.
He stood in the foyer of the mansion in his all-black tuxedo while Sam and Steve looked on. The gala was something he would get through as many people were curious and wanted to meet the mysterious new leader of Hydra Enterprises.
Bucky has plans to make Hydra Enterprises one of his legit businesses and over the weeks, he's restructured it with the help of Steve, so it's profitable. He's having a meeting that will remove the corruption and fraud from the books with his IT people and hopefully that will remove any trace of Brock's wrongdoings.
He figures, if you're associated to it, he wants to keep your name as far away from that part of his world as possible, but he knows there's going to be some things you're associated to if he has any say.
Footsteps were heard coming down the stairs as Bucky turned, only to freeze as he watched you descend.
"Hi." You said to the three men who were all gawking at you.
You saw Bucky look over at Sam and Steve who quickly averted their eyes and seemed more interested in the flooring than you. Bucky openly stared as he took in your dress.
"Is this, ok?" You asked, turning in a circle to show him.
Your black dress clung to your body, revealing a high slit on your left side. The strapless bodice beautifully showed off your chest as you watched Bucky swallow.
"It's fine." Bucky gruffly said.
Bucky turned and glared at Steve and Sam who were still shuffling their feet. He's going to have a word for them helping you pick out such a revealing dress.
He's not sure where his eyes should focus; on your face, chest, or that fucking slit revealing your legs in their high heels. He nodded to Sam and Steve who proceeded to leave with you following. Bucky's hand was on your lower back as he guided you to the waiting SUV.
🔫👨🏻
"Stop fidgeting." Bucky's voice cut through the quiet of the SUV.
"I'm not." You scoffed at him.
"You are."
"Whatever. I'm hungry." You said to no one in particular.
"We'll be there soon so you can have some food."
You weren't thrilled at the idea of eating small appetizers, but at least you know what is being served since you signed off on the caterer's menu last week.
"Fine."
Your leg was bouncing up and down, so Bucky leaned over and placed his palm on your thigh to stop you, sending shivers throughout your body. His warm calloused hand squeezed your bare thigh to settle you.
"Relax." He whispered, making your eyelids flutter and leg stop moving.
You cleared your throat and shifted slightly. Sam and Steve smirked to each other. Bucky didn't remove his hand until the SUV came to a stop.
🔫👨🏻
You walked into the ballroom and looked around in awe.
"Wow."
The ballroom was decorated like an enchanted forest with fairy lights, large flower bouquets, candle centrepieces, and pops of colour. You knew there would be extra security at the gala, with Bucky doubling his men since he himself was attending and you noticed them right away with their dark suits, stoic demeaners, and earpieces you know lead to the tech team back at the office.
Bucky watched you take in your surroundings and had to hide a smile on his normally stoic face.
"Let's go." He said, once again placing his large hand at your back to guide you through the crowd.
Sam and Steve walked on either side of you, making it look like all of you were untouchable. You looked around and took in the attendees, their tuxes, gowns, and jewellery shimmering in the light. For how beautiful the room was, you had a weird feeling something was going to happen.
You stood close to Bucky's side all night, sipping a glass of champagne while he chatted with people. Many women side-eyed you as you walked the room, but you didn't care, often sending them glares until they looked away. Whatever. Bucky made it clear you were his date, and you were going to enjoy it for the night. You're certain the blonde from the club was busy and that's why he asked you, but you don't want to think about it when you stepped out of Bucky's arms.
"What are you doing?"
You placed your empty glass on a table.
"I'm headed to the ladies room." You said, feeling weird you had to announce that to them but whatever. Before you turned to leave, Bucky leaned in and said, "We're dancing when you get back." You looked at him in surprise but nodded when you turned and headed to the ladies' room.
🔫👨🏻
You finished and cleaned yourself up, re-applying some lipstick in the mirror when you heard the door open then close. You glanced over to see who entered, but you didn't see anyone.
"Weird." You muttered, tucking your lipstick back in your clutch.
You checked your hair one last time and took a step from the mirror when a pair of arms surrounded you and covered your mouth.
"Don't scream."
The male voice sounded in your ear. You couldn't fight them seeing as how your dress was awkward, they were strong as hell, and you were surrounded, seeing two large men walk out of the stalls, holding you at gunpoint. OMG - Did they listen to me pee? Why was that the thing you were thinking about at a time like this!
"Who..." You were about to ask, but a damp cloth was placed over your nose, knocking you out cold.
🔫👨🏻
"Go and check on her." Bucky told Steve who nodded, leaving the ballroom. He headed to the ladies' room, only to find it empty and what looked like a storage room was open revealing a hidden hallway. He quickly ran up and down the hall, shoving past people. He checked in with security to be certain what he was thinking, but no one had seen you.
"Fuck!" Steve yelled, talking into his hidden microphone. "Y/n is missing."
When Bucky heard that, his eyes widened before he took off, fleeing from the ballroom. Many people looked over and gasped slightly but didn't react as he ran down the hall. He owns the hotel the gala was at, and ran to one of the offices, finding Steve already set up.
"Where?"
"We've got Parker tracing the cameras. We'll find her." Steve confidentially said, but Bucky only yelled in frustration, kicking the chair over.
He ran a hand over his hair which fluffed it up making him look frantic. He breathed heavy, trusting his tech guys they would have an answer soon.
🔫👨🏻
You woke in a darkened room, lying on what felt like a dirty cement floor.
"Shit." You muttered, trying to focus your eyes, but it was useless, the room was pitch black.
"Where am I?" Your head pounded, feeling like you just left a 24-hour heavy metal concert.
You were still in your gala dress, so you were somewhat glad no one had stripped you when you heard footsteps. A door opened causing light to filter in.
You turned and squinted holding up your hand to block the brightness when a creepy male voice said, "Ah, you're awake. He'll want to see you now."
The footsteps came closer and helped you up, causing you to stumble.
"Wait, who the hell are you?" You tensed as the man grabbed your arm.
"You don't need to know that right now. Come, he wants to meet you."
"No!"
The man smirked and pulled out what looked to be a long stick of some kind. He held it up, then immediately hit you with it, striking your side, causing you to scream in pain.
"What the hell you sick fuck!"
He reared back again and hit you across your back, knocking you to the ground. You winced when he hit you once more, hearing a crunch as you screamed. You're certain your arm was now broken.
"Get up."
He ushered you out of the room. You stumbled down a hallway and entered a large office when the man walked you to a desk. The walls and accent colours were red making your eyes fuzzy at the bold colour choice.
"He'll be right with you." Then the man stepped back, leaving you alone holding your injured arm.
A side door opened and an older man stepped out wearing a black suit.
"Miss Y/l/n. Make sure you tell them you were injured before you got here. I wouldn't want that reflecting badly on us now would we."
He walked towards you and inspected your arm. You felt his beady eyes roam you, making you want to hurl.
"I'm Johann Shmidt. An...acquaintance of Mr. Rumlow's." He sat himself down at a large black desk. Your mouth popped open in shock.
"Please, have a seat." He gestured to a chair.
"No thanks." You replied in a raspy voice.
"What am I doing here?" You asked.
The man smirked, placing his hands on his desk.
"You've been selected as part of the next shipment."
Your stomach plummeted. You had thought Bucky's men dismantled that.
"Me? What shipment?"
"Scheduled to leave tomorrow. You'll board the ship and travel with the others..."
"Others?"
"Yes, others. You'll score a pretty penny for me now that you're Barnes' girl."
"What?"
"James Barnes, mafia leader and new CEO of Hydra Enterprises? You're his girl, so I expect you to fetch the most from my buyers."
Oh hell no.
You turned to leave but were stopped by this Zola guy who was now holding a gun at you. You turned and said, "Why are you telling me this?"
The man shrugged a shoulder and leaned back in his chair.
"Rumlow was a decent guy but no longer matched with our...priorities. I told him you would fetch a good dollar, but he always insisted you not be included in his dealings. He valued your brains too much over your body..." His eyes raked you up and down and said, "Although I agree on the body front, your connection to Barnes will overrule your physical...shortcomings..."
He snickered at you making you scowl.
"Fuck you."
"I admire your feistiness although your buyer will more than likely want you submissive...so you better get used to it now."
You almost heaved at his comment. There was no way that was going to happen.
"Take her away." He waved, standing from his desk.
Zola grabbed you and wrestled you out the door, but you stopped him by stomping your heel on the top of his foot causing him to yelp. You faced Shmidt.
"Bucky will come for you, and when he does, you and your little minion will die a painful death!"
"I count on it. Because when he does come, we'll be waiting."
Both men chuckled ominously as another man grabbed you and walked you back to your cell as the door to the office slammed shut.
🔫👨🏻
"Who?" Bucky asked.
"Johann Shmidt and Arnim Zola. Part of the newly formed science division at Hydra Enterprises." Sam said, placing a file on the desk.
"Fucking hell! How many divisions does Hydra Enterprises have!" Bucky yelled.
"I swear to God when I get her back, I am dismantling Hydra Enterprises." His plans for making it legit were thrown out the window.
Bucky read over the small intel sheet Parker provided him.
"We tracked her here." Steve said, pointing to a map.
Bucky would find a way to tell you later he had his men put small trackers in all your clothes and hoped you would forgive him. Bucky looked over the map and knew exactly where it was.
"Let's go." He grabbed his gun and checked the ammunition.
"Woah woah, Buck. I want to get Y/n just as much as you do, but we need a plan. We can't just storm in guns blazing. Besides, Parker is dismantling the bombs as we speak." Steve said, blocking Bucky from leaving. Bucky growled at Steve knowing he was right.
"Ok, so what do we know..." Sam said, re-focusing his boss to come up with a plan of attack...
🔫👨🏻
You don't know how long you were in the darkened cell. You were on the floor, curled into a ball protecting your arm, when you heard footsteps then the door was opened.
"Let's go." Arnin Zola grabbed you and ushered you out.
"Where?" You muttered, fumbling down a hallway.
"Stop shoving me along..."
"Then walk nicely..."
"I'm trying to..."
You fought with him a little, but he stopped and faced you.
"Shut up." He slapped you across your face causing you to wince.
"Let's go. The ship is here but we have to finish getting it ready."
Fuck.
You figured you were in a warehouse by the pier but weren't sure where, or if you were even in the same city when he opened a door and threw you in, locking it behind you. You noticed there was six cots that looked like they were recently used. In another corner were six women who were huddled together. Bile rose in your throat but you swallowed it down.
You walked over and they flinched slightly.
"It's going to be ok, someone will come..."
"No one will." A brunette woman interrupted you.
"We've been here for a month, waiting..." She shrugged.
"We've all been waiting..." Another one said, hugging her knees to her chest.
"My arm is broken..." You blurted out.
The first women got up and looked it over, then she walked to a cot and cut a piece of cloth to make a makeshift sling.
"There, that should hold. It's not much but it should feel better."
"Thank you." You could cry because not only did it help with the pain, but she was so kind even though you were surrounded by fear and uncertainty.
"Where did they find you?" The first woman asked looking at your tattered black gown.
"Gala dinner."
She snorted. "Lucky. They grabbed me from my house in the early morning. I was about to leave for my shift at the er. My name is Peggy."
"Y/n."
No one else introduced themselves, probably too scared to speak.
"I promise, someone is coming." You assured them.
You sat by them and brought your legs up, hugging them to your chest and sent a small prayer up to anyone who would listen that Bucky was going to save you. You just had to hold on a little longer.
🔫👨🏻
Bucky rode with Sam and Steve in an SUV, along with 20 other SUV's full of his men and loaded weapons. A long line of them travelled to the abandoned pier, his gut twisting when he saw a waiting ship at the dock.
"We just made it." Sam said.
His men stalked out of the SUVs with another 50 who were already there his tech team dispatched. He's going to have to give Parker a hefty raise and some time off from the info he found. Parker was currently dismantling the newly formed science leg of Hydra Investments by blowing up the leader's homes, businesses, and acquaintances, along with dismantling their bank accounts, investments, and holding companies.
Bucky didn't give a shit if this started World War three, his goal was to get you back in his arms, safe and sound and if that meant destroying half of the city, he was going to do it.
🔫👨🏻
You heard commotion outside the locked door as you and the rest of the women stood, inching your way to the door.
"What the hell?" One of them said.
You looked over at Peggy who was watching with a curious expression on her face. Your heart was racing knowing it was more than likely Bucky and his men that were causing the noise, so you waited.
🔫👨🏻
Bucky, Sam, and Steve walked into an office that made their eyes buggy from the colour.
"Someone likes the colour red." Sam said, walking the perimeter.
"Barnes, nice of you to check on your newest division at Hydra Enterprises." A man walked in from a side door.
"Fuck off Shmidt." Bucky growled.
"I'm surprised you know who I am."
"You're the piece of shit in charge." Bucky said, leaning against a table.
"Perhaps." Another man walked into the office and stood at Schmidt's side.
"Zola." Bucky grumbled making the short man nod at him.
Steve walked over to Bucky's side as did Sam.
"You've brought the whole cavalry."
Gunfire and blasts were heard from other parts of the warehouse.
"It's over, Shmidt." Bucky said.
"Is it?"
Parker had assured Bucky the science division was dismantled, leaving no trace of it by the time Bucky got to the office. All the men in the warehouse were destroyed, along with the ships and the warehouses. This was the last one, but Bucky wasn't going to announce that...yet.
"I don't take kindly to people who creep in on my turf, especially with trafficking."
"Brock..."
"Brock was murdered." Bucky snapped at him.
Shmidt and Zola shrugged like they didn't care one bit.
"He was murdered and I took over, plain and simple, and now, I'm going to murder you."
Loki walked in and stood behind Bucky. Shmidt seemed to know who he was and shifted appearing slightly nervous.
"The bombs on site have been dismantled, your men have all been killed, and your little ship has been grounded."
"You work fast." Zola stated.
"Now, all you have to do is tell me where Y/n is."
Shmidt's face lit up for the first time.
"She's here." He casually shrugged, lighting a cigar, turning to face Zola.
"Where did you put her after you broke her arm?" Zola shrugged.
In one swift move, Bucky took out his gun and shot Zola in the forehead, torture be damned. Zola crumped in a heap while Shmidt watched.
"Your time has come to an end. Rumlow is dead, Hydra Enterprises is no more. You're going to die too." Steve said.
Shmidt shrugged, not seeming to care as both Sam and Steve held their guns at him. Loki stood by and watched, waiting for the signal to take over so he could torture him, something he was the best at.
"Very well." Shmidt shrugged, turning to face Sam and Steve.
"Take your best shot."
"Wait." Bucky watched close.
"Ah, having second thoughts?"
"Something isn't right."
"You're good." Shmidt shrugged.
"There's an explosive device set to the room Y/n is in. It may or may not have been triggered when you first walked in here and it may or may not have a kill switch, and it may or may not have gone off already."
A few explosions were heard in the distance. Bucky's eyes flashed with concern.
"He's lying." Sam scoffed.
"Am I?"
Another explosion sounded.
"If you find her and open the door, it may end up badly for you both." Shmidt said.
"Fuck!" Bucky growled, lowering his gun.
He ran a hand over his face but held the gun up and cocked it. He took a shot, hitting Schmidt in the shoulder.
"He's lying like Sam said. We've located Y/n." Parker's voice sounded in the earpieces.
Bucky wanted to fall to his knees in relief, but he stayed composed as did his men.
"We're going to torture you, you sick fuck." Bucky smirked, giving Loki the signal to start.
"Wait, Y/n...she may..."
"Shut up you fuck! I'm done with your games!" Bucky shot him in the other shoulder causing Loki to roll his eyes at his trigger-happy boss.
"He's all yours." Bucky said, leaving the office.
"Where is she?" He said into the earpiece. Loki smirked and swooped in, pulling out his bag of tricks making Shmidt's eyes widen in fear for the first time.
"When you see Brock in hell, tell him I said hi." Bucky said, gesturing for Loki to take over before he left the office.
🔫👨🏻
A loud blast sounded, rattling the door to the room you were in. You stood by it, trying to listen since the gunfire had eased when you heard footsteps.
"Someone's coming!" You announced.
Many of the women tensed, some hung onto each other when the door to your room burst open.
"Steve!!!" You yelled, seeing a tired yet relieved expression on his face. You ran to him and hugged him tight before you released him.
"Where's Bucky? Sam?"
"Here." Sam peeked into the room but was bowled over when Bucky stormed in shoving him aside.
"Move." He bolted over to you, his blue eyes seemed electric as he quickly looked at you, then he immediately wrapped you up in his arms, holding you tight.
"Fuck! Baby..." He sighed, melting into you.
He was rubbing your back and hair trying to soothe you. Tears formed in your eyes as you let him hold you.
"I'm ok..." You winced slightly when he let you go.
He looked at your arm in a makeshift sling and his nostrils flared.
"I think it's broken..." You whispered.
"Fucking Hydra." Bucky's voice was low and sounded lethal.
"Let's go." He announced as Sam and Steve ushered out the other women.
"Wait!" You stopped.
You walked over to Peggy who was on the arm of Steve and gave her a side hug.
"Thank you, for helping me."
Then you let her go and walked back to Bucky.
"Fuck this." Bucky said, placing his gun in his holster.
He reached down and scooped you up, so he was carrying you.
"Let's get the hell out of here." He said, his men following.
When you got outside, the warehouse you were in was completely levelled along with the pier.
"Holy shit." You said, looking around. A black SUV was waiting so you boarded it alone, with Bucky.
The rest boarded the other SUV's who were waiting.
Bucky got in and slid to your side, bringing you to sit on his lap for the ride back. You winced slightly from your arm, pain starting to return as your adrenaline was wearing off.
"I need a hospital..."
Bucky's hand roamed up and down your back, soothing you as much as it soothed him with the rhythmic motion.
"I'll need a cast...probably x-rays, pain killers..."
"Baby..."
You looked up at Bucky.
"Shut up and let me hold you." He sighed, squeezing you close.
"I've already got a doctor lined up and is waiting at home for you."
You snuggled into his chest while he held you.
"M'kay." You said, closing your eyes feeling safe for the first time in 24-hours.
🔫👨🏻
You woke to a calm and quiet room, groggily looking around. You had a mini-panic attack thinking you were never rescued and still at the hell on earth warehouse, but you weren't. Your eyes focused on a darkened room, and you were surrounded by clean, soft bedding.
You stretched and winced slightly at the slight pain in your arm, looking down to scowl at what was preventing you from moving.
"Oh, right, it's broken."
You scowled at the cast that was being held with a black sling.
"Feeling better?" A voice sounded from your right side.
You looked over to find Bucky sitting there. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up his arms, showing off his tattoos with the top button undone. His usual black suit jacket was nowhere to be found.
"What are you doing here?"
He smirked at you and said, "You're the one in my bed baby..."
Your eyes went wide as you looked around again.
Frig, this is not my room.
"Oh, well, let me up..."
You shuffled around trying but failing as you flopped from side to side making Bucky chuckle. He stood and sat on the edge of the bed, settling you.
"It's ok. I was the one who put you here after the doctor fixed your arm." He pointed to your cast.
"Right..."
You must have passed out and slept through it since you don't remember a thing.
"You've been asleep for 72-hours."
Your eyes widened in shock.
"Really?"
You looked around in wonder.
"No doll, I'm just joking. More like 8-hours." You glared at him making him chuckle even more.
"You're hilarious..." You muttered.
The bedroom door opened a crack and Sam and Steve stuck their heads in.
"Is she awake?" Sam whispered.
Bucky sighed and said, "yes." Then the two men barged in, walking up to the bed.
"Hey." You said, giving them a lame wave. You were propped up slightly, feeling better.
"Glad you're ok."
"Yeah, that was crazy." They said, chattering like a bunch of excited kids.
You learned Steve was in contact with Peggy from the warehouse, who he has been communicating with. He told you she was a nurse and he's planning on stalking the er department when she returns to work, so you're certain that's going over well like a lead balloon.
Sam told you he went to a bakery today to get some cookies, but he said they aren't the same as the ones you make and has asked if he can help you bake when you're feeling better.
"Would you two get out of my fucking bedroom?" Bucky sighed, running a hand over his face.
You giggled and looked over at Bucky. He had light stubble on his face and he looked exhausted.
"Fine, we're going." Sam raised his hands up with Steve mimicking.
"We just wanted to check on Y/n."
"Get out." Bucky pointed to the door while the two men shuffled away.
"It was good to see you guys. Thanks for rescuing me."
They both turned and seemed to blush slightly at your words before they left the room, closing the door.
"You need rest." You said, looking at Bucky.
"I'll rest later. I've got food coming for you. You need to eat."
"I need a shower." You muttered.
You went to get up but were stopped.
"Bucky!"
"Stay here, eat, then you can shower."
"I'll eat but then leave, and head back to my room."
"Are we negotiating then?" He teased.
"No." You huffed.
"Good. You'll stay here, in my bed and that's that."
"Oh really?"
You went to cross your arms over your chest but winced at the pain...again.
Right, my arm is broken.
You were in a standoff with the mafia leader when food was brought in.
"Eat." Bucky pointed to the tray before he got up and left the room, leaving you with your food.
"Fine bossy pants." You muttered, taking a sip of water.
🔫👨🏻
"Hydra Enterprises has been completely dismantled, the employees have been given severance pay and references to find other jobs, the offices has been cleaned out, leaving no trace of the former company." Bucky said to Steve and Sam.
"So, what's going to happen to Y/n?" Sam asked.
"She's mine." Bucky glared at him.
"Ok, but like, is she going to live here? Forever?" Steve asked.
"Yes."
"Cool, cool. So, when are you going to tell her?"
"Tell me what?" You asked, poking your head into the office.
"You're supposed to be resting. Don't make me call Dr. Strange back..." Bucky shot up from his desk and marched towards you.
"I'm fine. I was just getting some clothes to change into after my shower." You rolled your eyes at him.
"What did you have to tell me?"
"Would you look at the time?" Steve announced looking at his bare wrist.
"Gotta head out." Sam added, with the two men darting from the office like it was on fire.
"What's going on?"
Something was up.
Bucky walked you to the large couch and eased you down, sitting right beside you.
"Close enough?" You snorted to which Bucky said, "Never." Making your eyes widen.
"I was saying earlier, Hydra Enterprises is no more. It's gone. I closed the company and office..."
"Wait, what about my job? My rent? Where will I work, wait, what will I do?" Your mind was spinning as Bucky placed his hand on your thigh to settle you.
"You're going to stay here."
"Oh?"
"With me."
"Right..." You scoffed, but he didn't flinch.
"Wait, you're serious? What will I do?"
"Do whatever you want, I don't care. Pick a hobby, do nothing, do it all, but whatever you do, you do it by my side."
Your mind raced with possibilities.
"What if I want to join the circus?"
"I'll buy a big top tent for you."
"What if I want to lie around all day and eat snacks like a rabid racoon?"
"Then I'll get new couches that are more comfortable. You may have to fight Sam off, but I'll make sure the snacks never stop coming."
"What if I want to travel the world?"
There, that'll stump him.
"When do we leave? I've got properties in most major cities, just say when and we'll leave."
You gaped at him.
"Wait, the employees..."
"Taken care of." Your eyes widened and he sighed.
"Not like that. I knew you'd be concerned, so they've all been paid out and given reference letters."
"Oh, ok." You fidgeted with your broken arm.
"Stop fidgeting."
"I'm not." You pouted.
"Wait, my apartment..."
"Already cleaned out."
"That's presumptuous of you..."
"I know you'll say yes, just admit it."
"What if I don't want to live here?"
Bucky had to stop his eye from wanting to twitch at your questions, but that was one of the things he's come to adore about you.
"You want to remodel a room or the house? I don't give a shit, do whatever you want. Baby, I have all the money in the world for you to spend. If you find the house good enough? We'll move. In case you need it spelled out to you, you're mine Y/n. You live here, with me and I will do anything to keep you happy." He squeezed your thigh.
"Hmm..." You thought about it.
"Ok."
You saw the corner of Bucky's mouth twitch.
"Ok? Just like that?"
"Yeah..."
He eyed you.
"Oh wait, there is one thing..."
"Of course there is..." He muttered.
"No more club. No more going to the club, doing things at the club, escaping to the club, you stay here. With me."
"Done." He simply said without issue.
Well, that was easy enough.
"Ok then."
That's done.
"Your things are currently being moved to my bedroom." Your eyes widened slightly.
"Oh, are they now?"
"Yup."
He leaned down, his lips practically brushing yours as his eyes flashed.
"I hope you're ready to be my queen."
You swallowed and nodded, unable to say anything else. He ran his hand up and down your thigh sending shivers throughout yours.
"Good, because you're about to enter my world and I'm all too excited to show you everything there is about the darker side of it." Then he leaned in and placed his lips on yours, making you melt into him.
summary: it was unrequited love at first sight when you met bucky barnes. having a crush on him—your roommate—is hard enough, but hearing him fuck through your shared wall? that almost kills you.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, modern au, lots of plot, fluff, angst, sloooow burn, anxious!reader, kinda insecure!reader, reader works at a bar, cap’s quartet roommates (romanogers !!), swearing, drinking, weed mentions, idiots in love they just don't know it, oblivious!reader (i love her your honour), yearningggg, jealousy, reader crashes tf outttt, miscommunication, one (1) argument, love confessions, pet names (sweetheart, angel, doll, pretty girl), detailed explicit smut, slight dom!bucky, dirty talk, teasingggg, grinding, munch!bucky, oral (f!receiving), fingering, dacryphilia, pussy pronouns, small inspection kink, praise kink, unprotected pnv (don’t do this, friends), missionary, mating press, multiple orgasms, brief sub space, mention of f & m masturbation, happy ending, no use of y/n, reader wears a dress, no physical descriptions of reader, reader's pov, kinda dramatic, briefly proofread, this is not your typical roommate!bucky fic !!
word count: 20.6k (apparently i have this condition where i can't write a short fic)
authors note: i am actually the leader of the 'having debilitating crushes on your roommate' club so... shout out to my girls who have been hearing me yap about this fic for months 😭 thank you to my gorgeous, stunning, one of a kind beta reader @phoenix-in-writing 🫶 yes, i did use some off campus characters as reader's coworkers - there's no subplot with them, they just suited the vibe 😎 likes, reblogs, and comments are very much appreciated (and feed my validation kink)
song inspo: crushcrushcrush - paramore & boyfriend - best coast
divider credits: line dividers by @/omi-resources, heart divider by @/strangergraphics
masterlist
Nothing compares to a quiet evening alone
Just the one, two, I was just counting on
That never happens, I guess I'm dreaming again
Let's be more than, more than this
You knew from the moment you stepped into the Brooklyn brownstone that you were royally fucked.
Ruffled, sleep mussed, dark brown hair. Slightly squinted, soft, deep blue eyes. A white sleep shirt that loosely clung to the hard ridges of a muscled body. Grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low and showed the shape of him if you stared longer than was appropriate.
And, god, the low, husky voice that you could feel rumble through your body from metres away. The slender, strong, veiny hands that didn't hesitate to grab the box slipping from yours. The pink lips that stretched into an easy smile, pearly white teeth dazzling and rendering you speechless for a minute.
The heat that crawled up your back was instant—your body reacting to your new roommate before you even knew his name.
Attractive men existed, you knew that. The bar you worked at had handfuls of them come in every night, some that even flashed you a flirty smile with interest in their eyes. But you didn't live with any of them—you didn't see them when they were half-awake, their rough edges softened by sleep and early morning light.
He introduced himself as James Barnes, but he requested you call him Bucky—"only my ma calls me James"—, and mentioned he worked as a physiotherapist at the VA.
He was quick to put the box in your new room, running out to the curb to grab the rest of your belongings from the rental van. You stood near the entrance, frozen in shock. Words failed you, your brain failed you—the only thing you could think about was the shift of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he hauled boxes through the door. It was an intoxicating sight, one you didn't even know would affect you.
You quickly came to learn that the problem was Bucky—everything he did had an intoxicating effect on you.
The smile he flashed you as he handed you your morning coffee, the wink he tossed your way when he took your side in your weekly movie night debate with Sam, his laughs that you could hear through your shared wall when he gamed with his friends.
His laughter was one of the most intoxicating things about him. There were the low, deep huffs when he was tired. The louder, harsher ones when he was caught by surprise. Then your favourite—the long, slightly breathless giggles that crinkled the corner of his eyes and had his nose scrunching. Every time you were blessed with them, you could only think about how cute he looked. It made him even more attractive, and you even more infatuated.
When your friend and roommate said that she was going to move into her partner's apartment once your lease was up, the first thing you felt was dread. You didn't know anyone who was looking for a room, nor did you know anyone who was looking for a roommate. The last thing you wanted was to move in with a stranger—having already lived with complete strangers in the past you could not say it was a pleasant experience. Your friend—an absolute angel—was quick to tell you that a coworker at her law firm was looking for a roommate, and she assured you that Nat would not break into your room and steal your jewellery like your first ever roommate did.
While you weren't exactly ecstatic to move in with four best friends, Nat had quickly won you over when you met for coffee. You sat down feeling like a complete contrast to her—sporting an old sweatshirt over your sweaty work uniform while she was in a creaseless emerald pantsuit. But she made you feel completely at ease—offering up embarrassing college stories about her and the guys, asking you about yourself and actually seeming interested, talking about the brownstone with so much adoration in her voice you couldn't help but love it already.
You felt awkward living with the close knit friends at first—shuffling on your feet as the four of them lounged on the couches, pulling at the loose threads on your sweater as you sat and listened to them bicker.
Fortunately, it didn't take long for you to find your place in the group. Sam played a big part—his teasing and infectious personality making you feel at home within a week. He didn't let you retreat into yourself; he pestered you with a mix of random and personal questions—"what extinct animal do you most identify with" followed by "what was your first heartbreak"—, teased you about your cooking (to which he always stole a mouthful), and was just warm—and yeah, slightly chaotic.
Nat and Steve quickly became one of your favourite couples. They weren't heavy on the PDA—unless red wine was involved—and they balanced each other out perfectly. She was loud, he was quiet. After a few too many on a night out she was ready to start a fight with any asshole who dared to look her way, and he was there to gently steer her away by the shoulders and remind her it wasn't worth ruining her fresh manicure.
Despite having some opposite traits, they were both incredibly kind and comforting people—truly living up to their titles of being the household's mom and dad. Nat was there for you after your gruelling shifts, holding either a glass of wine or mug of hot chocolate. Steve was the one knocking on your door with a bowl of soup and bag of medicine when you had the flu.
And then there was Bucky. He was just as kind, a good middle between Sam's chaotic nature and Steve's quiet one, and he made you feel seen.
Uncomfortably so.
He was the one next to you during social gatherings, gently nudging his shoulder against yours in a silent check in. He was the one suggesting fresh air when your breathing picked up incrementally. He was the one staring at you like he was captivated, sitting forward as you rambled about your niche interests.
Bucky noticed you, paid attention to you, like no one else had in your life.
He remembered what mugs you liked, making sure to use one of them when he made you both coffee—he remembered that too, the way you liked your coffee made. He bought you more body wash when you complained about running out but not having time to go to the shop before your shift. He sat next to you as you rewatched your comfort shows for the fifth time, asking questions like he was genuinely interested—a welcome contrast to Sam's mocking comments.
Each day he was in your life, looking at you like you were worth knowing, was just another day you fell deeper.
And then there were the moments. There weren't many, only a handful, but they were burned into your memory.
The first was when you came back after brunch with old friends, wearing a white sundress that made you feel pretty.
Bucky was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while eating an apple. You smiled in greeting as you walked in, grabbing a glass to fill with water. You sneaked a side glance at him like you always do when he's in the same room as you, catching his eyes already on you—drifting from the bottom of your dress up to your chest. You watched his adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed.
"That's a nice dress, sweetheart."
Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his low drawl, a warmth spreading in your core from the pet name. He had never called you that before.
He pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen, acting like those five words hadn't changed your whole day—your whole life.
Where once you thought the dress was pretty, you now saw it as a lifeline—tethering you to the hope that Bucky might just like you back. You found reasons to wear it more often; making an effort to hang out in the common spaces when you came back home wearing it, delaying changing into your comfortable clothes because Bucky wasn't home yet and you wanted him to see it. To see you.
The second moment was when the five of you were at a birthday party for one of Sam's army buddies.
Nat and Steve had left after only being there for half an hour—Nat giggling to you on their way out, telling you and the boys to hold off on coming back home for a couple of hours. Sam was in the lounge with a large crowd hanging on to his every word as he retold his war hero stories— to which Bucky was quick to throw you a look, raising his hands to mimic being strangled, making you laugh and receive dagger eyes from Sam.
The two of you made your way outside towards the game of beer pong being set up. Bucky was quick to accept their offer to join in and that's how you found yourself standing opposite him, a sticky fold out table between you—the ping pong ball in your hand shaking, your breath catching as his lips tilted into a smirk. His eyes were as dark as the sky, the moonlight making them twinkle with their own constellations—staring straight into yours with a silent challenge, daring you to miss your next shot. His tongue sweeping over his bottom lip stole your attention and your hand faltered, the ball almost dropping out of your grip.
"You got this, sweetheart."
Time slowed down as the ball left your hand, your eyes watching it sail through the crisp night air while Bucky watched you. It dropped to the table with a pathetic, dull tock—inches away from any of the red solo cups. Bucky's smile grew even more lopsided, his eyes gleaming with mirth.
"Better luck next time, angel."
What the fuck was with him calling you these stupid, heart stuttering, knee trembling pet names?
Your beer pong partner was quick to brush off your missed shot, chuckling at your flustered expression and offering to help you with your stance. The game continued with you almost missing every shot, your partner guiding you with hands on your hips in the hopes of you sinking a cup. His arms wrapped around your waist when you made your first successful shot, but it wasn't his attention that had your mind clouding—you couldn't even say it was the alcohol flowing through your veins. No, it was the look of pride on Bucky's face that had you freezing, everything else around you fading away until all that remained was shining midnight eyes and curved pink lips.
God, how you wished the arms around your waist were his.
The guys you were playing with retreated inside after the game ended, with your partner telling you to find him before you left, throwing you an easy smile over his shoulder.
Bucky and you lingered in the fresh air, slowly walking towards the backdoor, your bare arm brushing against his denim jacket with every step. Music and laughter trickled out of the open windows, the noise softening in the cool breeze before it reached you. Despite the calm, you felt your body vibrate with a persistent buzz—Bucky's close proximity and the beer you downed making it hard to find the line between your feelings and reality.
"You do realise he was flirting with you, right?" Bucky's voice broke the silence. You turned your head to find him already gazing at you—soft eyes a contradiction to his clenched jaw.
You scoffed, looking at him like he'd grown another head. "What, no he wasn't."
"Uh yeah, he definitely was. The 'let me fix your stance' play is the oldest trick in the book and has a pretty decent success rate." He chuckled softly, shaking his head with an uptick of a smile. "Not with you, though." He paused, giving you a teasing wink. "I'll keep that in mind."
The wink had your body flushing with heat, the words I'll keep that in mind burrowing into your lovesick heart and amplifying the buzzing. Your words stumbled on their way out."Th-there's no way he was flirting with me—he's way out of my league."
Bucky stopped in his tracks, turning to face you fully with a deep crease between his eyebrows. The gentle breeze swept a strand of hair over his face, your hand twitching with the need to brush it behind his ear.
His voice dropped low, the teasing tone subduing. "What are you on about? Tell me you know that's not true, doll."
You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable under the intimacy of the dark sky. You shivered, not just from the cooling wind caressing your bare arms. You gave a small shrug in response.
Bucky started to take his jacket off, exposing the black t-shirt that hugged his biceps a little too tight for your sanity. "While I don't believe in the whole people being in different leagues thing, I can confidently say you are so far out of his league you're on a whole nother planet."
"…Are you saying I'm an alien?"
"If the shoe fits," Bucky responded, a fraction of his seriousness easing into a cheeky smile. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sides of your neck as he fixed the collar—another shiver running down your spine from his faint touch. The warm, rich scent of his cologne and him wrapped around you and dragged you under—the scent that you now associated with home.
Bucky's eyes met yours, the starlit blue swirling with something you couldn't quite decipher. His hands moved from the collar of his jacket to the hem, fingers toying with the rough fabric. "No, what I'm trying to say is that you're—" he licked his lips, trying to find the right words. "Any guy would be lucky to have you, but I don't think anyone is deserving of you."
Your brain short-circuited, the haze of rose coloured glasses starting to fall over your eyes—threatening to distort the Bucky in front of you with the one you stayed up late daydreaming about.
You found a smaller version of your voice. "I…I'm not that special, Buck."
He tugged on the hem, the force pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. "No? Then why are you the only person—other than Steve—that I let call me Buck?"
You stared at him, unblinking. You didn't realise other people didn't call him Buck—the nickname just slipped from your lips so naturally after the first month of living with him.
"One of these days, I'm going to make you see yourself how I do."
He leaned in, brushing the faintest of kisses on your forehead—the mere ghost of his lips burning your skin, eliciting a cascade of sparks to run down your body. He stepped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tilted his head towards the door.
"Let's get back inside before Sam tells everyone about the time he had to save you from a raccoon."
"He had very sinister looking eyes!" You cried indignantly. "And I was really stoned—remind me to never have one of Nat's brownies ever again."
The third moment happened during your bar's weekly quiz night.
The four of them were in their usual booth for the night—the one Sam demanded you reserve for them ever since you mentioned your work had a quiz night on Tuesdays. Nat and Steve were sitting on one side, each nursing a pint of craft beer, with Sam and Bucky sitting opposite them—the latter half hanging out of the booth with his hand raised in a beckoning gesture, shooting you one of those irresistible half smiles that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter.
You rolled your eyes at him, knowing exactly what he wanted—but you couldn't stay away from that smile, even if it was starting to get you in trouble at work.
You walked over to them, pocketing your pen and notepad before stopping next to Bucky, your eyebrows raised and arms folded.
"What do you want now?"
"Can I please place an order for the answer to question five?" Bucky held the quiz sheet up to you, pointing at the blank space next to number five like it was a menu. "Oh, and question eight." His smile evolved into a endearing grin, your heart aching traitorously at the sight.
"No."
The smile dropped a fraction, not expecting you to say no to his charm. "C'mon, you're the one here who knows niche pop culture the best—even Sam is stumped. I know you know the answers."
You nodded, looking at the sheet in his hand before his puppy dog eyes made you crumble. "You're right, I do. I'm not giving them to you, though."
"I thought I was your favourite." His voice dropped like he was genuinely upset, but his twitching cheeks gave away the smile he was suppressing. Sam scoffed next to him, Nat and Steve exchanged a knowing look. You ignored them.
Bucky put the sheet on the table, patting it softly like he was about to make a deal. "How 'bout this—I'll make you dinner for a week." He carefully watched your face, trying to find a crack in your resistance. "Two weeks."
You sighed, dropping your arms to your sides. "Bucky, the prize is only a fifty dollar bar tab."
Bucky shook his head. "It's not about the prize, it's about the glory of winning four weeks in a row." He squinted his eyes, tilting his head in the way you knew meant he was thinking—probably something stupid, too. "Wait—is there another prize for that?"
You scoffed, tempted to hit him with your notepad. "Yeah, you get put on the no entry list."
Nat and Steve snickered at Bucky's clearly offended face, and you bit your lip to hold back your smile—he looked too cute, it was tugging at your heart strings.
"Besides," you continued, "you only won them because you cheated."
He raised his hands in mock defence. "Hey, not my fault the pretty waitress was more than willing."
Sam choked on his beer, spluttering a mouthful onto the table. Your eyebrows skyrocketed, heat rushing to your cheeks and ears at his choice of words.
Bucky's cheeks lit up red and he ran a hand through his hair. "No—wait, I didn't—that wasn't what I meant." He nervously chuckled. "What I meant was that you're more than willing to help—help us…" He trailed off, turning and shooting Steve a look.
Some of the tension left your shoulders, along with some of the hope you always carried that Bucky liked you more than a friend. You cleared your throat, your heart rate struggling to slow down after 'pretty waitress'.
"Maybe I've grown a conscience." You looked slightly to your left, your eyes flicking to your manager standing at the end of the bar, narrowing her eyes at you.
Bucky chuckled softly, his confidence back even with his cheeks still glowing. He crossed his arms on the table, leaning towards you. "Are we gettin' you in trouble, sweetheart?"
"There's no we in this, Barnes. It's all you." Nat interjected, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. He gave her a dismissive wave, his eyes still looking at you expectantly.
"She said if you win one more time then she's going to put me on the bar for quiz nights—something about testing a theory…" You admitted quietly. You watched his blue eyes soften, his previous amusement dissipating.
"Well, we can't have that happening." He said, serious. "I would stop coming to quiz night."
"Yeah, right." Sam muttered into his beer.
"You'd be on the no entry list anyways, Buck." You said to Bucky, your tone lilting jokingly.
He tilted his head, the right side of his mouth twitching, his eyes looking like a sky full of secrets.
"You wouldn't do that to me, doll. You like me too much."
Your stomach dropped at his low voice, his words piercing right into the chamber of your heart he had unknowingly etched his name on. A breath got stuck in your throat, your usual witty banter getting lost in the sea of thoughts that only screamed his name.
Like an angel pulling you from a seizing riptide, your managers voice called out your name—saving you from saying something stupid, something that exposed how you had gone past the boundary of like six months ago, stepping into a dangerous territory that could tear you apart.
"Duty calls," you laughed out breathlessly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder. You turned on your heels and walked away like you were on fire.
Sam's low mutter made its way to you through the hum of soft pop music and chatter. "Get a room already, for fuck's sake."
Your shoe scuffed on the hardwood floor, your feet almost tripping over each other. You caught your balance—narrowly avoiding falling and making a fool of yourself in front of the guy you're hopelessly in love with.
You reached your manager waiting at the end of the bar, overcome with the desire to kiss her in gratitude.
"I need you to cover the bar while Dean has a smoke. He'll be ten minutes, tops."
You nodded your okay, used to covering the bar for your coworkers breaks. "Unless a pretty girl walks past, then he'll be at least thirty."
Your manager hummed in agreement. "Remind me to dock his pay for pulling that shit on Saturday. Boy gets enough tips from his flirting to make up for it."
You exchanged a small laugh, walking around her to go behind the bar. She touched your forearm as you passed, stopping you with a gentle touch.
"Word of advice?" She started, voice a little quieter. "Don't screw the crew."
You stared at her with furrowed brows, confused. "What? I would never sleep with Dean, that's just—ew, who knows how many untreated diseases he has." You visibly shuddered your disgust at the idea of hooking up with your coworker who was always chasing tail.
She nodded her head in the direction you came from. "They're your roommates, right?" You nodded slowly. "Hon, you look at him like you can't decide whether you want to run in the opposite direction or get on your knees."
Heat rose beneath your skin, your body freezing in mortification. You gaped at her, your mouth opening and closing until you pushed out a forced laugh.
"What—you're—that's ridiculous. You should get your eyes checked because that's, like," you laughed nervously, panic starting to burn through your rib cage, "he's like…a brother to me?" You phrased it like a question, your voice rising uncharacteristically high at the end.
She gave you a deadpan look, not buying a lick of your bullshit. Your shoulders dropped in defeat, your teeth starting to tear at your inner cheek.
"Is it…am I really that obvious?"
She sighed, her hand on your arm giving a reassuring squeeze. "I've worked with you long enough to know when someone is making you uncomfortable, when you're seconds away from exploding at a condescending customer, or when you want to jump over the bar and climb a guy like a tree." She paused for a second, pursuing her lips in thought. "Funnily enough, they all looked like him."
She let go of your arm, nodding towards the bar. "Now, stop thinking about fucking your roommate and get to work. I'm pretty sure table seven just ordered six espresso martini's." She gave your ass a friendly swat, pushing you behind the bar and making you throw your head back with a startled laugh.
You grabbed the docket from the POS printer, seeing an order for five espresso martini's and one spicy mango margarita. You walked down to the cocktail section, hands moving on autopilot as you prepared the margarita first.
Your eyes flicked up out of habit, your attention drawing towards the booth your roommates had practically scratched their names into—finding a pair of piercing blue eyes already gazing at you. The tequila bottle in your hand shook.
Don't screw the crew.
The last moment occurred during a typical movie night, where yours and Sam's raised voices warranted a domestic disturbance call from your neighbours.
"Oh my god, we are not watching Top Gun for the third time this month!" You exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing your head back against the couch with a groan.
Sam scoffed from his spot sprawled on his stupidly large beanbag—the one you're fairly certain is a dog bed for a Great Dane. "Oh, like your suggestions are any better? You made us sit through a fucking Twilight marathon a couple weeks ago! That's precious time I'll never get back."
You glared at him. "That's bullshit, Wilson—I didn't make you do anything. You chose to sit in that exact same spot and watch all five movies." A mocking smile twitched your lips. "And, if I remember correctly, you were the one asking me to pause the movie while you went to get more snacks."
Sam shook his head adamantly. "No, what's bullshit is your taste in movies—I only sat through it so you wouldn't feel bad!"
Nat and Steve were cuddled up on the couch perpendicular to you, their eyes darting back and forth between you and Sam like they were watching a tennis match. Bucky was sitting on the other end of the couch you were on, legs spread wide with a soda in one hand—his eyes shooting daggers at Sam.
You let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, really? So you crying when you thought Carlisle was dead was just you not wanting me to feel bad?"
"Yes!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Then he paused, processing what you just said. "Wait, no—there was no crying! I just acted sad for your benefit."
You opened your mouth to refute his statement when a deep, husky voice rumbled out from next to you.
"Sam," Bucky started, tone low and final, "stop lying, I saw you wiping your eyes." He continued glaring at Sam, his shoulders more tense than they were a minute ago. "Apologise to her so we can move on."
Sam looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Apologise? What the fuck do I have to apologise for?"
Bucky nodded towards you, darkened blue eyes still narrowed at Sam menacingly. "You said her taste in movies was bullshit. Apologise."
You were suddenly speechless—not sure how your usual movie night bickering with Sam led to Bucky being so…commanding. Protective.
You looked over to the other couch, catching Nat's eye—her mouth overtaken by a knowing smile. Your eyes darted to Steve next to her, his cheeks tinted pink and eyes squinted as he looked at his best friend—a sly smile partially hidden by the can he brought to his lips.
Sam shook his head with a disbelieving laugh, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table.
Bucky reached out a long leg, giving Sam's beanbag a firm kick. "Now."
"Jesus," Sam dragged out, "chill out, man." He turned to you with a sigh, brown eyes glinting as he gave you his best puppy dog expression. "I am truly sorry for calling your movie taste bullshit. I will gladly sit through ten Twilight marathons if that's what you want."
He turned to Bucky with a smug grin. "There, I apologised to your girl. You happy now?"
A breath hitched in your throat, your brain freezing and going offline.
Your girl.
Said so easily, so naturally. Like it was a fact and not a mocking taunt.
Goosebumps prickled across your skin, a pleased shiver running through you at the thought of being Bucky's girl.
Bucky glared at Sam, the apples of his cheeks dusting pink. "Very." He said before leaning forward and snatching the remote out of Sam's hand. He turned to you, cheeks still flushed but eyes considerably softer. "What do you want to watch, doll?"
"…Shrek 2."
Groans erupted from three of your roommates, the fourth keeping his eyes on you while he shook his head with a fond laugh—the one that showed his pearlescent teeth and crinkled his eyes. The one that was your damnation, sentencing you to a life of yearning and false hope.
"It's the soundtrack, right?"
You nodded eagerly, a bright smile making your cheeks ache. "I knew you would get me, Buck."
You faintly heard a fake gagging sound come from the nuisance being swallowed by a beanbag, but you couldn't care less. Not when Bucky was looking at you like you were an astronomical phenomenon.
Condensation beaded glasses stained the wooden tabletop, chewed paper straws slowly disintegrating in melted ice. A half eaten bowl of fries grew stale in the middle of the table—your manager's attempt to get some food in her staff while they abused the (prepaid) leftover function alcohol, yourself included. The disco ball was still spinning, sending a thousand shards of light dancing throughout the empty bar, while an ABBA track murmured softly beneath laughter and gossip.
"I'm telling you," Dean said, spreading his arms over the back of the booth, "the ladies can't get enough of me."
The booth packed full of your coworkers vibrated with long groans, someone to your left loudly booing and your manager threatening to throw her gin and tonic in his face. You shoved his arm off the seat behind you, earning yourself a pinch to your cheek as his arm retreated.
"I'm serious!" Dean continued, pulling his phone out of his jean's pocket. "One of them even left a review about me last week—hold up, I'll get it." He squinted against the glowing light from his screen, bringing up the bar's google page to show everyone.
"Here it is—last Saturday: bartender was cute, would drink here again. Five stars." He leaned back in the booth with a smug smile, barely reacting when your manager ripped his phone out of his hand.
"Did you see who left the review, dingus?" She asked him, her mocking smirk overpowering his. "I don't know about you, but I don't know any ladies who go by the name James." She waved the phone in his face before going back to reading the review.
Dean recovered quickly, holding his hands up with a shrug. "I'm not opposed to having male admirers—they're some of my biggest tips."
You snorted a laugh. "Oh, I bet they are."
The table dissolved into laughter around you, the liquor and line cook's joint lowering everyone's inhibitions.
Your manager looked up from the phone at you, her eyes lighting up. "Weren't you also working on the bar last Saturday?"
You took a sip of your drink, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I think so? Was that the night we had two bachelorette parties come in?"
"Yeah, we ran out of cold brew because of them." Dean said. "I set a new record for how many numbers I could get in one night."
You rolled your eyes, choosing to ignore him like everyone else at the table. "Yeah, I was definitely on the bar—my arms are still aching from shaking espresso martini's all night."
Your manager leaned forward, her glassy eyes glinting at you teasingly. "I think this review is about you," she said in a sing-song tone.
You couldn't help but feel a little giddy at someone leaving you a review calling you cute, even if they were most likely stumbling drunk.
Allie—your fellow waitress who was sitting on the other side of Dean—grabbed the phone and read the review herself, scrolling on the screen with her eyes growing wider until a delighted gasp left her.
She looked at you with a beaming smile. "This James guy has been leaving reviews about you for months."
"What?"
She nodded eagerly, a small squeal leaving her. "This is so good, nothing this exciting ever happens here!" She was almost bouncing in her seat as she looked back at the phone, her excitement shaking the booth. "Okay, this one is from Valentines Day: waitress's frown is cute, I still should've bought her flowers." She fell back against the booth seat, clutching the phone to her chest with a dreamy sigh.
Your heart stuttered, the tipsy fog in your head clouding further. "That's—it doesn't say my name…" you trailed off with a nervous laugh. "It could be about any of the waitresses."
Your manager snorted. "We called you sourpuss the whole shift, you wouldn't stop frowning."
Before you could start your rant about how Valentine's Day is just another highly commercialised holiday and people shouldn't need a specific day of the year to celebrate love, Allie started reading out another review.
"This one is from four months ago: come to this bar if you want to see a real-life angel."
Dean groaned, "that's so fucking cheesy." He turned to look at you, "I hope you're not falling for this shit."
"We don't even know if it's about me!"
"I think it's cute," the new waitress piped in from the other end of the booth. "You've got a secret admirer."
"More like a stalker." One of the line cooks mumbled.
"Oh," Allie gasped, "this man has it bad. These are borderline love confessions." She reached past Dean, handing you his phone with the review page still open.
You hesitantly grabbed the phone from her, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. There's no way some guy was leaving these reviews about you…right? That just seems insane, like something out of a romcom. Or something that will end with a restraining order and you moving states away.
The phone faintly trembled in your unsteady hands, your eyes narrowing against the screen's bright glare.
James B.
★★★★★ a month ago
Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.
Oh.
That's maybe the most romantic thing anyone has ever said about you.
You don't know if it's about you.
You exhaled shakily, shrugging nonchalantly as you handed the phone back to Dean. "He could be talking about any of the waitresses." You repeated your earlier statement. And then for good measure—"It's hardly a compliment—wars are started over literally anything."
Allie looked at you with wide eyes, bringing her hands up and shaking them in a strangling motion.
"Do you know anyone called James?" Your manager probed, clearly invested.
"No." You answered, ignoring the dull, tingling sensation at the back of your head. "No one significant."
"Well, even if he does turn out to be a stalker, at least he boosted our ratings."
Over the next few weeks, your coworkers had made it their personal mission to find out the identity of James B. Your manager had the brilliant idea to set up a weekly bar tab giveaway—for people to be in the draw they just needed to put their business card in a jar on the bar. What your customers didn't know was that every Friday after close, Allie and Dean were emptying the jar not to find a lucky winner but to look for any cards with the name James B.
It turned out there were a few more James B.'s than they were expecting, and there were no other parameters to narrow down their search. And much to their chagrin, you didn't recognise any of their names.
"Wait!" Dean exclaimed, holding a finger in the air. "Why don't we just reply to one of his reviews?"
"Oh," Allie said, leaning forward in her chair, "that's actually kind of smart. Maybe we could say we have a thank you gift for our number one fan?"
"Or we could just ask who he is."
Something about that made you uneasy.
After the night you all first discovered the reviews, Allie had drawn up a timeline of them which revealed this James guy had been leaving reviews for a year. And while they never mentioned your name, everyone knew they were about you—but you didn't want to believe that; it felt absolutely insane.
Majority of the reviews were brief and mundane, similar to the first one Dean saw. But a few of them…they read like poetry, like the pages out of someone's journal. They mentioned your smile, how your laugh could cure any ailment, that being in your presence was like witnessing a supernova.
It was beautiful and terrifying.
And every day it was looking more like a stalker than someone you knew—you didn't want to give him attention in fear that it could evolve from something harmless to dangerous.
"Already tried that," your manager sighed next to you. "He didn't reply."
Something in the atmosphere felt off when you shouldered the brownstone's front door open with a heavy sigh. It was well past midnight on a Saturday, and the soft murmuring you would usually hear coming from the lounge—Sam had a habit of passing out in front of the TV on Saturday night's—was nonexistent. You didn't think much of it, your mind single-focused on needing a scolding hot shower to wash away the ten hour bar shift.
Your work uniform was drenched and sticking to you uncomfortably, a crust of sugary cocktails and beer lining your skin. It had been one disaster after another—the beer keg soaking you as you tried to tap it, the cocktail shaker exploding in your hands, the new waitress who failed to call out "behind" and you ended up covered in a customers chili cheese fries.
You welcomed the boiling water, scrubbing your skin until it was red and raw. Visible steam swirled from your body even after you retreated into your room, and only then did some of the tension ease from your shoulders. Your fatigue ran bone deep—it felt like you were dragging your feet through mud as you slowly started your nighttime routine.
A noise cut through the eerily silent night, soft and faint, but an unmistakable echo from the room next to yours. It made you pause, your eyebrows drawing together. Then more noise followed, three breathy high pitched moans that the wall separating your rooms failed to drown out. A hot realisation curdled your stomach, rising through your body until it settled in your chest and throat—a tight, unrelenting fist clenching and making it harder to breathe.
Bucky had company.
Your ears zeroed in on the noises against your wishes. The last thing you wanted was to hear the guy you had a debilitating crush on fuck someone else. And yet, you stood frozen—your towel still wrapped around you, water dripping onto the floor, heart trying to beat out of your chest. Your nervous system had entered fight or flight mode, triggered by the sounds of another woman's pleasure.
Sweat started to line your back, your hands trembling where they were clutching the towel, chest stuttering as your breaths turned sharp and quick.
The moans grew in volume and soft thuds reverberated against the wall—then, a faint low murmuring graced your ears. A deep voice you would recognise anywhere, that you had heard through the wall plenty of times during your one year living there.
You snapped out of your shock, ripping open your work bag to find your headphones. Your phone shook in your hands as you searched for 'calming' playlists, your thumb jabbing violently at the first result. You turned the volume up loud enough to vibrate your eardrums, but the damage was already done.
You paced the length of your room, clenching and unclenching your fists in an effort to calm down—to will your racing heartbeat to slow, to tamp down the spiralling thoughts that made you feel like you were drowning.
You got ready for bed in a blur, trying to stay as quiet as possible with your heart beating wildly in your throat. The exhaustion that had your bones aching after your shift was lingering, but had been overwhelmed by the adrenaline surging through your veins. You laid in your bed, trying to concentrate on your breathing.
Inhale. One, two, three, four.
Hold. One, two—
It didn't sound like she was faking it.
The breath rushed out of you quickly.
You squeezed your eyes shut tight, clenching your fists and trying to focus on the sensation.
Inhale. One, two, three—
Bucky's bed is pressed up against your shared wall.
You grabbed the pillow next to you and pressed it against your face, something between a pained whimper and frustrated groan leaving your throat.
Did he like to talk? Was he whispering dirty things in her ear, telling her how good she felt, how much he wanted her? Did she get to hear him moan and whimper?
The music in your ears had become irritating, overstimulating you even more. But there was no way in hell you were taking your headphones off—your heart was already broken enough.
Did he call her sweetheart, too?
You slept for two hours, maybe three if you were being generous. The exhaustion won out against the anxiety around two am, only for you to jerk awake two hours later when the same noises echoed through the wall. At some point in the night your headphones had slipped off and you were defenceless against the noises your body had already filed as a threat.
Your nervous system reacted as if you were being hunted down by a lion, not overhearing your roommate-slash-crush have sex. It was a horrible way to wake up—your body pumping full of adrenaline and cortisol before you even took a deep breath.
The headphones went back on a second too late—leaving a scratched record of giggles looping through your head that the music couldn't drown out. One giggle that you knew well, that had you beaming with pride whenever you coaxed it out of him.
A silent tear slid down towards your ear, disappearing into your hairline as you stared at the ceiling.
Hours passed before it felt safe for you take the headphones off, and even then anxiety gripped your chest whenever you thought about leaving your room. Everything that had once felt safe, had once felt like your solace, now felt like a prison.
You knew you were being dramatic, knew that your jealousy and hurt was unreasonable. Bucky wasn't yours, he would never be yours—you knew that, you'd always known that. But that's the thing with crushes—they are irrational, uncontrollable beasts that mistake kindness for attraction, that disguise inevitable heartbreak as fluttering butterflies.
Opening your bedroom door slowly, you saw the flash of a towel dart into Bucky's room—two faint sets of giggles sounding behind the closed door, slicing into your aching heart. Heat burst behind your eyes and you willed the tears to stay at bay—at least until the shower could drown out your sobs.
You sat on the floor of the shower, staring at the wall while hot water rained down on you, each drop feeling like a knife piercing your skin. You sat there, unblinking, as your vision blurred—the water washing away your endless tears. You sat there as the shower stream changed from a burning fire to an icy bite, your body shivering but unmoving.
Nat's banging on the door about rising water prices snapped you out of your dissociative daze.
"Bucky! Oh, fuck—don't stop, please—"
"Yeah? You like that?"
"Yes—god, so much!"
"You feel so good, baby."
Thump, thump, thump.
You had taken your headphones off for half a minute while getting changed. All it took was thirty seconds for tears to swell in your eyes and a silent scream to claw at your throat.
It had been four weeks since you first heard them. Four weeks of knowing your crush was fucking someone else less than three metres from your bed. Four weeks of debilitating anxiety and heartache consuming you until there was nothing left to take.
You knew their routine; she came over every Wednesday and Saturday, always after ten pm. Depending on your roster for the week, sometimes you were home when she came over—subjected to hearing Bucky's low baritone greet her at the door, their footsteps padding down the hall past your room, the soft click of his door closing and the giggles that followed.
You fucking hated giggles.
By the end of the second week, you had put in a request to work the closing shift every Wednesday and Saturday. The tightness in your chest and churning in your stomach never faded, but you took some comfort in knowing you would only be in the same house as her for a few hours. You hadn't met her—you didn't even know her name—but you were envious of a faceless woman, a voice you heard in the dark, because she had the one thing you wanted but could never have.
No one brought her up—there were no casual chats between the boys, no probing questions from Nat. Apart from the first time, she was out of the house by six am—narrowly avoiding Sam and Steve leaving for their morning run. You weren't even sure they knew she existed—not until Nat gave you a sympathetic smile over a glass of wine, confirming that they did in fact know without uttering a word.
The usual nights the five of you spent together continued as normal. Or, at least as normal as you could manage. The space between you and Bucky grew—he stopped trying to charm quiz answers out of you, and you hugged the arm of the couch like it was a life preserver during movie night. The soft conversations over morning coffee ceased to exist, the nights of you two reading together in the lounge just a hazy memory.
The distance made your heart yearn for him while his proximity made your nervous system overload. It was a push and pull that sucked the life out of you, exhausting you until you were a shell of who you used to be.
When Sam asked you what your first heartbreak was you instantly thought of Liam Turner from the sixth grade. He was the classic class clown that both charmed and annoyed all the girls in your grade. He sat next to you during History and English, always pestering you for help and trying to make you his partner in crime. You did what any smitten eleven year old girl would do—you handed him a note. It was simple, you didn't even write your name—just "do you like me" with tick boxes for yes and no. You handed it to him before recess and watched with bated breath as he ran to his group of friends, watched as all of them turned to you and fell into hysterics. You crashed into your mom's arms once you got home from school, sobs wracking your body as you felt like you were going to die from the crushing sensation in your chest.
What you felt that day wasn't even a drop in the agony that consumed you when you walked into the lounge for movie night.
"You're late!" Nat yelled, her voice travelling down the hall as you rushed through the front door.
"I know, I know," you yelled back, heading for your room and changing out of your work clothes in record time. You made your way towards the lounge once in comfy clothes. "The health inspector would not stop asking me questions, no matter how many times I told him I'm not the—"
Your feet and words came to a halt once you reached the doorway to the lounge, your heart dropping to the floor and shattering into a million pieces.
Because there she was—sitting in your usual spot with her feet resting on Bucky's lap, one of his hands engulfing her ankles.
She was beautiful. And the complete opposite to you in every way possible. From the texture and colour of her hair to the shape of her body. From the clothing and jewellery she wore to the colour of her eyes.
The two of you weren't even comparable—you were from completely different planets, different universes.
It hit like a sucker punch. You weren't his type, not even close.
You're a fucking fool.
She smiled brightly at you, the white of her teeth glaring. You faintly heard her great you through the ringing in your ears, offering you her name. You managed a meek hi in response, dragging your wide eyes away from her over to the other couch.
Big mistake.
Nat and Steve were already looking at you with pity in their eyes, a silent "are you okay?" written all over their faces. Nat scooted closer to Steve, tilting her head towards the small open spot next to her on the couch. You knew the second you sat next to them that her comforting presence would wrap around you and tear away the last of your fraying composure. So, you did something you had never done before.
"Move it, bird brain." You muttered to Sam, squatting down next to his beanbag and shoving his shoulder to make room for you.
"You ever tried not being bossy?" He grumbled in reply, shuffling to the right so you could collapse down next to him.
Normally you would respond with something just as snarky. But that required mental energy that you did not possess—energy that was being drained with each passing second she sat behind you.
You settled into the beanbag, the rustling of polystyrene beads filling the quiet room. You tried to take calming breaths as subtly as possible, the blood from your broken heart clogging your throat and lungs.
You hummed, keeping your eyes glued to the TV screen as Steve navigated through the streaming app.
Sam stiffened next to you, turning to you with a peculiar look on his face. "What? You got nothing to say to that?"
You sighed. "Every white guy's number one film on letterboxd. Try being less predictable next time, Rogers." You said in a flat monotone.
A deep, breathy chuckle sounded behind you, and it took all of your diminishing willpower to not turn and get a glimpse of the soft smile that haunted your dreams.
You tried your best to focus on the movie, you really did. You tried to focus on the press of Sam's shoulder against yours, something tangible to keep you grounded. But nothing could distract you from the soft murmuring behind you, the sound of her giggles as Bucky provided commentary throughout the movie. It was something that you normally didn't mind, something you indulged in, even. Not tonight. Thirty minutes into the movie, your eye had developed a constant twitch from suppressing the urge to turn around and tell them to shut the fuck up.
At one point Sam's hand had fallen over both of yours, stopping you from picking at your bleeding hangnails. You didn't even notice the sting from the exposed wounds—too preoccupied with gnawing on the inside of your cheeks.
You walked into your shift the next day with another request.
You clocked into your shift on Tuesday afternoon with a sinking pit in your stomach. A feeling that you had become accustomed to over the last couple months, a feeling that had you walking the scenic route home at night, delaying your arrival. It was the feeling that you had started associating with home, along with the ache in your chest.
You loved quiz night—you loved seeing what stupid team names people came up with, loved judging them when they got such an obvious answer wrong. Once upon a time, you had loved seeing Bucky's handsome face sitting in your section, waving you over with an up to no good smile stretching his lips. Now, it all felt like a taunt.
Nothing was out of the ordinary—the opening shift said it had been quiet as usual, there had been a couple bookings from newcomers for quiz night, and the tabby cat that wandered the block came in to say hi.
And then, she walked in. Strolling in behind Nat and Steve, her arm looped through one of Bucky's, flashing you a kind smile as they made their way to their usual booth. In your section.
You wanted to scream. Cry. Jump into the East River.
The bar had become your safe place—which honestly sounded crazy, you hated half of the customers. But your home hadn't felt like your home since she walked through the door. And now she was in the one place that hadn't been tarnished.
She was nice, you knew she was. But she was a constant reminder that your heart belonged to a man who never looked at you twice.
You rushed over to Allie who was standing at the bar waiting for Dean to finish garnishing cocktails.
"I need you to swap sections with me—please." You said in a frantic breath.
She turned to you, her face already telling you her answer. "Hell no! I've got two tables of big tipper's—I am not giving that away."
Dean leaned his elbows on the bar. "I'll swap with you."
Your head whipped to him at a comical speed, your wide eyes meeting his unbothered grin. "…But you hate working the floor."
He nodded towards one of your tables—one of the newcomer bookings, a booth full of girls in their early twenties. A few of them were already looking over at your trio—more specifically, looking at Dean. You turned back in time to see him flash them a wink.
Your chest deflated with a relieved breath. "This is the only time I am ever going to be grateful for you being such a dog."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't." You and Allie said at the same time, matching deadpan expressions on your faces.
Allie turned to you, squinting suspiciously. "Why do you want to swap?"
You shrugged, looking at her forehead to avoid eye contact. "Just felt like a change."
"You said please—pretty desperately, too. It was kinda hot." Dean piped in.
You glared at him, choosing not to acknowledge his comment. You turned back to Allie looking at you expectantly. "Variety is the spice of life?"
She hummed disbelievingly. "Mhm, sure. We'll talk later."
Working the bar brought you no reprieve; every time you walked to the cocktail station, they were in your direct eyeline. Every time you poured a cosmo, shook a lemon drop, garnished a mojito, you could hear them laughing. You watched how she fit in like the missing puzzle piece, her body slotting perfectly under Bucky's arm—like that's where she belonged. You watched your roommates welcome her in with open arms and crying laughter, the realisation hitting you that she replaced the temporary hole your absence had opened.
Your knees were shaking while you closed up the bar, your hands scrubbing the beer grates with an urgency that was cause for concern.
"Hey, hey, woah that's—" Dean came up next to you, his hands gently clasping your wrists. "That's enough," he said, uncharacteristically gentle, "your hands are bleeding." He brought your hands up, your unfocused eyes seeing spots of red raised on your knuckles.
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh. What's up with you today?"
Dean led you away from the bar, grabbing a first aid kit on your way over to where your manager and Allie were sitting, working through the next week's orders. He pushed you into a chair, stepping back with an awkward pat to your head.
"I'm sensing that this is a girl talk so I'm just gonna finish closing the bar."
The two women turned to you with concern painting their faces. Allie glanced down at your hands and opened the first aid kit, pulling out supplies to treat the cuts. Neither of them spoke while she tended to your hands, watching your face closely.
"These aren't too bad, just scrapes." She said softly, packing the kit back up and sitting it out of the way. She clasped your hands lightly, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hands. "What's going on, sweetie?"
You looked up from where you had been staring at the table, seeing her eyes and your manager's shining with worry. A silent tear slipped from your eye, leaving a damp path in it's wake.
"Whose kneecaps are we busting?" Your manager demanded.
That broke you.
Your shoulders started shaking, your throat closing in on itself in the form of a sob. Your heart escaped from your chest cavity, rising up like bile. Your vision was completely blurred, hot tears taking your eyes hostage. You caved in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your body as your frame trembled like a leaf.
You couldn't even feel embarrassed about bawling like a baby in front of your coworkers, the pain you had been sheltering for months overruling any other emotion. Allie wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her warmth and making you cry harder. Your manager placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her thumb rubbing calming patterns as they both whispered words of comfort to you.
You gasped for breath, trying to get some air past the ball in your throat. "I-It's so—" your words broke with a hiccup, "it's so fucking stupid." You rushed out. "We were never—ugh!" You wiped at your cheeks furiously, willing the tears to stop. You gulped down a deep breath, trying to focus on the comforting touches and not the agony vibrating every cell in your body.
"We were never anything. God, I'm sobbing over a guy that—he was only being nice, and I made it into something it wasn't." You garbled out, the brine of tears lining your lips.
You opened up to them, telling them about how deeply you fell for Bucky in between sobs. How you felt like a goddamn fool, your lovesick heart reading into things and mistaking your strictly platonic relationship as something else entirely. You told them how you hate going home most nights, finding it harder to breathe the closer you got to the brownstone. You admitted to them that it's not just jealousy over him with another girl, it's something deeper—the fear that you've been replaced, that he doesn't need you anymore.
"…my sleep is fucked, I'm on high alert every second I'm home—I don't feel safe in my own home. Which—I know, it sounds so fucking dramatic. But it's like she's seeped into every crack, changing the foundations I built over a year ago. Now she's turning up here—on fucking quiz night, my night—and I just can't escape." You finished with a deep breath, feeling drained from your emotional monologue.
Allie, who had kept her arms wrapped around you throughout your rambling, lifted her head and looked at you with a mix of understanding and sympathy. "That's why you wanted to swap sections, because she was here." You nodded meekly.
She sighed and sat back in her chair. "Give me a couple days to clear out my spare room. You need it more than I need a second closet."
Before you could start sobbing over her offer a muscular arm reached in front of you, depositing a vodka cranberry onto the table.
Dean's voice rumbled behind you. "If it makes you feel any better, I've wanted to sleep with you since my first shift."
"Dean," both women next to you hissed. You turned to look at him, catching that easy-going smile of his and you started laughing—the first genuine one in weeks.
Thursday 6:18pm
Nat: Hey, you working late tonight? The boys are getting restless, Sam is threatening to watch Top Gun if you're not home in 10…
You: shit i forgot to tell you i'm working thursday nights now! sam can watch whatever mediocre garbage he wants :-)
Nat: We can change movie night to another night! Maybe Sunday? Whatever works for you x
You: don't worry about it, thursdays work for everyone else!
Nat: Is everything ok? I feel like I hardly see you anymore :(
You: aw i'm sorry natty :-( just been picking more shifts up at work - boss has me training the newbies! promise we'll have a wine night soon xx
"I'm moving out."
It was the Sunday after that fateful quiz night, the sun beating down on your four roommates as they laid out in the backyard. Sam was going on about some barbeque he had been invited to—telling the other three that if they behaved he would let them join him. Nat's head was resting on Steve's chest, half asleep while he massaged her scalp. Bucky was lying with a hand behind his head, shirtless, and reading his well-loved copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.
Allie had sent you a photo of her spare room an hour before, a bottle of Tito's sitting on the floor the only thing in the empty room. You couldn't put off telling your roommates any longer, knowing that once you moved out you would start feeling like a human again. You stood in the doorway, arms tight across your body—fearing for their reactions.
Sam stopped talking abruptly, Nat jolted awake and sat up from Steve's chest, Bucky slowly lowered his book to his chest. Nat was the first to speak.
"What?" She asked softly.
You started to shuffle your feet, looking around the backyard—at the fairy lights that flickered like dying stars, the small veggie patch Steve cared for like it was his child—avoiding eye contact with them. "You remember Allie from the bar? We've gotten really close these past few months and she was looking for a roommate—kinda felt like a no-brainer, y'know?"
You finally looked at them, your heart beat rattling your jaw. Sam looked speechless, his face frozen in confusion. Nat was looking at you with that assessing gaze, her eyes squinting like she knew something else was going on. Steve nodded his head solemnly, his features pulled into a frown that looked out of place on him. Bucky had abandoned his book completely, sitting upright with his pretty lips downturned, his sunglasses hiding whatever emotions swam in his cerulean depths.
"I can sort out getting the room filled—can probably pay double rent if necessary—"
"I'll handle it." Bucky cut you off, his tone gruff and curt.
You wrung your hands together, hating being under the spotlight of your roommate's attention. "Are you sure? It's a bit late notice so it might be hard to—"
That same curtness cut you off again,"I said I'll handle it, didn't I?"
He probably wanted his girlfriend to move in.
Your three other roommates momentarily directed their bewildered stares to him, just as surprised as you at his bluntness. Just like Steve frowning, this was out of character for him. You could feel his eyes glaring holes into you through his sunglasses.
Nat shook her head at his attitude, turning her attention back to you. "I didn't know you wanted to move out."
Okay, time for the lies—just like you practiced in the mirror.
"It's not about wanting to move out," you started softly, "it's just something that naturally unfolded. Her landlord upped her rent last month and she can't afford it on her own anymore." Steve and Sam nodded along, while Nat was looking at you with that unwavering stare. You didn't even want to glance at Bucky. "She jokingly asked me over drinks a couple weeks ago if I was looking and after thinking on it, I think it's the best choice for me. It's closer to work, cheaper than what I currently pay and, as I said, we've become really good friends."
Nat continued squinting her eyes at you, watching as you fidgeted with your fingers—your tell that you would rather be anywhere else.
"Okay," she acquiesced. "When are you moving? We'll throw a little goodbye party."
"Great idea," Sam mumbled.
"Sometime in the next week." Everyone's eyebrows shot up at that. "And that's not necessary—I'd prefer it if you didn't do anything; it's not like I'm leaving the city, I'll only be a few blocks away."
Steve recovered from the brief shock at how soon you were leaving them. "Let us know what day and time, we'll help you move your stuff."
"I appreciate the help, really I do, but my coworkers have already offered—we have Dean to do all the heavy lifting."
That made Bucky stir, standing up with a scoff and arms folded across his chest. "Did you think about us at all? Sounds like you can't wait to get away from here."
You froze, the ice running through your veins equal to the frost in his tone. "That's not—I didn't want to bother you—"
"How can you think you bother us after all this time?" He asked, the frost melting into water—revealing something that trembled close to desperation.
"Bucky," Nat warned.
"I just don't understand," He snapped, shaking his head and walking towards where you were stuck in the doorway. He paused in front of you, his sun slicked chest making your heart gallop. You kept your eyes on his chin—locking on the clef still visible through heavy stubble, resisting the desire to glance at his naked chest, or worse, look into his eyes. "Mind letting me through?" He muttered lowly, his frame now blocking you from the sun. You ducked your head, pressing your back to the doorframe to give him space.
"Buck—"
"Not now, Steve." He bit out, your body absorbing the heat radiating from him as he brushed past you. You stood still, head tilted to the floor until you heard his door slam closed.
"Well, that was…" Steve started, his uneasy chuckle filling the heavy atmosphere.
The shock of his attitude left you dazed. You expected some blow back from Nat—she could read you like her favourite book, knowing the emotions you held within yourself better than you did. You expected—hoped, really—that they might be a little down about your departure, but Bucky acting like this wasn't even in your realm of possibility.
"What was that about?" You muttered to yourself.
Sam stood up with a huff, grabbing a beer from the cooler near the table. "Fucking idiots, the pair of you."
You timed the move for the following Wednesday, not wanting to risk another night of hearing what you had labelled your own personal torture. You had been working nights since Sunday, avoiding any interactions with your roommates. The vibe in the brownstone felt off, the air tasting stale even when you were the only one home. Nat had been texting you for updates, apologising for Bucky's strange behaviour, and assuring you your friendship with her wouldn't slip away after you were gone. Sam continued to send you memes—he had an affinity for the gradient instagram reels—and Steve saved you the best strawberries from his garden, hiding them in the fridge for you.
Bucky was radio silent.
Tuesday 5:36pm
Nat: Just spoke to Allie - apparently you're not working quiz night anymore?? What's going on?
You: we thought the new waitress should work it for a bit! good experience :-)
Nat: You should come join us then! We would be unstoppable with you on our team xx
You: maybe another time? don't want the other teams to think you have an unfair advantage lol
Nat: Fuck what they think. We miss you! Movie night was not the same without you last week :(
A month passed before you saw Bucky again.
You had been texting Nat on and off, feeling an awful reluctance to seeing her. It had nothing to do with Nat and everything to do with you continuing to avoid the problem—your feelings. Because you still thought about him, religiously so. You hated yourself for it—hated your brain conjuring up scenarios of him and her, replaying the happiness that glowed on his face the couple of times you saw them together.
Your sleep had improved, at least. There was no anxiety constricting your chest when you walked home, no fear for what you might hear through the walls. Allie encouraged you to cry it out on the bathroom floor, over tubs of ice cream on the couch. While it was horrible to address and to actually feel the heartbreak instead of intellectualising it, you had to admit you did feel lighter. It was a weight off your chest for someone else to know your secret, to let you speak about the pain and not forcing you to move on.
Your manager was quick to approve your request to work the day shifts—asking if you wanted to get your managers license, to be her dependable day shift manager. You were elated to have something else to focus on, and the pay rise wasn't bad either. Working the days also meant you weren't there in case your old roommate's called in for a drink on their way home from work.
But you knew your luck was going to run out some day soon.
It was on a quintessential late summer evening—the kind where the sun was low enough to shine through the tree canopy, casting the ground in a scene of dancing light and shadows. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you ambled through Prospect Park, listening to the harmony of kids laughter, dogs barking, and a busker playing guitar. Walking through the park lengthened your journey home by twenty minutes, but on a day like this it was hard to resist.
You heard him before you saw him, too lost in appreciating the world around you to notice him strolling towards you on his trek home. He called out your name softly, hesitantly. And you would recognise that husky baritone even if you were locked in a soundproof pool drowning underwater.
Your gaze ripped away from watching a pair of swans glide along the shimmering lake, your heart jumping into your throat as you saw Bucky a few metres in front of you. He was wearing his gym clothes, the black compression top clinging to his chest with light patches of sweat. His hair was tied back in a small bun, a few strands stuck to his dewy forehead and your fingers twitched to brush them back. Soft sapphire eyes roamed the valleys of your face, his shoulders dropping with an almost relieved sigh.
You hated how your body heated under his watchful gaze in an instant—hated that he still had control over you and he didn't even know it.
"Hey," he said quietly, a small smile tugging his lips. He hesitated for a moment, doubt flickering across his face before he shook his head and stepped closer, lifting an arm and placing his hand between your shoulder blades to pull you into his embrace.
A startled gasp escaped you at the contact, blood pulsing in your ears as his warmth enveloped you. His other arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back to pull you in closer. Your traitorous body relaxed in his hold, the heady scent of sandalwood, spice, and his sweat clouding your mind.
Fuck him for always smelling so irresistible.
"Hi." You murmured, muffled by his shirt. You kept your arms at your sides, knowing that if you felt his body beneath your hands you would backtrack all the progress you had made over the past month. You could already feel yourself slipping—comparing being in his arms again to lying in front of the fireplace while rain pelted the windows and thunder clapped outside. The feeling of being warm and safe despite a raging storm.
He rested his chin on your head, his chest expanding underneath your cheek as he inhaled deeply. The hand between your shoulders flexed, pushing you further into him. His chest rumbled below you and you felt his words more than heard them. "Missed you."
You stepped back quickly, stumbling out of his embrace. His brows pinched together and his lips turned down with a frown. He took a small step back and cleared his throat, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.
"I—uh—how, how have you been?"
You folded your arms across you chest, focusing on the light freckle on his neck. "I've been okay."
"That's good, great. I—we've missed you." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and his voice dropped lower, softer . "Place isn't the same without you."
You had to leave before you did something foolish—before you dropped to your knees and pleaded for an ounce of his affection.
You cleared your throat, trying to rid the sudden emotion clogging it. "How have you been? How's the new roommate?"
Bucky's eyes flicked away from you, a hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck. "Fine—they're fine." Splotches of red coloured his cheeks. "They don't compare to you, though."
What the fuck did that mean?
"Um—okay, well, that's good? I should—"
"Listen," Bucky interrupted you before you could flee from the increasingly awkward encounter. He stepped closer, his eyes locked on the gravel lining the earth. "I—I want to apologise for my behaviour, when you told us you were leaving." He looked up at you, remorse and distress bleeding from him so viscerally you could almost grab it. "I was in shock, I think—it doesn't really matter, I'm not trying to excuse it. I just wanted you to know that I really am sorry and you didn't deserve that." He closed the distance between you more, hands raising towards you before they dropped to his sides. "I—um, I would hate for that to be the reason you haven't come 'round—if you felt uncomfortable because of me."
It was resting on the tip of your tongue, the truth. It was begging to spill out, to tell Bucky that you were uncomfortable because of him but not for the reason he believed. You could handle a little attitude—what you couldn't handle was hearing the guy you're in love with treat another woman the way you had fantasised about since the day you met him.
Grateful for the fact you had been getting enough sleep to keep a grasp on your filter, you accepted his olive branch instead of starting a confessional. "Thank you, Bucky." You looked into his eyes, trying to express your sincereness. "I appreciate it, really."
Hope flared bright across his face. "So, wanna join us next Thursday? Your pick—I'll tell Sam to keep his comments to himself."
Guilt curdled your gut. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't make it, sorry. I already have plans."
If sitting in front of the TV watching New Girl and doomscrolling on your phone constituted as plans.
And just like that, the flame was extinguished. "Oh."
You interrupted before he could say more. "It was good seeing you, Bucky, but I have to get going." You stepped around him to continue home, giving him a small wave goodbye before focusing forward—walking brisker than the tranquil evening called for, your shoulders too tense for the serene landscape.
"Bye," he murmured, the sound drifting towards you with the light breeze.
You kept your head straight forward the rest of the walk home.
You expected the text from Nat the next day, knowing that Bucky would've told your former roommates that he ran into you. She demanded you meet for brunch at your earliest convenience, and given that it was Saturday and you had no plans you couldn't deny her any longer.
You were sitting on the couch putting on your shoes when Allie burst through the front door, her hands full of bags from the morning market and mouth stuffed with cake from the pâtisserie around the corner.
"Oh my god," you heard her mumble around frosting and sponge. "Guess what I just found out."
"Apparently not what decent manners are. Swallow before you talk."
A mop of floppy blonde hair appeared in your doorway. "That's what he said."
You rolled your eyes as Dean sauntered in with a wolfish grin, closing the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing here?" You shot wide eyes at Allie, wordlessly demanding an explanation.
She took your advice and swallowed before speaking again. "I ran into him at the market—he has an update on James B!"
A mix of anticipation and dread made your morning coffee stir. "I thought he stopped leaving reviews?"
Dean collapsed next to you, eyeing the dress you were wearing with approval. "You dress up for me, angel?"
You shoved his shoulder. "Not in a million years. What's the update, dumbass?"
He pulled his phone out with a sigh. "He left a review last night—don't look at me like that, I set up notifications for this very reason." He tapped on his phone before handing it to you, the screen displaying the latest review.
James B.
★★★★★ 13 hours ago
Quiz night isn't the same without her. Nothing is.
Your heart rate picked up, sweat gathering at the back of your knees.
What the fuck?
"But last night wasn't quiz night?" Was the only thing your dumbfounded mind could vocalise.
"I mean, yeah, but you're missing the point!" Allie interjected, standing behind the couch and leaning her head down to read the review. "Now we know he's a quiz night regular! That narrows the search pool down so much."
"Ooo, what if it's one of the old dockmen?" Dean giddily queried.
"They do normally sit in your section—or, well, what used to be your section." Allie supplied, wandering back to your kitchen to put away whatever trendy new chutney she bought from the market.
Your eyes followed her, catching sight of the clock hanging on the wall. "Shit—I'm going to be late." You jumped off the couch, frantically grabbing your phone and shoulder bag. "We can theorise more later, Nat is going to murder me for being late."
"Bye, honey!" Dean yelled as you ran out the door—stopping for a second to throw him the middle finger.
Nat was sitting at a table towards the back of the cafe, her crimson hair a stark contrast to the soft pastel interior. The atmosphere was buzzing and lively—every table occupied, with laughter and heavenly aromas wafting out the open door. It was the go to brunch spot for Brooklyn natives, it's covered outdoor courtyard an enticing location on a warm summer's morning—you were surprised Nat even managed to score a table.
Her face lit up once she saw you, standing to welcome you with a hug. "One more minute and I would've thought you were ghosting me."
You hugged her just as tight, the smell of her perfume relaxing your shoulders and making your heart clench—you shouldn't have gone this long without seeing her. "God, I know, I'm sorry. Allie came home with gossip before I could make my escape."
You both pulled away and sat down, reading the menu like you hadn't looked at it online on your walk over.
"Gossip? Anything interesting?" Nat asked, wiggling her eyebrows.
You let out a deep sigh. "It's a long story. One that's better told over a bottle of wine."
"Okay, now I am beyond intrigued—you better not leave me hanging for another month." She shot you a small glare, the smile on her face lessening it's sharpness.
The waitress came over and took your orders before the two of you fell into easy conversation. She updated you on what trouble the boys—Sam—had gotten into, and you told her about the time you and Allie were locked out in your pyjamas and tried to scale the fire escape. Neither of you broached the subject of why you moved out, but it was lingering in the air—in the soft way Nat said Bucky's name. Throughout the hour you spent chatting you noticed she didn't mention their new roommate once, and the curiosity was making you restless.
"So, how's the new roommate, really? Bucky didn't say much about them."
An out of place nervous hesitation tightened Nat's face, her eyes darting between yours as she bit her lip. After a tense few seconds her shoulders dropped with a sigh.
"Honey, there is no new roommate."
You reared back, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What? But Bucky said yesterday—he said they were fine."
"Of course he did," she muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked at you with a huff. "The room is empty. Bucky…he's been paying for it."
"What?" You nearly exclaimed, your body temperature rising.
"Look, I don't know why he didn't tell you the truth—I honestly don't know what goes on in his mind, he has made some terrible choices the last few months." She placed a gentle hand on top of yours, her tone softening. "Choices that had you leaving us."
"I don't understand." You muttered quietly.
"I probably shouldn't be the one to tell you this, but—Steve and him were drinking after work last week and he admitted he's paying for the room—saving it in case you want to come back."
Shock rendered you speechless—frustration climbing up from your gut, opening the partially healed scars seared into your heart. Confusion, irritation, and heartache swirled together until they formed one emotion—anger.
Your hands balled into fists, your clenched teeth making your jaw ache. "I'm sorry, what?" You bit out.
You barely noticed the smirk twitching her lips, red starting to blur your vision. "Sam and Steve are out fishing today—he's home alone if you want to go bite his head off."
You didn't need to be told twice, the red-hot fury bringing you to your feet quickly. You grabbed your stuff with urgency, your hands already starting to shake.
"Brunch is my shout—go knock some sense into him."
It took you less than ten minutes to reach the brownstone, outrage powering your legs with a speed you didn't know you were capable of. The fresh air did nothing to calm you down—you were too consumed by the memories from the past year, the heartache you endured, your utter confusion at Nat's revelation.
Your fist pounded on the wooden door, not stopping until it swung open to reveal a puzzled Bucky.
His eyes widened at the sight of you, pink lips stretching into a knee trembling smile. Your dress caught his attention, his smile freezing as blue eyes trailed down and back up your body.
He cleared his throat before speaking. "What are you doin' here, doll?"
"Don't fucking call me that," you seethed, pushing him out of your way to storm inside. You barged down the familiar path to your old room, ignoring Bucky as he called out your name behind you.
You opened the door to find the room exactly how you left it—empty. You whipped around to see Bucky standing a few feet behind you, looking down at the ground with a hand rubbing his neck and a fire overtaking his cheeks.
"Why the fuck are you paying for an empty room? No, better yet, why did you lie to me about it?" You loudly demanded, just shy of shouting.
He stumbled over his words, looking up to see you with your eyebrows raised, arms folded across your chest, hip jutted out—the perfect picture of barely contained rage.
"Well, I—you see, it's—" he dragged a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. "It's complicated?"
"Yeah, no shit. You were so pissy about me moving—it makes no sense! Just tell me the truth for once, Bucky!" Your voice raised higher, your hands flying around as the confusion and aggravation took hold of you.
Bucky's own frustration started to seep through, the volume of his voice a notch below yours. "I was upset because you were leaving—and you didn't seem to care about us, just running straight to Dean for help!"
He was upset? He had no fucking right to be upset.
Hot, frustrated tears flooded your eyes without your permission. "I left because of you, Bucky! No one else, just you." You stepped toward him, pushing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. "And I didn't run to Dean! He offered to help after he watched me have a fucking breakdown over you."
His glistening eyes stared into yours, his eyebrows drawn upwards in distress. "…What?"
A crack had fractured the dam keeping you contained, your pent up thoughts and feelings crashing through and destroying the concrete barrier.
"Every fucking day I came home feeling like my world—my heart—was being torn apart—" your voice cracked and you turned around, starting to pace the length of your old room. "And I know, I fucking know, it's not your fault—that my delusional mind and hopeless romantic heart are to blame for reading into things that weren't there, for creating a fantasy of you—of us."
You wiped away your flowing tears, sniffling as you tried to catch your breath. "But now, you expect me to, what—feel bad for leaving? I was barely human." You let out a wet, humourless laugh.
"What are you talking about?!" He demanded desperately, his face shining with frustration and something akin to hope.
"I'm talking about the goddamn walls, Bucky! I don't know if you know but they're pretty fucking thin! And every Wednesday and Saturday night I heard you and her—I heard the guy I was obsessed with fucking somebody else and it killed me."
"I only started seeing her to get you out of my head!" Both his hands found their way to his hair, tugging the dark strands in frustration. "And maybe I wanted to make you jealous—which I know is a terrible—"
You closed the distance between you in two quick strides, reaching out to shove his chest. "Jealous? You wanted to make me jealous?!" You seethed out, your fists hitting his chest as your vision blurred. "Are you blind?! Everyone could see how infatuated I was with you." Your hits lost their strength, your cheeks growing even more wet.
"Hey," Bucky whispered softly, his hands gently encircling your wrists and his thumbs rubbing tender patterns on your radial pulse. "Breathe for me."
"No," you stubbornly whispered back, despite your panting breaths slowing to match his. You drew in staggering breaths, finally noticing how hard your heart was beating—your body shaking with every thump. Your fists unfurled, your palms resting flat on his broad chest—the fast pounding of his heart a near match to yours.
He let go of your wrists, his hands cupping your face delicately. He wiped your tears away with such care it made your heart ache. Your vision cleared enough to focus on his face, seeing his eyes shining with their own tears.
"I think we're both a bit blind, sweetheart. Everyone can see how smitten I am with you." He rested his forehead against yours, the space around you two growing charged in the aftermath of your anger. "Sam gives me shit about it every day." His breathy laugh ghosted your lips, leaving tingles in it's wake. His voice dropped low, "I'm so fucking in love with you I was leaving reviews about you like some—like a hopeless sap, hoping you would realise it was me."
His confession of love flew over your head, incredulity controlling your mind. "That was you?!" You gasped, pushing his chest lightly. "I thought I had a stalker, you idiot."
The memory of the night you and Allie read all the reviews ran through your head, remembering the disturbingly romantic details written; remembering the reviews you secretly reread like a guilty pleasure, going to sleep with a giddy smile and fluttering butterflies because someone was noticing you.
"That's all you took from that?" He shook his head minutely, one of his hands brushing down your back to cradle your waist. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you here."
You stepped out of his embrace, your mind still picking through all the small details. "But—the first review was, like—" you started to pace again, your hands resting atop your head. "It was well over a year ago!" Your voice raised again, recalling how horrible you felt only a month ago—the heartbreak you could've avoided. "Why did you never say anything?!"
"Because I was scared!" His voice raised to meet yours. "I didn't want to ruin things and lose you forever!"
"Yeah, well look at how that turned out!" You gestured wildly to the empty room.
"Why are we shouting again?" Bucky walked towards you, reaching for your hands. You were both breathing heavily, the sound of your pants echoing in the emptiness as your chests heaved up and down.
"Because I'm mad at you." You finally met his eyes, the blue bleeding with regret and sorrow. Your voice dropped lower, timidness starting to creep in. "You…you broke my heart, Buck."
He gripped your hands tighter, raising one to rest on his chest—right above his heart. "I am going to spend every day until I die trying to make it up to you." His remorse polluted the air around you, tears welling in your eyes once again—this time from the pain clouding his. "If you'll let me."
"That's a bit dramatic," you mumbled, sniffling lightly. "Until you're fifty is fine."
He laughed, wet and husky. He let go of your hands to cup your face again, smoothing his thumbs along your cheekbones. Your breath hitched at the touch, the pain in your system being diluted by the drug that is Bucky.
He leaned in closer, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. "I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"
You managed a small nod before his lips were on yours—desperate and aching, stealing the breath from your lungs. One of his hands shifted to the back of your neck, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. Your hands found his chest again, fisting his shirt and causing a groan to sound in the back of his throat. He took control of the kiss with no complaint from you—happily letting him suck your bottom lip before nipping it, opening for him when his tongue grazed your lips.
The first touch of his tongue against yours had fire scorching down your body, the intensity of his kisses settling in your gut and awakening the need you've had for him for over a year.
The annoying human need for air had you pulling away from his lips, gasping as you tried to catch your breath. His stubble scratched your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, tilting your head to reach the sensitive spot below your ear. He gave it a soft experimental kiss, his tongue darting out and drawing a small whine from you.
His chest rumbled beneath your hands. "You talk about the walls being thin—trust me, I know." He stepped forward, his fingers dancing down your sides to grasp your hips, backing you into the wall. "I know you like to beg, what pretty sounds you make when you're about to come." He trailed his nose back along your jaw and down the other side of your neck, nestling into the crook and sniffing deeply with a small moan.
"Wh-what? I haven't—I never brought anyone home." You stuttered out, head starting to feel heavy from the lust fogging it.
"No, but you still have needs, don't you?" He let out a small chuckle, trailing feather-light kisses along your collarbone. "You thought you were alone, thought it didn't matter how loud you let yourself be." He pulled back, bringing a hand up to brush his fingers along your cheek, making their way down your neck. Onyx eyes met yours—a shiver racing down your spine at the barely contained hunger in them. "I came home with a migraine and you were so wrapped up in pleasure you didn't even hear me—but I heard you. And shit, doll, the noises you made cured my migraine faster than any pain meds ever have." He dropped his forehead to yours, his breath fanning your lips. "I had to fuck my fist three times that night. I replayed every little whimper, moan, every gasp of please until it drove me insane."
A gasp escaped you at his admission, heat rolling through your body—a mix of embarrassment and hunger swirling in your core.
"And then, like it was the universe's sole purpose to bring me to my knees, you walked in the next day wearing this dress." His fingers drifted to the neckline of your dress, toying with it as your breasts moved rapidly beneath. "Looking like a fucking angel sent here to torture me. Like sin wrapped in white lace. I had to leave before I dropped to my knees and begged for a taste—to let me worship you."
Your heart was trying to beat out of your chest, the throbbing in your core escalating with every word he murmured into your lips.
"You kept on wearing it, and I had to pretend like I wasn't replaying those sounds every time I saw you—like my dick wasn't rock hard at just a glimpse of this fucking dress." The hand on your neckline travelled down to the line of lace below your breasts—his thumb stroking along it making your breath stutter and nipples harden. "I had to do something, I felt like I was going insane. I started seeing her to get you out of my head—didn't fucking work now, did it?"
The mention of her cut through the Bucky induced haze, and you hesitated—needing clarification before you could let him consume you.
"Are you still seeing her?" You whispered.
"Fuck no, we were strictly casual. I broke it off the day you left."
Your head reared back an inch, hitting the wall lightly. "You know that doesn't make me feel better, right? That you only wanted to sleep with her because I was in the next room."
Both his hands gripped your waist, squeezing gently. "Okay, that—that wasn't what I was trying to get at." He lifted his head to stare into your eyes. "What I meant was that you leaving really showed how much of an idiot I'd been, wasting my time with her when you were right next door."
"Why didn't you reach out, then?"
He shrugged, his eyes darting away nervously. "I didn't think I had a right to. I wasn't exactly proud of how I acted the last time we spoke."
You saw Bucky almost every day for over a year—you knew he didn't get outwardly nervous often, and you knew when he was being vulnerable and honest. The Bucky in front of you wasn't lying—you could tell he was genuinely worried he'd messed everything up.
You relented with a sigh, lacing your hands around his neck. "I think it's time you start making it up to me."
"Gladly," he said before pulling you into him and kissing you deeply. He pressed his hips against yours, pushing you harder into the wall. You gasped at the feeling of his bulge against your stomach, your core trembling and aching in anticipation.
The pace of the kiss picked up, Bucky's tongue licking into your mouth with a deep moan. His grip on your hips tightened and he spun you around, walking you backwards towards his room without removing his mouth from yours.
He kicked the door shut behind him, leading you towards his bed with his hands drifting down to squeeze your ass. You broke away with a moan, your lips swollen and chin tender from his stubble.
"Sit down for me, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out. You quickly obliged—your need for him making you ready to do anything he said.
He kneeled on the floor in front of you, slowly taking your shoes off. His hands trailed up your bare legs, stopping when they reached the hem of your dress.
He pressed a soft kiss to your knee. "You gonna let me make you feel good?" He mumbled into your skin.
You nodded rapidly, your hands clenching his sheets in desperation.
He clicked his tongue. "I need words, angel."
"Yes, Bucky—please. Please touch me," you gasped out, the sight of him on his knees robbing your intelligence.
His mouth tilted into a smirk, his eyes gleaming. "There you go with that begging again."
He clasped your knees, spreading your legs open. His breath tickled the sensitive skin on your inner thighs, goosebumps erupting and surging up to your core. He pressed light kisses along one thigh, stopping when he got to your dress and switching to the other.
You could feel slick leaking out of your cunt, your clit pulsing from the lack of attention.
"Buck, stop teasing, please." You whined softly, lifting a hand to push the hair away from his eyes. He nuzzled into your hand, turning to press a kiss into your palm. Your hand vibrated as he hummed low.
He grasped the hem of your dress, lifting it slowly up to your hips. "Lean back f'me."
You leaned back on your elbows, your body trembling with need as his hands scorched paths up your thighs.
He let out a low groan once your dress was up past your hips—revealing your soaked panties to him. His eyes locked onto them, his pupils dilating until only a sliver of blue remained.
"All this from a little kissing?" He brushed a thumb along the wet patch, grazing your clit. Your head fell back with a loud gasp, your hips twitching towards his touch.
"Sensitive," he mumbled. His hand moved, tracing the edge of your panties—you were sure he could feel the heartbeat pulsing in your core. "How long has it been?"
You lifted your head up, looking into his dark eyes—the desire in them reflecting your own. "Since before I—"
You cut yourself off with a soft moan, your body jerking as Bucky pressed his thumb to your clit through your underwear—circling it with a steady pressure.
"What was that?" He asked smugly.
Your chest heaved as you tried to wade through the sensations buzzing through you. "Since before I moved in," you rushed out quickly, another moan escaping you at the feeling of his touch directly on your pussy—his hand slipping underneath the wet fabric.
"Fuck," he breathed out through clenched teeth. He grabbed the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs quickly. He groaned out looking at your exposed cunt, and you tried to close your legs on instinct.
He gripped your thighs to stop them from closing. "None of that," he growled out lowly. "Let me look at her."
His hands trailed up your thighs until they reached your bare hips, yanking you closer to the edge of the bed. You fell onto your back softly, your breath shaking from the impact.
He pulled your lips apart and moaned loudly. "She's fucking dripping, sweetheart."
You clenched at his words, his teasing leaving you aching and squirming. He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss millimetres away from where you needed him most. He breathed you in deeply making your hips buck up with a needy whine.
"Bucky, please."
He dragged a single finger from entrance to clit, pulling it back with a string of your arousal connecting the two of you. You sighed at the small touch, opening your eyes to see Bucky suck the tip of his finger.
He groaned at your taste, hands grabbing the back of your thighs to push your legs back and spread you wider.
"Gonna make her feel so good, pretty girl." He slurred out, his lips trailing a path of fire up to your core. "Be a good girl and make those noises for me again."
He dove in, licking the same path as his finger. His groan vibrated through you and your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands as you gasped.
"Taste so fucking good," he mumbled before latching onto your clit. He sucked gently, circling the nub with his tongue. You rewarded him with a tug to his hair and a shaky moan.
He picked up the pace, moaning as he went from tasting you to devouring. He thrusted his tongue into you, lapping up everything he could. The room filled with the lewd sounds of your slick and his saliva coating your pussy—with your unabashed moans and gasps bouncing off the walls.
He pulled away from you, his chin and beard glistening. "That's it, pretty. Being such a good girl." You whined at the praise, using your hold on his hair to push his face back into you.
Your hips rocked against his face, the flame in your core growing fast. He moved an arm to your hips, holding them down to keep you still. He sucked your clit harshly, your back arching at the pleasure he was unleashing on you. You gasped out his name as your orgasm built rapidly.
"Fuck, Bucky—right there! Please, I'm gonna—" you cut off with a loud moan, your body jolting from him lightly biting your clit. Stars started to dot your vision as he continued to feast on you like a starved man—like you were his first sip of water after wandering the desert.
The knot in your core clenched tight before it unravelled, Bucky's groans vibrating through you pushing you over the edge. You came with a cry, your hands yanking his hair hard. A blissful fire spread throughout you, making your toes curl and head float.
Bucky drank up your release, prolonging your high until you were shaking and trying to push his head away. He relented, moving back to kiss and nip your inner thighs. Your heavy panting filled the room, your pussy twitching as you came down.
You propped yourself up on weak elbows, your droopy eyes meeting his glazed, pussy drunk ones.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered reverently. He moved back in closer, his breath fanning your cunt making you clench around nothing. "Another one."
He slowly licked at your hole, leaving your overstimulated clit throbbing painfully. Your arms gave out, a whimper crawling up your throat. You brought a hand up to your chest, squeezing a breast over your dress—trying to relieve the ache in them.
"Fuck, look at you," Bucky cooed, pulling away from you to stand up. "As much as I love this dress, I think you'll look even more beautiful without it."
You nodded, sitting up slightly so he could pull it over your head. Your eyes were level with his crotch, seeing the large bulge tenting his pants—your mouth salivating already. Once your dress was off you reached a hand out, palming his hard dick over his pants. You gasped at the heavy feel of him, your walls clenching at the thought of him stretching you open.
His head rolled back with a moan, a hand catching your wrist to stop your movements. "Not right now." You let out a displeased whine and his mouth twitched with a smirk. "Later, promise. Lay back down so I can worship you."
He grasped the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving you to gape at his insane torso. You had seen it before but you always adverted your eyes quickly, scared of getting caught staring. Now, you could stare and touch all you wanted.
You leaned up to run a hand over his bare chest, his body scorching beneath your skin. You trailed a finger down the hard ridges lining his body, a thrill running through you as his muscles rippled and breath stuttered. Your mouth found his pecks, lathering them in wet kisses while your hand teased the waistband of his pants. He grasped your chin, jerking your head up to look at him. His jaw was tense and eyebrows furrowed, a slight darkness shadowing his face.
He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. "What did I just say, sweetheart?" He mumbled, his tone laced with warning.
Before you could reply, his hands grasped your waist and pushed you up the bed until your head met his pillow. He crawled on top of you, kissing your neck.
"Thought you were gonna be a good girl." He mumbled, biting the spot below your ear and making you gasp. He pulled on one of your bra straps, letting it snap back onto your skin. You gasped louder at the small stinging sensation, the slight pain dousing your core in gasoline.
"Please, I am—I will be. M'sorry." You whimpered out, tilting your head back as he continued his assault on your neck.
He hummed in response, sucking on your pulse point before trailing lower—his stubble scraping the top of your breasts. He reached a hand behind your back, unclasping your bra with ease before pulling the straps down your arms slowly.
Your nipples hardened more once exposed to the cool air, begging for Bucky's attention. He lavished your breasts in kisses, covering every inch of skin with his spit. One of your hands clutched onto his bicep while the other wound into his hair again. He continued to avoid your nipples and you squirmed underneath him, trying to move his head to where you wanted him.
He relented, licking a nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned from the relief and the zaps of pleasure racing down your torso. He pinched your abandoned nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger as he bit down on the other one. You arched off the bed with a loud whine, the pain and pleasure morphing into one. He switched nipples, dolling out the same sweet torture with moans lodged in his throat.
Once both your nipples were raw and aching he kissed down your abdomen, hands clutching your hips as his mouth worshipped your stomach. You giggled at his beard tickling your sensitive skin and he lifted his head, his blown out eyes meeting yours with a soft—almost unbelieving—smile.
"You're breathtaking," he whispered. "And you're all mine, yeah?"
"Yes, Buck. Only yours."
He hummed in approval, pressing a light kiss to your hip. "Good. 'Cause I'm yours, angel. I'm sorry it took so long for me to say."
He moved back down to where you were dripping onto his sheets, your body wound tight from your first orgasm and his teasing. He licked into you without hesitation, drawing out loud noises from you as he sucked your sensitive clit.
"You're so wet—wanna live between these thighs, doll."
A hand left your hip to poke at your entrance, one finger sliding in easily before your walls squeezed at the intrusion. He pumped it in and out slowly until you were begging for more. A second slipped in, both of them curling upwards and grazing the spot that had you arching off the bed with a sound you'd never made before.
He lifted his head up, praising you for how good you were being—telling you how pretty you sounded. His mouth descended on your clit again and his fingers picked up their pace.
Your head rolled around on his pillow, the dual stimulation to your pussy making a heat rush through you like you'd never experienced with anyone else. You could feel how he was paying attention to you, altering his movements to gauge what sounds he could pull out of you—getting to know what you liked.
The ball tightened faster than the first time, your body edging on being overstimulated. Both your hands were fisting the sheets, your hips grinding against Bucky's face and fucking his fingers—the obscene squelch of your pussy soaking his hand mixing with your moans and gasps.
"Let me come—please. Been s'good for you, Buck—"
You know you didn't need his permission to come, but begging and submitting to him felt so good. Your own words pulled the coil in your core tighter—his resounding moan shaking through you telling you how much they affected him too.
A third finger joined in and you clenched down hard, the stretch almost throwing you off the cliff. They curled into your spot over and over, his other hand moving to push down on your lower stomach—causing something between a moan and squeal to leave you.
"Course you can come for me, sweetheart. I want nothing more than this sweet pussy drenching me."
With one last curl of his fingers and suck to your clit, your body started to shake, the ball bursting and sending waves crashing through you. Your eyes rolled back and your ears started ringing, deaf to the borderline animalistic noises you were letting out. You clamped down on his fingers hard, your juices gushing out and coating his hand—dripping and staining his sheets.
Your head was up in the clouds, cotton filling the space your brain used to be. You briefly registered his mouth leaving your overstimulated and raw nub, his fingers still moving slowly as you floated through your high. Small, gentle kisses across your cheeks, nose, and eyelids had you giggling breathlessly. Your body felt heavy, your eyelids struggling to open.
"You doin' okay?" Bucky whispered into your temple, peppering more light kisses to your forehead. You hummed softly.
"Need'a minute," you slurred out.
His fingers slowed and then left you, a whine slipping past your lips at the emptiness. You felt a hand rubbing soothing circles onto your scalp, your body turning towards his warmth. You slowly opened your eyes to find him staring at you, electric blue lazily roaming around your face.
"Hi," you whispered, lifting a heavy hand to push hair behind his ear. He grabbed your hand and covered it in soft kisses, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Hi. How you feeling?"
You leaned in, nuzzling your nose against his. "Good—really good," you muttered before kissing him softly. Your hand weaved into his hair, pulling him in as your kiss grew more passionate.
One of his hands cradled your jaw and the other spanned the small of your back, pushing you into his bulge. You bit his lip teasingly, revelling in his body shuddering and drinking down the moan he let free.
You grinded your hips against his—gasping and whimpering at the rough fabric of his pants dragging against your oversensitive pussy. He responded in kind, rutting his bulge into you with a groan.
"Want you inside of me," you mumbled into his lips, throwing a leg over his to roll your hips harder.
"Fuck—okay," he breathed out. He pulled away to reach for his bedside drawer but your hand on his chest stopped him.
"Are you clean?"
His eyes widened and he nodded dumbly. "I got tested the other week—wait, I'll show you." He reached for his phone but you stopped him with a giggle.
"I believe you. I'm clean—obviously. And on birth control."
His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, pupils dilating until they physically couldn't anymore.
"Are you sure?" He gripped your face in his hands, eyes darting between yours. "I only used condoms with her so I understand—"
That fact pleased you absurdly, your hand trailing down his chest to his groin—squeezing his heavy bulge. "I'm sure. Wanna feel you, all of you."
He pulled you into a searing kiss, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. Your mouth moved against his eagerly, both your hands on his waistband to unbotton and unzip his pants. You reached a hand into his boxers, a gasp leaping out as you wrapped your hand around him—his cock throbbing and big. You briefly worried about the limp you'll have later.
He panted above you, his eyes closing as you stroked him slowly. You could feel his boxers damp with pre-cum, beads of it dripping from his tip. You brushed your thumb over it and he moaned gutturally, eyes opening as you pulled your hand out. You kept eye contact with him as you brought your thumb up to your lips, licking his pre-cum before sucking it into your mouth with a satisfied moan.
He pulled your thumb out, tracing his own along your lip before you sucked on it—twirling your tongue around it.
"You're gonna be the fucking death of me, angel." He groaned out.
He pushed away to pull his pants and boxers off, throwing them behind him carelessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his cock standing proud—your mouth somehow simultaneously drying up and drooling at the sight. He was the biggest you'd ever seen—long and thick, the tip flushed red with his need. Your knees fell apart on instinct, the fire building up just looking at him.
"Wanna take a picture?" He teased.
"Another time," you whispered, surging up to grab his shoulders and pull him back on top of you.
He chuckled into your mouth before it dissolved into a moan, your hips bucking up and smearing his cock with your slick.
He grabbed your hips, pulling them up slightly as he settled between your legs. You both broke off from the kiss with matching gasps, the feel of him sliding along your slit making you both dizzy. His tip bumped into your clit with each glide, whimpers echoing from your chest as you twitched from the stimulation.
"You're so fucking pretty," he mumbled, dropping his head to kiss and nip along your neck.
"Please," you whined, your hips rocking without thought.
He pulled back and looked down between you, groaning at his dick already glistening with you. He wrapped a hand around himself, tapping his head against your clit a few times. You squealed, starting to feel dizzy with desire. He shushed you gently, dragging a thumb along your cheekbone before positioning himself at your entrance.
His eyes met yours as he pushed in slowly, the intensity in them making you choke up. It had never felt like this before—never felt so passionate, adoring. It made everything feel elevated—your nerve endings singing with pleasure wherever he touched you.
You clenched down on him instinctively, your walls stretching around just the tip. Your chest heaved as you tried to relax—you weren't in pain, it just felt so fucking good.
"Be a good girl and let me in," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss you.
Your legs opened wider for him, your core relaxing to let him push in further. Moans and gasps filled the air around you as he thrust slowly, sinking until he reached the hilt.
The breath knocked out of you, the feeling of him filling you completely making your head rush. He moved slowly at first, small thrusts to get you accommodated before pulling back until just the tip was inside. He sank home with deep moans, his cock pushing against your spot with every thrust.
You wrapped your legs around his waist making him reach deeper inside you. He picked up his pace, his hips meeting yours with soft slaps.
"You feel so good—oh, fuck!" He exclaimed as you clenched down on him.
"Harder, please." You moaned out, scratching your nails down his chest.
"Yeah? My pretty girl—my little angel—likes it rough?"
You nodded deliriously, the tension in your core sizzling with every thrust.
He sat up, bringing your hips with him. He held them up and delivered harsh thrusts—each one expelling a gasp out of you. Your legs tightened around him, his strength pushing you up the bed.
The headboard knocked against the wall, adding to the symphony of moans, whimpers, skin slapping that was already deafening the room. Each sound had you soaring higher, each thrust kissing your cervix sending a shock through you.
Bucky removed your legs from his waist, clutching your thighs to push them towards your chest. Your wide eyes met his with a gasp, the change in position igniting a roaring fire everywhere. He dropped forward slowly, pushing into you so far you swear you could feel him in your throat.
He groaned into your ear. "This is—god, you're made for me."
His thrusts resumed their previous pace, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Sweat beaded along his hairline from the exertion, his hair sticking to his temples—and he looked so beautiful, your eyes started to well with tears.
Everything rushed through you in an overwhelming burst—the heartache you suffered, the months of yearning and uncertainty, how much you loved him. How much he loved you.
Tears fell from your eyes as the sensations built higher and you grasped his face, pulling his forehead to yours. Your gentle kiss to his lips was a stark contrast to his cock drilling into you.
"I love you," you whispered, your words breaking on a sob of pleasure.
His hips stuttered, his eyes squeezing tightly. "You can't say that again or I'll blow my load." You laughed at his clear struggle to hold back, making him groan as you squeezed him tighter.
He continued his thrusts, wiping a thumb under your eye to catch your tears. "This is the only time I'm gonna make you cry from now on, yeah? Only gonna make you sob cause I'm fucking you so good."
You nodded, letting out little "uh-huh"'s as you climbed higher and higher.
"Play with your clit, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out.
Your hand snuck between your bodies to press circles around your clit—your back arching with a whine. Tears continued to track down your temples, wetting the pillow below you.
"Fill me up, please," you managed to get out between whimpers and sobs. Bucky's grip on your thighs tightened, surely leaving marks for you to admire over the next few days.
"Come with me," Bucky moaned, pressing a scorching kiss to your lips as his thrusts grew sloppy. You tensed below him, your body locking up before pure ecstasy barrelled through you. You came with a scream of his name, clenching down on his cock to keep him trapped. Your vision faded to white, your body trembling and pulsing.
Bucky groaned out your name as his orgasm rushed through him, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you as he filled you completely with cum.
He collapsed on top of you, his sweaty chest heaving against yours. He slowly lowered your legs then wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck.
You laid there for a few minutes, the both of you gradually coming back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, the both of you groaning at the feeling. A mix of your releases dripped out of you, coating your ass and staining the sheets.
"Stay right here," Bucky said before giving you a chaste kiss, pulling his boxers on to run to the bathroom. He came back with a wet towel, sitting on the bed next to you to clean you up with gentle, reverent touches.
He climbed behind you, pulling you into his strong chest—a satisfied rumble vibrating your back. He kissed the back of your head, trailing towards your ear and giving your lobe a gentle bite.
"I love you too."
"When can we move your stuff back in?"
Bucky and you were still lying on his bed, basking in the warmth of each other as the afternoon sun trickled through his half closed curtains.
You turned in his arms, slinging a leg over his and booping his nose. "I think we should go on a couple dates before I move in with you."
His nose and eyes scrunched with that laugh you first fell in love with. "Oh, is that right?"
"Living together before you've even bought me flowers? Sounds a bit rash to me."
"I'll buy you a whole flower shop," he mumbled, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare hip. "Well, maybe not right away—I am paying for two rooms, y'know. Would be nice to be able to buy groceries next month."
You laughed softly, poking his bare chest. "Yeah, and whose fault is that again?"
He grumbled something unintelligible, hiding his face in your neck to lavish you in more kisses.
Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.
The reminder of his reviews about you flourished in your mind, prompting you to pull his head away from your neck.
"So, you're James B? This whole time?"
His face bloomed red, a huff leaving him before he nervously licked his lips. "Yeah…"
"Why? Why start leaving them in the first place, why didn't you tell me?"
He shrugged slightly, lifting a hand to trace the lines of your face. "We were at the bar drinking, and some guy nearby pointed to you and said ratings must be higher with you working there. And—I don't know, I guess I was drunk enough to agree and then…it just happened?"
You furrowed your brows at him. "Why not just write in a journal?"
"Trust me, I was already doing that." He laughed softly, his eyes glowing. "I guess, in a weird way, I was telling you how I felt without actually telling you. Stupid, I know."
Warmth started to spread from your chest. "It took us ages to even notice the reviews—we only realised they were there because Dean assumed one was about him."
Bucky tensed under your hands. "Fucking Dean," he muttered.
"…Are you jealous?"
The blush on his cheeks grew, his eyes avoiding yours. "He was always staring at you, and you laughed with him like—like you did with me. I thought there was something goin' on."
Is it bad that him being jealous is turning you on?
"You have nothing to worry about, Dean is a gross womaniser who I only see as an annoying brother." You pushed at Bucky's chest, making him lie on his back as you straddled his hips. You pressed kisses along his chest, your hips slowly rocking against his. "He did tell me he wanted to sleep with me, though."
Bucky's hands grasped your hips harder, his face turning stormy. "I don't wanna hear you talkin' about another guy when you're on top of me, doll." He muttered low.
You leaned in to kiss him, your hips moving faster and drawing gasps out of the both of you—his dick already half hard under you. "You're so hot when you're jealous."
The sound of the front door opening had you both freezing—your former roommate's laughter drifting down the hall.
"Get dressed, lovebirds!" Sam's voice rang out. "We've got fish to fry!"
a/n: thank you to this pic on pinterest that inspired half the plot (i couldn't get the ho to fit into a moodboard 😔)
𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑬 𝑨𝑻 𝑭𝑰𝑹𝑺𝑻 𝑩𝑰𝑻𝑬 James “Bucky” Barnes has haunted the world for seven hundred years, cold, heartless and buried since the plague stole his last love. Until you, all warm sunlight and trouble, slammed into his night and woke the monster. Now he’s obsessed. Starving for your scent, your sleep, your soul.
vampire!bucky barnes x fem!reader
word count : 28,5k
warnings 18+ : no use of y/n, somnophilia, oral sex (f recieving), unprotected sex, forced turning, imprisonment against the reader’s will, dddne, graphic violence & gore, brutal murders, dismemberment, skull-crushing, throat-ripping, blood-draining, extreme rough sex (dw there’s soft scenes too), bone-breaking, bruising, bleeding, pain mixed with pleasure during sex, breaking and entering, theft of intimate items, constant surveillance, stalking & obsession, graphic biting, forced blood-drinking, blood-sharing memories, heavy blood kink, murder of the reader’s ex and other men, trauma flashbacks (plague death, war violence), suicidal ideation from bucky, heavy angst and toxic obsessive “love”
author’s note : my BIGGEST thank you goes to the loveliest anon who dropped a vampire!bucky request in my inbox 🫶💞 I’m literally a huge vampire nerd so this + my fave fictional man?? you KNOW I couldn’t keep it a tiny drabble… little heads up before you read… IT’S DARK..... so pls pls read the warnings first and then enjoyyy <33 (and I might be open to writing a pt.2 sooo lmk if you’d want that 👀)
Before the world burned with plague and death, James Buchanan Barnes was the most dangerously handsome bastard in all of plague-shadowed London. At twenty-four, he stood tall and broad-shouldered, with striking steel-blue eyes that could disarm a woman with a single glance, a sharp jawline and an easy, crooked smirk that promised both sin and salvation in the same breath.
His dark hair was tousled from brawls and eager fingers, his body toned hard from years as a mercenary, lean muscle, old battle scars and a swagger so confident it turned heads in every tavern, alehouse and alley from Southwark to Cheapside.
He knew exactly what he was. And he used it without a shred of shame or mercy.
Cocky to the marrow of his bones, sharp-tongued and arrogant as Lucifer himself, Bucky lived as though the world owed him pleasure, coin and willing flesh. By day he sold his sword to the highest bidder. By night he sold his body to any woman bold enough to meet his gaze. Tavern wenches with loud laughs and rough hands, blushing noble daughters sneaking out after curfew, widowed merchants’ wives starved for a man’s touch and painted whores in the stews, he fucked them all. Often two or three in the same night, sometimes all at once.
He never stayed till morning. Never asked their surnames. Never cared.
One humid summer night in a crowded Southwark tavern, he had a fiery red-haired barmaid bent over a stack of ale barrels out back. Her skirts were rucked up around her waist and he was pounding into her so hard the barrels creaked and shifted beneath them. He gripped her hips with calloused hands, lips brushing her ear as he growled low and filthy,
“That’s it, ye greedy little slut… take every thick inch of my cock. Moan louder, lass- let the whole fucking street hear how well I’m ruining this tight, dripping cunt of yers.”
She came with a shaking cry, knees buckling. Bucky laughed darkly, low and wicked and pulled out only to spin her around and shove her to her knees in the dirt.
“Open that pretty mouth,” he ordered, fisting his thick cock. “I’m going to spend down yer throat like the good little cocksucker ye are.”
She obeyed eagerly and he fucked her mouth until he spilled with a satisfied groan.
Two nights later, he found himself in a lavish merchant’s townhouse with twin noble daughters whose father was away on business. The sisters knelt before him in their fine shifts, taking turns sucking his cock while he sat like a king upon their father’s velvet chair. He tangled his fingers in their soft hair, voice low and dripping with filth:
“Look at you two proper little ladies… choking on a lowly mercenary’s cock like common whores in the stews. Share it nicely now- lick my balls while yer sister swallows me down. Good girls. I’m going to fuck both yer tight cunts senseless until ye can’t walk straight on the morrow.”
He took them one after the other on their father’s fine bed, then together, whispering the most depraved things between deep thrusts:
“Does it feel good, feeling yer sister’s slick all over my cock while I’m buried inside ye? Ye like being fucked like cheap sluts, don’t ye?”
The girls moaned and begged for more, and Bucky gave it to them until they were trembling and spent.
Later that same month, he fucked a widowed countess in her own marriage bed, her late husband’s portrait glaring down at them from the wall while he railed her hard from behind. He slapped her ass sharply, leaving a red handprint, and snarled against her ear,
“Bet that cold old bastard never fucked ye like this, did he? Say it, my lady- tell me how much better my thick cock feels stretching this neglected, dripping noble cunt of yers.”
“Better,” she gasped, pushing back against him shamelessly. “So much better- please, harder!”
He laughed, dark and triumphant, and gave her exactly what she begged for.
He never asked. He simply took, with that devastating smirk, those piercing steel-blue eyes and that rough, velvet voice dripping pure sin. Women dropped to their knees the second he crooked a finger and flashed that wicked grin. Word of him spread through the taverns and great houses alike: if you wanted a night you’d never forget, you sought out James Barnes.
To him, life was cheap and fleeting, especially with the dark rumors of a terrible sickness creeping ever closer from the continent. So why not wring every last drop of pleasure from it while he still could? Death was for the weak, the unlucky, the overly cautious. James Buchanan Barnes was none of those things. He felt invincible, already half-immortal in his own mind, a king of fleeting nights and stolen pleasures.
Until the night the plague finally found him in that filthy alley behind the tavern.
James had just finished with a laughing barmaid behind the tavern, still tucking his cock back into his breeches with that signature cocky smirk when the nightmare lunged out of the shadows.
The man was a nobleman once, fine clothes now stained and torn but the plague had rotted him from the inside. Black buboes swelled grotesquely on his neck and groin, his skin slick with fever-sweat and pus. His eyes, however, burned with something far worse than the pestilence. They were mad. Hungry. And his mouth was open, revealing long, sharp fangs glistening with saliva and fresh blood.
Bucky tried to fight.
Even half-drunk and sated, the young mercenary was no easy prey. He swung a heavy fist and caught the creature square in the jaw with a solid crack.
“Get the fuck off me, ye sick bastard!” he snarled, terror spiking through the haze of ale.
The nobleman’s strength was unnatural. He slammed Bucky against the slimy brick wall of the alley with bone-jarring force. The stench of death, decay and rotting flesh filled Bucky’s lungs, making him gag. He kicked wildly, cursed, and clawed at the creature’s rotting face, drawing blood and pus beneath his nails.
“Unhand me, you foul whoreson!”
But the dying vampire was too far gone. With a guttural, inhuman hiss, he struck.
Fangs sank deep into Bucky’s throat.
The pain was immediate and blinding.
James screamed, a raw broken sound that echoed off the narrow alley walls. It felt as though liquid fire had been poured straight into his veins. Every nerve in his body ignited at once. His back arched violently as the venom spread like acid through muscle and bone. He dropped to his knees in the filth and shit of the alley, clawing desperately at his own neck. Hot blood poured between his fingers, soaking his tunic.
“What… what the fuck have ye done to me?!” he gasped, voice cracking with raw terror. “Get off- get off me, ye devil!”
The nobleman collapsed beside him with a grotesque, satisfied smile still twisting his rotting face, finally dead.
Bucky’s vision blurred and doubled. His gums burned as though someone had shoved hot coals into his mouth. New fangs pushed through with agonizing slowness, splitting the flesh, flooding his mouth with the metallic taste of his own blood. His eyes felt like they were boiling in his skull, bloodshot crimson, pupils blown wide with unbearable pain. Every heartbeat slammed against his ribs like a war drum, each one slower, heavier, more labored than the last.
He vomited bile and blood onto the filthy cobblestones, curling into a tight ball as wave after wave of excruciating pain ripped him apart from the inside out. Nothing in his life, no sword wound, no tavern brawl, no brutal fuck had ever come close to this torment.
“I’m dying,” he gasped between screams. “Christ save me… I’m dying…”
Then his heart stopped.
For one terrifying, endless moment there was only silence.
And then a new, monstrous strength flooded his limbs.
The pain crested like a breaking wave and shattered. The fire in his veins cooled into something cold, sharp, and impossibly clear. His senses exploded. He could hear rats skittering through the gutters three streets away. He could smell the fear-sweat and ale on every patron still inside the tavern. He could taste the copper of his own blood like the finest wine he’d ever stolen.
James Buchanan Barnes rose slowly from the filth of the alley a different man.
No longer the cocky mortal who believed himself invincible.
Now he was invincible.
The arrogance did not vanish overnight. It simply twisted into something far colder, darker and infinitely more dangerous. A ravenous hunger gnawed at his insides like a living beast. He staggered out of the alley on unsteady legs, eyes glowing faintly red in the darkness, new fangs aching in his gums. The whole world smelled of blood and opportunity.
For the next three centuries he drifted across Europe like a handsome plague all his own, still devastatingly beautiful, now paired with an immortal predator’s lethal grace. He took lovers by the dozen and left ruin in his wake.
He fucked them hard and mercilessly.
In silk-draped beds of French chateaus, he would take haughty countesses from behind while their husbands slept in the next room. He’d grip their hips hard enough to bruise, pounding into them until they sobbed with pleasure, then sink his fangs into their offered throats as they came. Many begged for it, baring their necks willingly, whispering “Take me, my lord… drink” as he drained them just enough to leave them dizzy and addicted.
In moonlit forests of Germany, he seduced witches who offered their wrists and throats in dark rituals. He’d fuck them against ancient trees or on moss-covered altars, their bare breasts bouncing with every brutal thrust while they chanted his name like a god. He drank from them mid-climax, their blood mixing with their screams of ecstasy as he filled their cunts with his spend.
In the secret royal chambers of Spain and Italy, queens and duchesses summoned him under cover of night. They offered their royal throats like sacred gifts, spreading their legs and begging the beautiful monster to ruin them. He would fuck them on their own thrones or royal beds, merciless and unrelenting, leaving bite marks that they would hide beneath high collars and jewels for weeks.
Even peasant girls in haylofts and smoky inns were not spared. They offered themselves eagerly, wrists, throats, thighs, drawn to his dangerous beauty like moths to flame. He took them roughly against barn walls or on piles of straw, growling filthy promises in their ears as he drove into them:
“That’s it, lass… bare that pretty throat for me. Let me drink while I fuck this tight cunt raw.”
He was never gentle. He fucked like the predator he had become, deep, brutal and possessive. Many women left his bed limping, marked and forever changed, craving the bite of the beautiful devil who had ruined them for mortal men.
And when the hunger demanded more than just sex, he fed.
He drank from wrists held out like offerings, from elegant throats bared in candlelight, from soft inner thighs spread wide beneath him. He never killed them, not unless they deserved it. He left them alive, dazed and addicted, whispering his name in their dreams for years afterward.
Then he vanished before dawn.
No attachments. No feelings. No mercy.
Just blood and pleasure.
He moved from city to city, country to country, leaving a trail of broken hearts, bitten throats and ruined reputations in his wake.
Until the second wave of plague swept through London in 1665… and brought him Dolores.
It was a rain-soaked evening when James first met Dolores.
He was walking the narrow, muddy streets of Cheapside, hood pulled low against the downpour, when a young woman hurried around the corner with a heavy basket of herbs clutched to her chest. She collided directly with him.
She stumbled, nearly dropping her basket. He caught her elbow with gentle, steady hands.
“Forgive me, mistress,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “I was not watching where I-”
Their eyes met.
And she knew.
She saw the faint red glow in his eyes, the unnatural stillness of his body, the way the rain seemed to slide off him differently. She smelled the old death that clung to him like a shadow. Most mortals would have screamed or run.
Dolores only smiled, soft, unafraid, almost tender.
“You’re him,” she whispered, so quietly only he could hear. “The one the shadows speak of. The immortal with the devil’s hunger.”
James froze. For the first time in centuries, he was the one caught off guard.
“And yet ye do not run,” he said, voice low and dangerous, eyes narrowing. “Most women throw themselves at me for the thrill of the monster. They bare their throats and beg to be ruined. Why do you not scream?”
She looked up at him with calm, intelligent eyes, rain dripping from her lashes.
“Because I see more than the monster,” she replied softly. “I see a man who is tired. Lonely. Carrying centuries of sorrow in those beautiful eyes. Tell me, stranger… does the hunger ever let you rest?”
James stared at her, stunned into silence. No one had ever spoken to him like this.
That night, after she invited him into the back room of her father’s apothecary shop under the pretense of selling him a tonic, she offered him something far more precious.
“I know what you are,” she said softly, standing close enough that he could hear her steady heartbeat. “And I am not afraid. If you wish to drink… you may. But only if it brings me pleasure, not pain. I want to know what it feels like to be wanted by something eternal.”
James stared at her, stunned. No one had ever offered themselves to him like this, without fear or mindless lust.
“Dolores,” he breathed, tasting the name like a prayer. “Are you certain? I am no gentle lover. I have ruined women far braver than you.”
She cupped his face with gentle hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “Then be gentle with me, my James. Show me the man behind the hunger. Kiss me first.”
He kissed her slowly, reverently, as if she were the most fragile thing in existence. When she moaned softly into his mouth, he deepened the kiss, tongue sliding against hers while his hands explored her body with aching care.
That same night, in the small room above the shop with rain pattering against the window, he took her virginity.
He laid her down on the narrow bed like she was made of Venetian glass. He kissed every inch of her, slow worshipful kisses down her throat, across her collarbones, over the soft swell of her breasts. When he reached the apex of her thighs, he worshipped her with his mouth until she was trembling and whimpering.
“Easy, my sweet Dot,” he murmured against her slick folds, voice low and tender. “Breathe for me. Let me make it good for you. I want to hear every sound you make.”
He licked her slowly, reverently, sucking gently on her clit until she came with a soft cry, fingers tangled in his hair.
When he finally pushed inside her, he did it so slowly, so carefully, whispering sweet, filthy praises the entire time.
“That’s it, love… breathe. You feel so perfect. So warm and tight around my cock. Such a brave, beautiful girl, taking me so well. Does it hurt?”
“A little,” she gasped, legs wrapping around him. “But don’t stop. I want all of you, James. Please.”
He moved with aching gentleness, rocking into her in slow, deep strokes, one hand cradling her face while the other stroked between her legs.
“You’re doing so well,” he whispered against her lips. “My perfect Dot. Look at you, opening up for a monster like me. I’ve never felt anything like this. Never wanted anyone the way I want you.”
As she neared her peak, he kissed her throat and asked softly, “May I taste you, love? It will feel like pleasure… I swear it on whatever soul I have left.”
“Yes,” she breathed, tilting her head. “Take what you need. I want to feel you.”
He sank his fangs gently into her throat at the exact moment she came. She cried out in ecstasy, not pain, as his venom flooded her veins with liquid pleasure. He drank only a little, just enough to bind her to him while she clenched around his cock, sobbing his name.
“My James… oh God, James… it feels… so good…”
For the first time in three hundred years, the cold, womanizing predator fell in love. Real, terrifying, all-consuming love. Dot became his anchor, his light in an endless night. She made the hunger feel like home. They moved into a small cottage on the edge of the city, hidden behind overgrown gardens. He watched her work by lamplight, head bent over dried herbs and for stolen months he felt almost human again.
He was gentle with her in ways he had never been with anyone. He would fuck her slow and deep on their modest bed, whispering filthy devotion between tender kisses:
“My sweet Dot… so tight, so perfect for me. Look how beautifully you take my cock. I’d burn kingdoms for this cunt, for you.”
She would moan his name like a prayer, fingers buried in his hair, gasping “My James… my James…” as she came apart beneath him, safe in the arms of the monster who had chosen to be gentle for her.
But the plague found her anyway.
It started with a mild fever and a small swelling under her arm. Bucky begged her to stay inside. She insisted on helping the sick in the city “I cannot sit idle while people die, James.” Within days she was burning with fever, black buboes blooming across her neck and groin, coughing up blood.
He took her to the only hospital-like place that would accept plague victims, a filthy overcrowded pesthouse run by overworked physicians and nuns. The air reeked of vinegar, smoke, and rotting flesh. They bled her, applied useless poultices, and prayed over her while she grew weaker. Bucky waited outside in the shadows like an animal, listening to her faint cries through the walls.
When the doctors finally told him there was nothing more they could do “She is in God’s hands now” he snapped. He stole her from the pesthouse that same night, carrying her home in his arms while she shivered and whimpered.
“I’ve got you, Dot. I’m not letting them touch you again.”
Back in their cottage, he took matters into his own hands. Desperate and terrified, he forced his ancient vampire blood down her throat by the cupful. He reopened the bites on his wrists again and again, mixing his blood with herbal tonics she once made, performing every forbidden rite he had learned across three centuries. He even tried to turn her prematurely, sinking his fangs into her throat while she was still semi-conscious, pumping venom and blood into her failing body in a frantic attempt to save her.
It only made everything worse.
His powerful blood clashed violently with the plague already devouring her. The buboes swelled larger and burst. Her fever spiked into delirium. She screamed in agony as her body tore itself apart from the inside, convulsing so hard she bit through her own lip. The vampire venom accelerated the plague’s destruction, turning her gentle decline into a nightmare of pain.
In her final hours she was barely lucid. Bucky climbed into bed with her, cradling her burning body against his chest, rocking her as she gasped for air.
“Stay with me, Dot… please, my love. I can’t do this without you.”
Her eyes fluttered open one last time, bloodshot, fading but full of love. She reached up with a trembling, fever-hot hand and cupped his tear-streaked face.
“My James…” she breathed, voice cracking like glass. “I love you… even the monster. Don’t… don’t blame yourself.”
Then she screamed.
A horrible, soul-shattering scream as another wave of pain ripped through her. She clawed at her own chest and neck, eyes wide with terror and agony, whispering his name like a broken litany until her voice failed. Bucky held her through every convulsion, sobbing blood tears into her sweat-soaked hair, begging, praying, cursing God and himself.
She died just before dawn, limp and cold in the arms of the immortal who had tried everything and only hastened her suffering.
The silence afterward was worse than any scream.
Completely shattered, Bucky remained on the bed where they had been lying together.
Dot was still in his arms, limp and cold against his chest, exactly where she had drawn her last painful breath. He held her tighter, rocking her gently as if that could somehow bring her back. The silence in the small cottage was deafening, broken only by the distant rumble of plague carts outside and the crackling of the dying fire in the hearth.
Tears of blood streamed down his face as he pressed his lips to her forehead one final time.
“I’m sorry, my love,” he whispered, voice hoarse and broken. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you. Forgive me, Dot… forgive your monster.”
With trembling hands, he gently laid her back against the pillows, arranging her hair and pulling the quilt up to her chin like she was only sleeping.
Then he rose.
He moved through the cottage like a man in a nightmare, pouring oil from every lamp and bottle he could find. He soaked the floorboards, the rugs, the curtains, the herbs and dried flowers she had so lovingly collected. He drenched the wooden beams and the table where she used to mix tonics.
When the entire home was saturated in oil, he returned to the bed.
He stood over her for a long moment, memorizing her peaceful face one last time. Then he struck the match.
The flames roared to life with terrifying speed, greedy and hungry, racing across the floor and climbing the walls. Bucky stayed right there beside the bed as the fire reached them, the heat blistering his immortal skin. He watched the flames lick at the quilt, at her hair, at the body of the only woman who had ever truly loved him.
He didn’t move.
He stood in the flames’ glow, the inferno painting the small cottage in violent orange and red, until the roof began to collapse and the entire structure became nothing but a roaring pyre.
The last remnants of the man he used to be, the cocky mercenary, the arrogant lover, the creature who still believed he could be redeemed, died with her in that fire.
When the cottage finally collapsed in on itself with a thunderous crash, Bucky walked out of the burning ruins and into the night.
He never looked back.
After Dolores burned, Bucky wandered the world like a ghost for nearly two hundred and fifty years, feeding in the slums of Paris, hunting through the fog of Victorian London, drifting across continents with no purpose except to dull the ache in his chest.
Then the wars found him.
In 1914, when the world descended into madness, he enlisted under a false name and threw himself into the trenches of World War I. He fought like a shadow, slipping through No Man’s Land at night, ripping out German throats with his bare fangs while artillery shells screamed overhead. The mud, the blood, the endless screams… they felt like penance. He told himself the carnage was justice for every innocent life he’d taken, for failing Dot. He rarely fed on soldiers, only the cruelest officers and rapists among the ranks. The rest of the time he simply endured, letting bullets tear through him, healing slowly, welcoming the pain.
When the war ended in 1918, the emptiness followed him back across the Atlantic.
He moved to Brooklyn in the early 1920s.
New York felt different, loud, restless, alive in a way Europe no longer was. Brooklyn, with its brick row houses, bustling docks and working-class grit, reminded him faintly of the London he once knew. He bought an old warehouse near the waterfront under yet another alias and made it his lair. For a few quiet decades he tried to disappear into the rhythm of the city: working nights on the docks, boxing in smoky gyms, fucking nameless women in speakeasies just to feel something close to warmth.
But peace never lasted.
World War II dragged him back in.
By 1942 he was operating as a covert Allied operative, a ghost soldier who could walk through enemy lines and leave nothing but corpses. In the brutal winter of 1944, during the Battle of the Bulge in the Ardennes Forest, everything shattered. A German artillery shell landed too close. The explosion tore his left arm clean off at the shoulder in a spray of blood and bone. Vampire healing tried desperately to close the wound but the shrapnel was too deep, the damage too severe. He lay bleeding in the snow for hours before a secret HYDRA-linked unit found him.
They dragged him to a makeshift lab hidden in the frozen woods. There, while he was half-conscious and roaring in agony, they fused a prototype metal prosthetic to the raw stump, cold steel wired directly into his immortal nervous system. The pain was worse than the turning in that London alley. He screamed until his voice gave out as they bolted the arm into place.
When he finally woke, the arm was part of him, unbreakable, unnaturally strong and freezing to the touch. A permanent scar on the body that had once made women drop to their knees.
After the war ended in 1945, Bucky vanished again.
He returned to Brooklyn, the only place that still felt halfway like home. He kept the same warehouse, later converting it into a hidden penthouse high above the city as the decades passed. The metal arm stayed hidden beneath long sleeves and gloves. He fed only on the worst of humanity, mobsters, rapists, corrupt politicians and fucked to forget, never staying longer than one night.
As the years went on, the world changed… and so did the way people fucked.
In the roaring 1920s, flappers threw themselves at him in smoky speakeasies, lipstick-stained mouths whispering filthy promises while they rode him in dark corners. In the 1950s and 60s, women grew bolder, secretaries, housewives, beatnik girls who wanted danger. They offered their throats and wrists in motel rooms, begging him to bite while they came on his cock. By the 1970s and 80s, the sexual revolution turned everything dirtier. Women took him home and asked him to choke them, slap them, fuck them until they cried, sometimes filthier than he had ever been in his mortal days.
He gave them what they wanted. He fucked them hard and merciless in alleyways, penthouse suites and the backs of cars. He drank from them while they screamed in pleasure, leaving bite marks they would hide under turtlenecks and makeup. But it was never love. Never connection. Just bodies and blood to numb the emptiness.
He was the shift.
Many, many years ago, people fucked mostly for love, for marriage, for heirs. Now they fucked for fun, for thrill, for the sheer dirty pleasure of it and Bucky became their favorite sin. They threw themselves at the tall, silent man with the metal arm and the dangerous eyes, never knowing they were offering themselves to something ancient and monstrous.
Yet no matter how many women he took, how many throats he drank from, how many nights he spent buried in warm, willing bodies… the loneliness never left.
Four hundred more years of numbness stretched ahead of him.
A ghost with fangs, a metal arm that never truly felt like his own, and a heart that hadn’t truly beaten since Dolores died screaming his name.
Until one rainy night in 2026, outside a quiet Brooklyn library, a warm-blooded girl with a sunlight smile literally crashed into him… and everything changed.
You’re running on fumes, a broke stubborn waitress working chaotic double shifts at a loud hipster café by day and a quiet night-shift librarian at an old branch library by night. Your Gothic literature thesis is the only thing that still excites you: tragic monsters, obsessive love and beautiful creatures of the night that always end up destroying what they crave most. You laugh at how dramatic it all sounds.
It’s a brutal, pouring rainy night when fate decides to be cruel.
You’re leaving the library well past midnight, arms overloaded with books and thesis notes, your cheap umbrella doing almost nothing against the downpour. Head down, coffee in hand, you hurry down the slick stone steps and slam directly into a solid wall of muscle.
Your coffee cup flies out of your hand, splashing across his dark coat. Your umbrella spins wildly into the street. You stumble backward, nearly slipping on the wet pavement.
“Shit- I’m so sorry!” you blurt, face burning with embarrassment. “I wasn’t watching where I was going, I-”
Before you can finish, a large, surprisingly gentle hand catches your elbow, steadying you with effortless strength.
“Easy there, doll,” a low, rough voice murmurs, laced with an old-fashioned accent that doesn’t belong in modern Brooklyn. “You alright? That was my fault. Should’ve been paying better attention.”
You finally look up.
Holy fuck.
He’s stunning. Tall, broad-shouldered, with steel-blue eyes that seem to cut straight through you, sharp jawline and dark hair dripping from the rain. Danger rolls off him in waves, but his touch is careful, almost reverent.
He releases your elbow only to bend down and retrieve your soaked umbrella from the gutter, shaking the water off before handing it back to you.
You’re still flustered. “No, really, it was me. I’m such a klutz when I’m tired. Here- let me get you some napkins or something-”
He’s already shrugging off his long, clearly expensive black coat. Before you can protest, he drapes it over your shoulders. It’s warm from his body and smells like aged leather, rain and something darkly rich, like old wine and copper.
Your eyes go wide in panic.
“Wait- no, no, no! I can’t take this!” You immediately start shrugging it off. “This looks really expensive. How am I supposed to give it back to you? I don’t even know your name. I can’t just walk off with your coat like some weirdo-”
He places a gentle but firm hand on your shoulder, stopping you from removing it. His eyes soften, the corner of his mouth twitching into the faintest crooked smirk.
“Keep it,” he says, voice low and smooth. “You’re soaked to the bone, doll. You’ll catch your death walking home like that. I insist.”
“But it’s yours,” you insist, cheeks burning hotter. “What if I ruin it? Or lose it? Seriously, I feel terrible. At least let me get your number or something so I can return it properly-”
He shakes his head, that ghost of a smirk deepening. “It’s just a coat. I have others. You, on the other hand, look like you’ve had a long night. Keep it. Wear it home. I’ll survive.”
You clutch the coat tighter despite yourself, the fabric heavy and comforting against the chill. No one in this city is ever this… chivalrous. Guys your age would’ve already grumbled and walked away. This man is looking at you like your comfort actually matters to him.
“You’re really sure?” you ask softly, still hesitant.
“Positive,” he replies, eyes never leaving yours. “Besides… it looks better on you anyway.”
Your stomach flips. The way he says it, quiet, sincere, a little rough, makes heat creep up your neck.
You manage a flustered, stubborn little smile. “Thank you… really. Most people in this city would’ve just cursed me out and kept walking. You’re… surprisingly nice.”
Something flickers across his face, pain, surprise, hunger but it’s gone in a heartbeat. He hasn’t been called nice in over four hundred years. He hasn’t been looked at like a person since Dolores whispered “my James” with her last breath.
“You stay safe getting home,” he says quietly, almost like a command wrapped in velvet. “And maybe… watch your step next time, doll.”
You nod, cheeks still warm. “Yeah… I will. Goodnight.”
You give him one last awkward little wave and start walking, his coat wrapped around you like a shield against the rain. You can feel his eyes on your back the entire way down the block.
Bucky stands motionless in the downpour, fists clenched at his sides, metal arm whirring quietly under his Henley. Your scent, warm vanilla, rain and that sweet, pulsing blood underneath has already burrowed into his lungs like a drug. His fangs throb painfully behind his lips. He has to fight every instinct not to follow you right now and drag you into the nearest alley.
He waits until you’ve turned the corner.
Then he moves.
Silent as death, he follows you home.
Every step. Every turn. Close enough to protect you from anyone who might look at you too long. Far enough that you never notice the shadow trailing behind you.
By the time you reach your apartment building, he’s already memorized which window is yours.
He stands across the street in the rain, eyes glowing faintly red in the dark, heart dead for centuries cracking wide open with dangerous, all-consuming obsession.
He already knows one simple truth:
He’s never letting you go.
Bucky waited in the shadows across the street like a predator who had already decided his prey belonged to him.
He stood motionless in the pouring rain for nearly two hours, eyes fixed on your apartment window on the third floor. When the last light finally clicked off at 2:47 am, something dark and hungry uncoiled inside his chest.
But he didn’t move right away.
Instead, he stayed where he was, hidden in the darkness between two buildings and watched.
You had left the curtains open.
Through the rain-streaked glass, he saw you clearly. You were still wearing his long black coat. You shrugged it off your shoulders and held it up to your face, pressing your nose into the collar. Your eyes closed as you breathed in deeply, then again, slower, savoring his scent. A soft, almost dreamy expression crossed your face.
Bucky’s fangs throbbed. His cock hardened instantly.
You muttered to yourself, voice quiet but perfectly clear to his enhanced hearing:
“God… why does this smell so good?”
Bucky’s lips curled into a dark, predatory smile. He murmured under his breath, voice low and rough with dark amusement,
“People really don’t close their curtains anymore, do they? They have no idea who could be watching them…”
You laughed softly at yourself, shaking your head, then started changing. You peeled off your damp clothes, letting them drop to the floor without a care. For a moment you stood there in just your panties, stretching, completely unaware of the ancient predator standing in the rain across the street, staring at every inch of your body with black, starving eyes.
Bucky’s metal hand clenched at his side, plates whirring. Drool slipped from the corner of his mouth. He watched the way your breasts moved when you raised your arms, the curve of your hips, the soft sway of your ass as you turned. His breathing grew ragged.
“Beautiful,” he whispered to the night. “So fucking beautiful… and so unaware.”
Only when you finally pulled on an oversized t-shirt and climbed into bed, turning off the last light, did he move.
Silent as death, Bucky crossed the street, climbed the stairs to your building’s front entrance, and picked the cheap lock on your apartment door in less than eight seconds. He slipped inside like smoke, closed the door behind him, and locked it again with the same unnatural precision, so perfectly that no one would ever know he’d been there.
The apartment was small, cluttered and alive with you.
Your scent was everywhere, warm vanilla lotion, faint coffee from your shift, the sweet copper undertone of your blood pulsing just beneath your skin. It filled the cramped space like perfume made specifically to torment him.
Bucky’s boots were silent on the worn hardwood as he walked through your living room. Books and thesis notes were scattered across the coffee table. A half-empty mug of tea sat cold beside them. A worn blanket was crumpled on the couch. The mess should have annoyed the centuries-old soldier in him… but it only made the obsession sink deeper. This was your chaos. Your life. Your little mortal world he was about to invade.
His gaze fell on the open notebook lying on top of the pile. Your neat handwriting filled the page, underlined and circled in places:
Vampires in Gothic Literature
Eternal life vs. eternal loneliness?
Do they feel love or only hunger?
Real or metaphor for forbidden desire? Witches – power, seduction, danger… real?
Bucky read the notes slowly, a low, dark chuckle rumbling in his chest. The sound was soft, almost affectionate, but laced with something ancient and dangerous.
“Only if you knew, doll,” he whispered to the empty room, the corners of his mouth twitching into a predatory smirk. “Only if you knew.”
He lingered there for a moment longer, tracing one finger over your handwriting, before continuing toward the bedroom.
Your bedroom door was ajar.
He pushed it open slowly, the hinges giving a tiny protesting creak that made him freeze. You didn’t stir.
There you were.
Curled up in bed under a messy pile of blankets, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and a pair of soft cotton panties. Your breathing was deep and even, lips slightly parted, one leg kicked out from under the covers. So vulnerable. So warm.
Bucky’s fangs throbbed. His metal hand flexed at his side, plates whirring quietly.
He stepped closer.
Your scent was strongest here, concentrated, intimate, intoxicating. He could hear every heartbeat, every soft inhale and exhale. His cock hardened instantly, thick and aching against the front of his jeans. He hadn’t felt this kind of raw, physical need in decades.
On the floor near the foot of your bed lay a pair of discarded black lace panties, the ones you’d clearly worn earlier that day. Slightly damp from the rain and your long shift. The scent rolling off them made his mouth flood with venom.
He crouched down, metal fingers hovering just above the delicate fabric. The urge to snatch them was almost painful. He wanted to press them to his face, inhale you until he drowned in it. He wanted to wrap them around his cock the second he got home and fuck his fist while imagining burying himself inside you.
But he stopped.
His hand trembled. The metal plates clicked softly.
“Not yet,” he whispered to himself, voice barely a breath. “Don’t scare her. Not yet.”
With a low, tortured growl, he forced himself to stand. He backed away from the panties like they were burning him.
He allowed himself one last indulgence.
He leaned over your sleeping form, careful not to touch you and breathed you in deeply, dragging your scent into his lungs like a dying man taking his final breath. His lips hovered an inch above your neck, right where your pulse fluttered so invitingly. He could hear the blood rushing beneath your skin. His cock throbbed harder, leaking against his thigh.
He stayed there for a long minute, eyes closed, fangs fully extended, fighting every instinct screaming at him to bite, to claim, to take.
Finally, with a ragged exhale, he pulled back.
On his way out, he noticed his coat draped over the back of your couch where you must have taken it off before bed. The fabric still carried traces of both your scent and his. For a moment he considered taking it back… but he left it exactly where it was.
He didn’t want to take anything from you tonight.
Not yet.
By the time he reached his penthouse, he was shaking with raw, barely contained need.
The second the door shut, Bucky shoved his jeans down, freed his painfully hard cock and stroked himself with brutal, desperate strokes. He buried his face in the collar of his shirt, the one that still carried the faintest trace of your scent from when he’d stood so close to you and fucked his fist like a man possessed.
He came hard within minutes, spilling over his hand with a broken, guttural groan.
Even after the release, the hunger didn’t fade.
It only grew sharper.
He didn’t even know your name yet.
And he already knew he’d be back tomorrow night.
And the night after that.
Until simply watching you sleep was no longer enough.
The next morning, Bucky was already waiting in the shadows outside your building when you left just after 6:30 am, yawning, hair messy, clutching a travel mug of cheap instant coffee.
He followed you at a distance, ten blocks through the waking city, never close enough for you to notice. He memorized every little habit: the way you adjusted your bag strap, how you checked your phone at stoplights, the slight slump in your shoulders from exhaustion. When you finally stopped in front of a small, cozy café called “The Midnight Brew,” he lingered across the street for nearly forty minutes, watching through the large windows as you tied on your black apron and started your shift.
Only when the morning rush began to build did he cross the street and step inside.
The bell above the door jingled. You looked up from behind the counter and your breath hitched.
It was him.
Bucky chose the small table by the window, the one with the perfect view of you. A few minutes later you approached, notepad in hand, trying (and failing) to look professional.
“Hi… you again,” you said, a shy, surprised smile tugging at your lips. “Didn’t expect to see you so soon. What can I get started for you today?”
Bucky looked up slowly, his steel-blue eyes dragging over your face like he wanted to commit every detail to memory. His gaze flicked briefly to your name tag.
“That’s a beautiful name,” he murmured, voice low and rough with that old-fashioned accent. “Suits you perfectly.”
Your cheeks instantly burned hot. You weren’t used to compliments delivered like that, slow, sincere and a little dangerous.
“Th-thank you,” you stammered, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s… really sweet of you to say. Um, what would you like?”
“Black coffee. No sugar,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “And whatever your favorite pastry is this morning. Surprise me, doll. I trust your taste.”
You nodded quickly, scribbling on your pad to hide how flustered you felt. “One black coffee and a chocolate croissant coming right up.”
When you returned with his order, your fingers brushed against his right hand as you set the mug down. His skin was cool, almost unnaturally so, and the brief contact sent a shiver racing up your arm. You couldn’t help but notice that his left hand remained gloved in black leather, resting quietly on the table, the same glove he’d worn outside. You wondered about it for a split second but said nothing, simply offering him a small smile instead.
“Here you go,” you said softly, still pink-cheeked. “The croissant is still warm. Let me know if you need a refill or anything else.”
You hesitated for a second, then added, “Oh- I actually brought your coat with me. It’s hanging on the rack in the back. I was going to take it to the dry cleaners on my break because it got soaked last night. I can drop it off at the library tonight if you want, or… I don’t know, maybe you could pick it up later?”
Bucky’s eyes darkened, something possessive flickering behind them. He shook his head slowly.
“Keep it,” he said, voice low and firm but gentle. “It looks better on you than it ever did on me. I have more coats than I know what to do with. I insist.”
“But it’s such a nice coat,” you protested, cheeks burning hotter. “I’d feel terrible if something happened to it. At least let me get it cleaned for you-”
“No arguments, doll,” he interrupted, the faintest crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Wear it when you need it. Stay warm. That’s all I want from you right now.”
You blinked, completely thrown by how gently but stubbornly he was refusing. No guy had ever spoken to you like this.
“…Okay,” you said softly, biting your lip. “If you’re really sure. Thank you again. Seriously. Most people wouldn’t have even offered their coat in that rain.”
Bucky’s gaze softened for just a moment. “Most people aren’t me.”
You gave him a shy little smile and hurried back to the counter, heart racing. For the rest of your shift you could feel his eyes on you, steady, dark and unwavering. He barely touched the coffee or the croissant. He just watched you move behind the counter like you were the only thing worth looking at in the entire world.
When the rush finally slowed, he stood up, left a very generous tip folded neatly under the mug, and paused at the counter on his way out.
“See you soon,” he murmured, saying your name like it was something sacred and secret. “Have a good rest of your shift, doll. Don’t work too hard.”
You could only manage a flustered nod, cheeks still warm long after he’d walked out the door.
That night, when he picked the lock on your front door and slipped silently into your apartment while you slept, he stood over your bed for a long time, breathing you in.
He leaned down, lips hovering just above the soft skin of your neck and whispered your name into the darkness like a vow.
It sounded like both a prayer… and a promise.
Over the next several nights, Bucky’s restraint completely shattered.
He came back every few nights, slipping through your front door like a ghost, locking it behind him with that soft, familiar click. At first he only watched you sleep. But the hunger quickly grew teeth.
The third night he touched you.
He leaned over your bed, cool lips pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your throat. He nipped at your skin, fangs grazing but never breaking it, sucking lightly until you whimpered in your sleep.
“Fuck… such a pretty neck,” he growled quietly against your pulse. “Bet you’d look so good with my marks all over it.”
He pushed your nightshirt up, exposing your breasts and buried his face between them with a low, filthy groan. His tongue dragged over your nipples in slow, wet circles before he sucked one into his mouth, moaning like he was tasting something divine.
“So fucking sweet… these tits are perfect, doll. Made for my mouth.”
His metal hand ghosted over your hips, fingertips barely brushing your skin as he fought not to grip hard enough to bruise. You arched unconsciously toward him, thighs pressing together.
The fourth night he went lower.
He eased your panties down your legs and spread your thighs wide, kneeling between them like he was worshipping at an altar. He dragged his tongue through your soaked folds in one long, obscene lick and groaned deeply.
“Jesus Christ… your pussy is dripping for me even when you’re asleep,” he rasped, voice thick with lust. “Such a needy little cunt. You taste so fucking good, baby. I could eat this pretty pussy for hours.”
He licked you like a man starved, slow, filthy strokes of his tongue circling your clit before pushing inside you, fucking you with it. He sucked on your swollen clit with wet, obscene sounds, metal fingers gently holding your thighs open.
“That’s it… grind against my tongue even in your sleep like a good little slut,” he murmured against your slick flesh. “This pussy belongs to me now. You hear me? Mine.”
You came hard on his tongue, thighs shaking, a broken moan slipping from your lips. He licked you through every pulse, drinking down every drop like it was sacred.
The visits only got dirtier.
Night after night he returned. He’d bury his face between your thighs for what felt like hours, tongue-fucking you, sucking your clit, growling filthy praise against your soaked cunt.
“Fuck, you’re so wet… creaming all over my tongue like you were made for this. That’s my girl. Let me taste how much you need me.”
Sometimes he’d slide two cool fingers inside you while sucking on your clit, curling them just right, whispering, “Tight little pussy sucking my fingers in even when you’re dreaming. Gonna ruin this cunt one day. Gonna fill you up and make you scream my name for real.”
You always woke drenched in sweat, thighs slick and trembling, panties pushed to the side or completely off. Fragments of sensation haunted you, cold tongue licking deep, a rough voice groaning filthy things, the faint scent of old leather and blood on your skin. You told yourself they were just extremely vivid, filthy dreams caused by stress and loneliness.
Your body knew the truth.
Every morning you woke up aching and empty, clit throbbing, sheets ruined. And every few nights the dreams returned, darker, wetter, more intense.
Bucky, meanwhile, was unraveling.
He left your apartment every time with your taste coating his tongue and his cock so hard it hurt. Back in his penthouse he would stroke himself raw, snarling your name as he came but it was never enough.
He needed to hear you moan his name for real.
He needed to sink his fangs into your thigh while buried balls-deep inside you.
And he was getting dangerously close to losing the last shred of control he had left.
A few days later, the universe seemed determined to keep pushing you together.
You were halfway through your post-shift grocery run, still wearing Bucky’s oversized black coat because the autumn air had turned crisp. It swallowed your frame, the hem brushing your thighs and you secretly loved how warm and safe it made you feel. Your basket was overloaded with pasta, fresh vegetables, a cheap bottle of red wine, and a pint of ice cream you were definitely stress-eating later.
You turned the corner into the pasta aisle and walked straight into a solid wall of muscle.
“Oh- I’m so sorry!” you gasped, nearly dropping your basket.
Gentle but strong hands immediately steadied you, catching your elbows with careful precision so you wouldn’t fall.
“Easy there, doll,” a low, familiar voice murmured. “You alright? That was my fault. Should’ve been paying better attention.”
You looked up and your heart skipped hard.
It was him, the mysterious, devastatingly handsome man from the rainy night and the café. He was wearing a red Henley under a leather jacket, his metal hand tucked discreetly into his pocket like always. His steel-blue eyes softened the second they met yours.
You blushed instantly. “I swear I’m not this clumsy all the time. I was trying to decide between spaghetti and linguine like my life depended on it.”
Bucky’s mouth curved into that faint, crooked smile that made your stomach flutter. His gaze drifted down, noticing you were still wearing his coat.
“Looks far better on you than it ever did on me,” he said softly, almost reverent. “I’m glad you kept it.”
Before you could respond, he smoothly took the heavy basket from your hands as if it weighed nothing.
“Please, allow me,” he said, already heading toward the checkout. “A lady shouldn’t have to carry all this herself.”
You tried to protest. “You really don’t have to-”
“I insist,” he replied gently but firmly, that old-world chivalry radiating off him. He held the basket in one arm and used the other to open the door for an elderly woman leaving the store, nodding politely to her. “After you, ma’am.”
You watched him, completely charmed and a little dazed. No guy your age ever acted like this.
At checkout, he politely waited while you paid, then immediately took all the bags before you could reach for them. Outside, he positioned himself on the street side of the sidewalk, shielding you from traffic like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The walk back to your apartment was short but felt electric. He carried every bag effortlessly, making easy conversation the whole way.
“Long shift today?” he asked, glancing at you with genuine concern.
“Yeah… double again. I’m exhausted but the thesis won’t write itself.”
“You work too hard,” he said quietly. “A girl like you deserves to be taken care of sometimes.”
When you reached your building, he didn’t hesitate.
“Mind if I help you up with these?” he asked, voice warm and sincere. “I’d feel better knowing they made it safely upstairs.”
You nodded, cheeks warm. “Yeah… sure. That would be really nice, actually. Thank you.”
You let him follow you up the narrow stairs to your third-floor apartment. Bucky carried all the bags effortlessly in one arm, walking just behind you like a perfect gentleman.
Inside your small, cluttered apartment, he set the bags on the counter and looked around with quiet appreciation, taking in the fairy lights, the overflowing bookshelves, and the half-dead plants on the windowsill.
“It’s lovely in here,” he said sincerely, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Warm. Lived-in. Feels like a real home.”
He rolled up the sleeve on his right arm and started helping you unpack without being asked, putting milk and eggs in the fridge, pasta in the cupboard, vegetables in the crisper, moving with surprising familiarity and care.
You noticed immediately that he only rolled up one sleeve. The left arm stayed fully covered, the black leather glove still firmly in place.
You tilted your head, curious. “Why do you keep that glove on? And you only rolled up one sleeve.”
Bucky paused for half a second, then gave a small, easy smile.
“Poor circulation,” he said smoothly. “Old injury from years ago. The left arm gets cold easily, especially in weather like this, so I keep it covered. Doctor’s orders.”
You nodded, accepting the answer. “That makes sense. Must be annoying, especially in winter.”
“Sometimes,” he replied, voice gentle. “But I’m used to it now. Doesn’t slow me down much.”
When everything was put away, you leaned against the counter, suddenly feeling chatty and comfortable in his presence.
“I still don’t even know your name…” you said with a shy smile.
He gave you a small, almost shy smile of his own and rubbed the back of his neck.
“James Buchanan Barnes,” he said. “But everyone just calls me Bucky.”
“Bucky,” you repeated, liking the way it sounded. “Nice to finally meet you properly, Bucky.”
“The pleasure’s all mine, doll.”
You kept talking, gesturing with your hands. “So… what do you do, Bucky? You seem like you have your life pretty together. Do you work around here?”
He chuckled softly, leaning on the opposite counter. “I do some consulting work. Private security, mostly. Nothing too exciting.”
“Private security at your age?” You raised an eyebrow, smiling. “How old are you, anyway?”
Bucky’s eyes sparkled with quiet amusement. “Twenty-four.”
You blinked. “Wait, really? You seem… older. Not in a bad way! Just… more mature. Like you’ve seen some stuff.”
He gave a low, self-deprecating laugh. “I’ve been told that before. Guess I grew up fast.”
You kept talking, comfortable now. “I’m twenty-three. Still feel like a kid half the time. Working two jobs, trying to finish my thesis on Gothic literature. Vampires, monsters, tragic love stories… the usual dramatic stuff.” You laughed lightly. “Do you believe any of that is real? Like, vampires and witches and all that? Or is it just fun fiction?”
Bucky’s gaze sharpened for a fraction of a second before he smiled. “I think there’s more to the world than most people realize,” he said carefully. “Some legends have roots in truth. What do you think?”
“I go back and forth,” you admitted, leaning closer. “Sometimes I think vampires are just metaphors for forbidden desire or immortality anxiety. Other times… I don’t know. The idea of someone living for centuries, watching everyone they love die… that feels too real. Too sad.”
Bucky’s expression softened, something pained flickering behind his eyes. “It is sad,” he murmured. “Very sad.”
You kept going, excited to talk about your thesis. “Exactly! And witches- the way they’re portrayed as powerful but dangerous. Do you have any favorite books or movies about that stuff?”
He listened with genuine interest, answering carefully and making up plausible details while keeping his ancient truth hidden. He asked you questions in return, drawing you out, letting you talk about your terrible boss at the café, your fear of never finishing your degree and how overwhelmed you felt sometimes.
“Do you have Instagram or anything?” you asked, then quickly added with an awkward little laugh, “I’m not trying to stalk you, don’t worry. Just… if you maybe wanted to hang out sometime, or so I could reach out?”
Bucky let out a low, self-deprecating chuckle. “I’m afraid I’m terribly old-fashioned. No social media at all. But I do have a phone number.”
You raised an eyebrow, a playful but suspicious smile tugging at your lips. “No social media? At twenty-four? That’s… suspicious. Are you secretly a spy or something?”
He laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “Nothing that exciting, I promise. Just prefer real life over screens.”
You saved his number and sent him a quick text. When his phone buzzed, his smile deepened.
“There,” you said, grinning. “Now you can’t vanish on me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured, eyes dark and intense for just a moment before he softened again. “You get some rest now. You’ve earned it.”
He walked to the door, then paused and turned back.
“Goodnight, doll,” he said softly. “Lock the door behind me.”
You nodded, cheeks warm. “Goodnight, Bucky.”
He waited outside until he heard the lock click, then disappeared down the hallway with a small, satisfied smile.
But the second he was out of sight, his expression darkened with raw hunger.
Hearing you say his name in that sweet voice had nearly made him snap.
The gentleman act was becoming harder to maintain… and the monster beneath it was growing impatient.
Bucky’s obsession had grown teeth.
After the night he helped you with your groceries something inside him finally snapped. Knowing your name wasn’t enough. Hearing you laugh wasn’t enough. Standing so close to you and still not being able to claim you wasn’t enough.
He needed pieces of you. Tangible. Permanent. His.
So the stealing began.
The first time was the night after the grocery store. While you slept, he moved through your apartment like a shadow. He took your favorite perfume from the dresser, the one that smelled like warm vanilla and something sweet and uniquely you. He sprayed a little on his wrist before slipping the bottle into his coat.
Two nights later, he took the soft cream-colored scarf you’d been wearing the rainy night you first met him. It still carried the faint scent of rain, coffee and you. He buried his face in it the second he got home and didn’t let go for nearly an hour.
The nights had become his sanctuary and his torment.
For the first time, Bucky began invading your dreams like an incubus, silent, hungry, and unstoppable. He would wait until you fell into deep sleep in your own apartment, then slip into your mind with the ease of centuries of practice. You never remembered the full details in the morning, only waking with damp thighs, aching nipples, and a strange, lingering bite of exhaustion.
In the dream he appeared behind you, naked, massive, his metal arm cold against your fevered skin as he pinned you down in a bed that wasn’t quite yours. His fangs grazed your throat while his thick cock rubbed between your slick folds, teasing, never quite entering.
“Shhh, doll,” he whispered into your sleeping mind, voice low and velvet-dark. “Just a taste. I need you so fucking badly.”
He started with your wrist. In the dream he lifted your arm, licked a slow, reverent stripe over your pulse, then sank his fangs in deep. The pull was slow and obscene, wet sucking sounds filling the dream as he drank in long, greedy swallows. Your dream-self moaned and writhed, hips grinding against nothing while he fed.
When he was done, he sealed the punctures with long, filthy licks of his tongue, savoring the last drops. Then he moved lower.
He spread your thighs wide in the dreamscape, burying his face between them like a starving man. His tongue dragged up your inner thigh before his fangs pierced the soft flesh there too. Hot blood flooded his mouth, richer, headier, while his nose pressed against your dripping cunt, inhaling the scent of your arousal. He drank deeply, groaning against your skin, cock leaking steadily onto the dream sheets.
“Fuck… your blood tastes like sin,” he growled into your thigh. “Sweeter when you’re wet for me.”
He sealed that bite too, licking lazily over the twin holes, his cool saliva tingling as it closed the wounds. Only then did he allow himself to grind his massive cock against your soaked pussy, never pushing inside, just rutting until your dream-body came with a broken cry. He spilled across your thighs in thick ropes, marking you even in sleep, then vanished before you could wake.
You always woke up with faint, fading marks on your wrist and inner thigh that you blamed on restless sleep.
But the real collection had only just begun.
Then came the panties.
He started small. The black lace pair he’d seen on your floor the very first night, the sexy ones you wore when you wanted to feel powerful and desired. He took them while you showered, pressing the crotch to his face the second he was back in his penthouse. The scent of your pussy was still faintly there, musky and sweet. He inhaled so deeply his fangs throbbed.
A few nights later he stole the soft silk ones from your laundry basket, still slightly damp. He sucked the fabric into his mouth, tasting the faint traces of your arousal and detergent, groaning like a beast as he fisted his aching cock.
But what truly broke something inside him were the cute ones.
He found them one night while you slept, an entire drawer of soft cotton panties with little embroidered days of the week. Innocent. Everyday. Mortal. The kind of thing that made his ancient, dead heart twist with dark fondness and cruel hunger.
He picked up the pair marked “Thursday” and ran his thumb over the tiny lettering, a low, predatory chuckle rumbling in his chest.
“Mortals,” he whispered into the dark of your bedroom, voice rough with twisted amusement. “Still pretending time matters. Still marking your little days like you won’t eventually be mine forever. How fucking endearing.”
He stole the Wednesday pair that night, along with the Thursday ones for good measure.
His obsession only grew darker.
He discovered the small trash can in your bathroom. Inside were a few used tampons wrapped in toilet paper. The metallic, coppery scent of your period blood hit him like pure heroin. Centuries of memories flooded him, women on their cycles spreading their thighs for him, begging him to drink while their cunts were heaviest, bloodiest, most potent.
He stood there in your bathroom for a long minute, breathing deeply, cock straining painfully against his pants.
“Even your waste calls to me,” he murmured reverently, almost lovingly. “Your blood… every drop of it belongs to me.”
He took one of the wrapped tampons, brought it back to his penthouse, and spent hours with it pressed to his nose and mouth while he stroked himself raw.
Every few nights he added something new to his growing collection: a hair tie with strands of your hair still caught in it, the half-used lip balm from your bag that still carried the faint taste of your mouth, a well-worn hoodie that smelled like your shampoo, your sweat, and the warmth of your skin. More panties, both the slutty lace ones that made his cock leak and the innocent cotton ones with their childish little days.
He kept them all in a locked drawer in his penthouse like a sacred, filthy shrine.
When the emptiness clawed at him too viciously, when Dolores’s screams echoed too loudly in his skull, he would sit alone in the dark, open the drawer, and surround himself with you. He’d press your stolen panties to his face, inhaling the scent of your cunt like oxygen. Sometimes he wrapped the Thursday pair around his thick, leaking cock and fucked his fist with slow, filthy strokes, groaning your name like a broken prayer.
“Fuck… smell so good,” he rasped into the cotton, voice wrecked and desperate. “This little mortal pussy is going to be mine. I’m going to drink from it while you’re bleeding. I’m going to fuck it until you scream. Until you beg.”
Other nights he pressed the blood-stained cotton directly to his mouth and nose, sucking on the fabric while he jerked himself brutally, imagining it was your bloody cunt riding his face. Thick ropes of cum would splatter across his abs and chest as he came with a guttural snarl, over and over, until the drawer was sticky with his spend and the scent of you was mixed with his own.
“You’re already mine,” he whispered hoarsely into the silk and cotton, fangs fully extended, eyes glowing crimson in the dark. “Every pair. Every drop of blood. Every dream. Every breath you take. All fucking mine. Even if you don’t know it yet… you will. Soon.”
He was patient.
He was starving.
And the monster inside him was done waiting.
You, meanwhile, were spiraling.
At first you thought you were simply losing your mind from exhaustion and stress. The perfume? Maybe you’d moved it and forgotten. The scarf? You probably left it at the library. But when your favorite pair of silk panties vanished from the laundry basket and then the soft cotton ones with the little embroidered days of the week started disappearing too, real unease settled deep in your stomach.
Then more things disappeared.
A hoodie you loved. Your favorite lip balm. A hair clip you’d worn the day Bucky helped with your groceries. Even one of your thesis notebooks went missing for two days before mysteriously reappearing on your nightstand.
You tore your apartment apart looking for them. You started keeping a paranoid little list on your phone. You even wondered if you had a stalker… or if the stress was finally making you crack.
Then one evening you came home from a brutally long double shift at the café, feet aching, hair smelling like coffee and grease. You flipped on the light in your bedroom and froze.
His coat was still hanging on the back of your bedroom door where you’d left it days ago.
But something was different.
A single, perfect red rose was tucked neatly into the breast pocket.
No note. No card. No explanation.
Just one flawless, blood-red bloom with a long, elegant stem and sharp thorns that caught the lamplight like tiny blades. The rose was impossibly perfect, not a single petal out of place, fresh dew still clinging to the edges like droplets of blood.
Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard it hurt.
You stood frozen in the doorway, grocery bag slipping from your fingers onto the floor. The faint scent of the rose mixed with the lingering smell of old leather from the coat, creating something intoxicating and terrifying all at once.
You knew.
You knew it was him.
Bucky.
The gentleman who had carried all your groceries without being asked. The man who opened doors, insisted you keep his coat, and looked at you like you were the only person in the world who mattered. The one with the old-fashioned manners, the low velvet voice and those intense steel-blue eyes that seemed to see straight through you, into places you hadn’t let anyone see in years.
He had been in your apartment again.
He had taken things.
And now… he was leaving gifts in his own coat, the one still hanging in your room like a claim.
You walked over on shaky legs and carefully pulled the rose from the pocket. A thorn pricked your thumb. A tiny bead of blood welled up instantly. You stared at it, then brought the rose to your nose and inhaled. The scent was rich, sweet, and heavy.
Your mind raced.
How long has he been coming in here? How many nights has he stood beside my bed while I slept? What else has he taken? What has he seen while I was unconscious?
Part of you was terrified. The logical, rational part screamed that this was insane. Dangerous. That you should change the locks right now, call the police, run as far as you could.
But another part, darker, quieter and growing louder every day, felt a rush of shameful heat low in your belly. The thought of him moving silently through your space, touching your things, watching you sleep… it made your thighs press together.
You sat down heavily on the edge of your bed, still holding the rose, and whispered into the quiet apartment:
“…Bucky?”
The silence that answered felt alive.
Like he was still there.
Watching.
Waiting.
The game had truly begun.
And neither of you were ready for how deep, how dark and how consuming it would become.
You couldn’t take it anymore.
It was 2:13 am and you were sitting on the edge of your bed in the dark, phone clutched so tightly in your shaking hands that your knuckles had gone white. Another thing had vanished today, your favorite silver necklace. But that wasn’t what broke you. It was the rose tucked into the pocket of his coat. The pattern. The way everything pointed straight to him.
Your thumb hovered over his contact for a long, trembling minute. Part of you wanted to throw the phone across the room and change the locks. Another part, the terrified, exhausted, furious part, needed answers. You pressed call.
It rang only once before he picked up.
“Hey” His voice was low, smooth, perfectly calm. “Is everything okay? It’s late.”
You didn’t even try to sound normal. Your voice came out raw, trembling with a volatile mix of terror, fury, and betrayal.
“It’s you,” you said, barely above a whisper at first, then louder. “Don’t you dare lie to me, Bucky. The perfume, the scarf, my panties, the necklace, it’s all you. You’ve been in my apartment. You’ve been watching me sleep. You left that fucking rose in your own coat. I know it’s you.”
Silence stretched on the other end.
On the fire escape right outside your bedroom window, Bucky stood completely still in the pouring rain, glowing red eyes fixed on you through the gap in the curtains. His metal hand tightened on the railing, slowly denting the metal.
He tried anyway.
“Baby, slow down,” he said, voice dripping with concern. “You sound really scared. Maybe you’re just stressed from work and your thesis. You’ve been so tired lately. I would never-”
“Stop.” Your voice cracked, but it was sharp with raw fury. Tears burned in your eyes as you stood up from the bed, pacing. “Don’t you dare lie to me right now. I’m terrified, Bucky. I’ve been checking my locks ten times a night. I wake up feeling like someone’s been touching me. And it’s you. You’ve been breaking into my home. Stealing my fucking underwear. What the hell is wrong with you?!”
Bucky’s jaw clenched hard. Drool slipped from the corner of his mouth as he watched you curl tighter into yourself on the bed, tears streaming down your face. His free hand flexed at his side, metal plates whirring.
“I was trying to protect you,” he said, voice low and careful, almost pleading. “I just wanted to be close to you. I’ve been alone for so long and you-”
“Close to me?” you snapped, voice rising in a hysterical, broken laugh that sounded more like a sob. “You’ve been sneaking into my room while I sleep! That’s not protecting me, that’s stalking me! I trusted you. You carried my groceries. You were sweet and gentle and now I find out you’ve been stealing my panties and watching me change? What kind of sick fuck does that?!”
Bucky’s red eyes flashed brighter. His metal fingers dug into the windowsill, cracking the frame with a quiet groan.
“I know it looks bad,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady but you could hear the strain. “But I’m not going to hurt you. I could never hurt you. I just… I need you. I’ve been alone for so long and you’re the only thing that makes me feel alive again. Please, doll. Let me explain-”
“Explain what?” you shouted, no longer caring if your neighbors heard. Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks. “How you’ve been breaking in? How you left a rose like some twisted gift? I’m scared to even close my eyes now because I don’t know if you’re standing there watching me!”
You were crying hard now, terrified and furious and completely overwhelmed. Your voice cracked as you whispered the last part.
“I thought you were different… I thought you were safe.”
Bucky pressed his forehead against the cold glass, breathing heavily, fangs fully extended. For a long moment he was silent. When he spoke again, his voice was raw, almost broken, with very little hope left in it.
“I’m sorry,” he said, the words cracking. “I’m so fucking sorry. I know I’m messed up. I know I went too far. But I can’t stop. I won’t lose you. I won’t. Please… just come to my penthouse tomorrow night. Let me explain everything in person. No more lies. No more hiding. I’ll tell you everything. Just… please don’t shut me out. I need to see you. I need to make this right.”
His voice dropped, almost desperate.
“I know I don’t deserve it… but please. Tomorrow at 8. My penthouse. I’ll send a car. If you still want nothing to do with me after that, I’ll leave you alone. I swear it.”
You were silent for a long, heavy moment, shaking with fear and anger.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you hissed, voice rising again. “You want me to come to your place? After everything you just admitted? After you’ve been breaking into my home and stealing from me? You have the nerve to ask me to walk into your penthouse like it’s some normal date? Are you out of your fucking mind?!”
Bucky’s breath hitched on the other end. His voice was quieter now, almost pleading, with almost no hope left.
“I know how it sounds,” he said, the words heavy. “I know I don’t deserve your trust. But I can’t explain this over the phone. I need you to see me. To see that I’m not going to hurt you. Please, doll… just one chance. I’m begging you. Tomorrow at 8. I’ll send a car. If you walk out after I explain, I won’t stop you. I swear on whatever’s left of me.”
You were silent for a long, heavy moment, shaking with fear and anger.
“…Fine,” you finally whispered, voice trembling. “Tomorrow at 8. But if you lie to me again, Bucky, I’m done. I mean it.”
“Thank you,” he breathed, relief and dark hunger mixing in his tone. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Get some sleep, doll. I’ll be thinking about you.”
You hung up without another word.
Bucky stayed on the fire escape for a long moment, staring at your shaking form through the window. Rain mixed with the blood tears sliding down his face.
He whispered into the night, voice dark and possessive:
“You don’t have to be scared of me, doll. I’ll make sure of that… one way or another.”
He vanished into the shadows, already planning exactly what he would say and what he would do when you came to him tomorrow.
The next day, Bucky moved through the city like a man on a mission.
He hadn’t slept. He doesn’t anymore.
Vampires don’t need sleep the way humans do. The closest he ever came was a kind of cold, motionless trance but even that had abandoned him since you entered his life. Instead, he had spent the entire night on the rooftop of his penthouse, standing motionless in the wind and rain, staring out at the glittering lights of Brooklyn below. Your terrified, furious voice played on repeat in his head like a broken record.
The way you had cried.
The way you had called him a sick fuck.
The way you had still agreed to come tonight even if it was only because you were angry and scared.
Every word cut deeper than the last.
He was going to tell you everything.
No more lies. No more half-truths. Tonight, in his penthouse, he would confess what he really was. And he was going to make it as… human as possible. As normal as a seven-hundred-year-old vampire could manage.
So he went grocery shopping.
He walked into the upscale organic market near the waterfront in the late afternoon, black coat on, sunglasses hiding his eyes, metal arm tucked into his sleeve. The fluorescent lights felt too bright, the chatter of normal people too loud. But he pushed a cart through the aisles with focused determination.
He started with breakfast ingredients for tomorrow, just in case you stayed. Eggs, fresh herbs, thick-cut bacon, ripe avocados, sourdough bread. Then he moved to dinner. He wanted something comforting, something that said “I care.” He picked out ingredients for homemade lasagna, fresh pasta sheets, rich tomato sauce, ground beef, ricotta, mozzarella and basil. He added things for a salad and garlic bread.
His mind kept drifting to you as he shopped.
She’s coming tonight. She’s terrified of me. She has every right to be.
He stopped in the baking aisle and stared at the rows of flour, sugar, chocolate and vanilla. He remembered you mentioning once that you loved chocolate cake when you were stressed. So he grabbed everything he needed, dark cocoa powder, heavy cream, eggs, butter and added a bottle of expensive vanilla extract.
An older woman beside him smiled kindly as she reached for a bag of sugar.
“Baking for someone special?” she asked.
Bucky gave her a small, tired smile. “Yeah… something like that.”
He hoped you would still want anything from him after tonight.
By the time he got back to the penthouse, his arms were full of bags. He spent the next several hours in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up. He prepped the lasagna, made the chocolate cake from scratch, even baked fresh bread. The entire penthouse filled with warm, comforting smells, tomato sauce simmering, cake baking, garlic and herbs.
As he worked, he practiced what he would say.
“I’m a vampire.” “I’ve been watching you sleep.” “I stole your things because I’m obsessed with you.” “I would kill for you.” “I want to turn you so I never lose you.”
Every version sounded insane. Every version made him feel sick with fear that you would finally run.
He set the dining table beautifully, candles, wine, flowers. He even picked out soft music. When everything was ready, he stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the feast he had made, and whispered to the empty room:
“Please don’t leave me, doll. Please… just listen.”
He checked the clock.
8:00 pm was approaching.
And for the first time in centuries, the ancient predator felt genuinely nervous.
He was about to confess everything.
And he had no idea if you would still be his when the night was over.
You arrived at his penthouse at exactly 8:00 pm, fury burning hotter than fear. The car he sent had been silent and luxurious but you spent the entire ride clenching your fists, rehearsing every accusation. When the private elevator doors opened directly into his home, you stepped out with your chin high, jaw tight, eyes blazing.
Bucky stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, the glittering city sprawled behind him like a dark jewel. The lights were low, candles flickering on the dining table. He looked almost… human. Nervous. Shoulders tense, hands shoved into his pockets.
You stopped a few feet away, arms crossed tightly.
“Start talking,” you snapped, voice trembling with rage. “No more ‘protecting me’ bullshit. I want the truth. All of it. Right now.”
Bucky swallowed hard. “I… I don’t know where to begin.”
“Begin with why you’ve been lying to me.”
He took a slow step closer, then stopped when you flinched. “I’m not who you think I am. Not… not completely.”
Your heart hammered. Something in his voice, the raw edge, the hesitation made the air feel heavier. “Bucky. What are you?”
For a long moment, he just stared at you. Then his shoulders slumped.
“I’m not human,” he said, voice low and rough, almost a growl. “Not anymore. Not for a very long time.”
The lights in the penthouse seemed to dim further. A chill crawled up your spine.
“What the hell does that mean?” you whispered.
His eyes, those beautiful blue eyes you’d trusted, began to change. The color bled away from the edges inward, flooding with a violent, glowing red. Not just red. Blood-red. Like twin embers pulled straight from hell, pulsing with unnatural hunger.
You stumbled back a step. “Bucky-”
His lips parted. There was a soft, wet click as his canines elongated into fangs, long, razor-sharp, gleaming under the candlelight. They looked strong enough to tear through flesh without effort. A low, involuntary growl rumbled in his chest, deep and animalistic.
You pressed a hand to your mouth, breath shallow. “Oh my God…”
He slowly raised his left hand. The plates of the metal arm shifted with a mechanical whirr-click-grind, like a machine waking up. The steel caught the red glow from his eyes, reflecting it back in cold, deadly shards.
“Bucky, what are you?” You asked again, fear finally overtaking the anger.
He took one more step forward, voice dropping into something ancient and broken. “This is what I am.”
The full transformation hit like a nightmare unfolding in real time. His skin seemed to pale further, veins standing out dark beneath it. The red in his eyes brightened, casting eerie shadows across his face. Those fangs, fully extended now, made his mouth look wrong, predatory. When he spoke again, his voice was layered with something inhuman, a resonance that vibrated in your bones.
“A vampire,” he said. “Turned in 1349 during the Black Death. I died in an alley with a nobleman’s teeth in my throat… and I woke up like this.”
You backed up until your legs hit the edge of the couch. “No. No, that’s not- this isn’t real.”
He rolled up his sleeve with deliberate slowness, revealing the brutal fusion where metal met scarred flesh. The seam looked raw, like it had been cauterized with fire and rage. The arm flexed, plates shifting with a menacing hum.
You stared, heart slamming against your ribs. “The glove… the circulation story…”
“All lies,” he admitted, voice raw. “I didn’t want you to see the monster. I thought if I could be James for a little while longer, you might not run screaming.”
He reached out slowly but you jerked away.
“Does it hurt?” you whispered, despite everything.
“Every day.” His red eyes never left yours. “It’s not mine. They tore the real one off and bolted this thing onto me while I was screaming. HYDRA made sure I felt every second of it.”
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Only the distant city hum and the frantic beat of your own heart filled the room.
Bucky’s shoulders shook as he continued, the words pouring out like he’d held them back for centuries. “I was arrogant. Handsome. Thought the world was mine. Then the plague came and a dying man made me eternal. I’ve spent nearly seven hundred years alone. Fucking. Feeding. Leaving bodies behind before dawn because nothing ever filled the emptiness.”
His voice cracked completely. Blood-red tears slid down his cheeks, actual blood, dark and glistening.
“Until Dolores. Dot. She called me ‘my James.’ She knew what I was and still loved me. When the plague took her in 1665, I tried to turn her. Forced my blood down her throat while she was still breathing. She screamed my name as she died in my arms. I burned the cottage with her body inside because I couldn’t bear to look at what I’d done.”
He dropped to his knees right there on the marble floor, arms wrapping around your waist like you were his last anchor.
“I’ve carried her screams for four hundred years,” he choked out against your stomach, blood tears soaking your shirt. “The wars. The mud. The explosion that took my arm. Waking up with this thing fused to me, roaring while they wiped my mind over and over. I came back to Brooklyn. Fed only on the worst people so I wouldn’t have to feel. Until that rainy night outside the library… when you smiled at me like I wasn’t damned.”
You stood frozen, sobbing, one hand hovering over his dark hair.
He looked up at you, eyes glowing like fresh blood, fangs fully bared, metal arm clenched so hard the plates screamed in protest. “I’ve been breaking into your apartment. Stealing your things. Tasting you while you slept. Listening to your heartbeat and praying I wouldn’t ruin you too.”
You shook your head, tears streaming. “You… you drank from me? While I was sleeping? You touched me, took my things like some kind of sick collector-”
“I know,” he whispered brokenly. “I’m a monster. A killer. I understand if you run. I won’t stop you. But please… I’m so fucking tired of being alone. You’re the only light I’ve had in centuries. Don’t take it away.”
The penthouse was silent except for your ragged breathing and his quiet, desperate sobs against you.
You were terrified.
You were furious.
You stood there, trembling, with Bucky’s arms locked around your waist and his face pressed against your stomach. The glow of his red eyes lit the floor beneath you like dying embers. His fangs were still fully extended, brushing against the fabric every time he breathed.
Your hand finally lowered. Fingers sank into his dark hair.
“I should run,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Any sane person would.”
Bucky’s shoulders tensed, waiting for the blow.
“But I’m still here,” you continued, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I’m terrified… but I’m not leaving. Not tonight. Not yet. You’re a monster, Bucky. A real one. But you’re my monster. And I hate how much that matters to me right now.”
A broken sound escaped him, half sob, half relief. He tightened his hold for one heartbeat, then slowly loosened it, as if afraid you’d vanish.
“Thank you,” he breathed against you. “God, thank you.”
He stayed on his knees a moment longer, forehead pressed to your hip like a penitent at confession. When he finally rose, the red in his eyes had dimmed slightly but the fangs still peeked past his lips and the metal arm still hummed with tension. He looked raw. Exposed. Almost boyish in his uncertainty.
Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, a shy human gesture that felt strangely out of place on a centuries-old vampire.
“I… prepared dinner for you,” he said softly, a faint flush coloring his pale cheeks. “I’ve been cooking since the afternoon. I wanted tonight to feel… normal. Before everything else.”
You blinked, surprised, still wiping tears from your face. “You cooked? For me?”
He gave a small, almost shy nod. “I haven’t cooked for anyone in… a very long time. I wanted it to be perfect.”
He led you further into the penthouse with gentle care, one hand hovering near the small of your back without quite touching. The long dining table was set beautifully for one, fine china, crystal glasses, silverware polished to a mirror shine. Tall candles flickered in elegant holders, casting warm golden light across the room. A bottle of deep red wine breathed in a decanter. Soft, old jazz played from hidden speakers, something slow and smoky from the 1940s.
You could see into the open kitchen: chopping boards with fresh herb scraps, a pot that had clearly been simmering for hours, an empty wine bottle he must have used in the sauce.
Bucky pulled out your chair like a gentleman from another century, then sat across from you. He didn’t touch his own plate.
The feast was incredible.
Bucky had clearly poured hours into it. A rich homemade minestrone soup steamed gently in a beautiful ceramic bowl, loaded with fresh vegetables and herbs. Next to it sat a generous serving of creamy garlic pasta with fresh basil and shaved parmesan. There was a perfectly roasted vegetable medley glistening with olive oil and sea salt, a beautifully seared steak with rosemary and garlic butter and a large tray of homemade lasagna, layers of tender pasta, rich meat sauce, creamy ricotta, and melted mozzarella that still bubbled from the oven. A basket of warm, golden garlic bread sat beside it, the aroma of butter and roasted garlic filling the air.
On a side table waited three different desserts: tiramisu dusted with cocoa, dark chocolate cake layered with silky ganache and fresh berries with whipped cream and mint.
You took your first bite of the pasta and actually moaned. “Bucky… this is amazing. When did you even have time to do all this?”
He watched you eat with quiet intensity, a small smile playing at his lips despite the fangs. “I’ve had a lot of time to learn things over the centuries. Cooking was one way I tried to feel… human. I started preparing everything this morning. I needed to do something with my hands or I was going to lose my mind waiting for you to say yes.”
You ate slowly, studying him the entire time, the way candlelight danced across his pale skin, the subtle shift of metal plates under his sleeve, the faint red glow still lingering at the edges of his eyes. The silence finally became too much.
“Bucky… why aren’t you eating anything?” you asked gently.
He gave a low, tired chuckle and leaned back in his chair, eyes soft but shadowed.
“I can eat human food, doll. Some of us do it at galas or restaurants to blend in. But it tastes like ash in my mouth. No real flavor. No nourishment. Most of us vomit it up later, or it just sits heavy and makes us sick. If we rely on it too long, we get weak… malnourished.” His voice dropped, dark and intimate. “Nothing, nothing, compares to blood. Especially yours.”
You swallowed hard, heart racing, but took another slow bite of the pasta anyway. The rich garlic and herbs still tasted divine to you, even if they were nothing to him. Curiosity was slowly winning the war against your nerves. “So the garlic in this pasta… it’s really fine?”
He smiled faintly, fangs glinting in the candlelight. “Old folklore. Garlic doesn’t hurt us. It just smells strong. Some of us find it unpleasant, like it stings our nose but it won’t kill me. I actually like cooking with it. Reminds me of simpler times.”
You nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “Can you see yourself in mirrors?”
He let out a soft laugh. “Yes. Always have. The whole ‘no reflection’ thing was invented by Bram Stoker as a narrative device to show vampires lacked a soul. I still shave the old-fashioned way every evening.”
“What about sunlight?” you pressed, leaning forward. “Do you sparkle or burst into flames like in the movies?”
Bucky let out a genuine laugh, the sound low and warm, cutting through the heavy tension in the room. “No sparkling. That one always makes me laugh. I can go out in daylight- it just weakens me. The older I get, the more it burns if I stay out too long. Like a bad sunburn that never quite heals. That’s why I prefer evening dates. Sunsets are my limit on a good day.”
You kept going, emboldened by his patience. “Holy water? Crosses? What about stakes?”
“Holy water feels like a mild burn on the skin, like touching a hot pan for half a second. Crosses do nothing- never have.” He shrugged. “As for stakes… that whole ‘wooden stake through the heart kills us’ idea is mostly modern invention. In the old folklore they were just used to pin us down or immobilize us so we couldn’t rise from the grave. To actually finish one of us off, you’d need to behead or burn the body.”
He tapped his chest with a wry smile. “A stake would hurt like hell and slow me down, but I heal too fast. You’d have to be quicker than me and almost nothing is.”
You set your fork down, studying his face, the way the red glow in his eyes pulsed softly with every answer. “When do your fangs come out? Just when you’re hungry?”
Bucky’s eyes darkened, the crimson flaring brighter for a heartbeat. “They come out when I’m hungry. When I’m angry.” His voice dropped into a rough growl that sent heat and fear twisting low in your belly. “And when I’m aroused. They’ve been out since you walked into the penthouse. Looking at you does that to me. Every damn time.”
Your breath caught. Heat flooded your cheeks. “So right now… they’re because of me?”
“Partly,” he admitted, voice rough with honesty. “Mostly. You walk in a room and my body reacts before my brain catches up.”
You bit your lip, fighting the strange flutter in your chest. “Do you… shape-shift? Like into bats or wolves or anything?”
He tilted his head, a small, dangerously charming smirk playing on his lips. “Some of the very old ones can. Bats, rats, owls, foxes, even wolves. I never learned how. Never needed to. I prefer this form. This body.” His metal fingers flexed slowly on the tablecloth. “It’s served me well for seven hundred years. Strong. Fast. Familiar.”
You nodded slowly, processing everything. “What about needing an invitation to enter a home? Is that why you waited for me to open the door sometimes?”
Bucky’s smirk faded into something darker, almost predatory. His red eyes gleamed with dark amusement.
“That one used to be real,” he said, voice low. “A long time ago. But we figured it out centuries back. Vampires invented welcome mats. Cute little loophole. Put one outside your door and boom you’ve technically invited every vampire in the world inside. Most people have them now without even realizing what they’re doing.”
He leaned forward slightly, watching your face.
“I never actually needed an invitation. I only picked your lock those first few times out of habit… and because I wanted to hear you invite me in yourself. I wanted to watch that sweet, trusting smile when you opened the door for me. I wanted you to choose to let me in.”
A deep chill ran down your spine. The candle flames suddenly felt tiny and useless against the growing shadows in the room.
“So you could just… walk in whenever?” you asked quietly, voice barely above a whisper.
“Anytime,” he said, eyes locked on yours, unblinking. “Day or night. Rain or shine. Whether you’re awake, asleep, or in the shower. I never have to wait outside again unless you explicitly tell me to leave. And even then…”
He let the sentence hang, the implication heavy in the air.
You swallowed hard, heart hammering.
Bucky’s voice dropped even lower, almost intimate.
“I’d probably still watch from the street… just to make sure you’re safe.”
You tried to push past the shiver of fear. “What about resting in a coffin with soil from your grave? Is any of that real?”
Bucky’s expression turned almost nostalgic, though there was a hint of darkness in his eyes.
“Mostly myth,” he said. “I don’t need a coffin. I don’t actually need to sleep at all- vampires don’t. The body doesn’t require rest the way a human one does. But some of us do sleep in soil from their homeland. It… grounds us. Keeps the centuries from driving them completely insane. I haven’t done that in a long time. The last time was right after the war, when everything hurt too much.”
The questions kept coming, almost like you couldn’t stop them. “Are all vampires pale and beautiful like you? Or is that just in books?”
Bucky gave a dark, low chuckle that vibrated through his chest.
“In the oldest stories, we were bloated, ruddy, purple corpses. Disgusting, swollen things that crawled out of graves smelling of rot, mindless demons driven by pure bestial instinct. No charm, no seduction, just mindless hunger.”
He smiled, his red eyes gleaming with something hungry and possessive. “But after the change… it’s different. The venom rewrites you. Makes you younger. More beautiful. More magnetic.”
“You get this pull, an almost supernatural allure that draws people in. Makes them want to get closer. Makes them easy to seduce… easy to drain dry without them even realizing what’s happening until it’s too late.”
He leaned forward slightly, voice velvet and smoke. “When I turn you, you won’t just be immortal. You’ll be… irresistible. Skin flawless. Body perfected. A face and presence that makes mortals ache to be near you. To offer themselves. To bare their throats without understanding why. That’s how we survive. Not just by strength- but by beauty. By hunger wrapped in seduction.”
You swallowed hard, a shiver racing down your spine at how casually he spoke about turning you. Like it was something he had already decided in his mind. “You keep saying ‘when,’” you whispered. “Not ‘if.’”
Bucky noticed your unease immediately. He reached across the table and gently took your hand, metal fingers cool but careful against your skin.
“You don’t have to worry your pretty head about it right now, doll,” he murmured, voice softening into that velvet tone that always made your stomach flutter. “I’m not going to rush you. I’m not going to force anything. When- if- it happens, it’ll be when you’re ready. I just… I can’t stand the thought of watching you grow old and die while I stay like this. I’ve buried too many people I cared about. I don’t want you to be one of them.”
He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a slow, reverent kiss to your knuckles, fangs lightly grazing your skin in a promise that made your pulse jump wildly.
“You’re already perfect to me,” he whispered against your fingers. “Human or not.”
You stared at him across the flickering candles, heart racing with a dizzying mixture of fear, fascination, lingering anger, and something far deeper. The jazz still played softly. The feast was slowly cooling on your plate. And the vampire who had just answered every terrifying question with surprising patience was still holding your hand like it was the most precious thing in his long, dark life.
“This is… a lot to take in,” you said finally, voice barely above a whisper.
Bucky’s red eyes softened. “I know. Take all the time you need. Ask me anything. I’ll answer every question, no matter how dark. And I understand if it’s too much. If you want to run, I won’t stop you.”
You didn’t run.
Instead, you reached across the table and gently touched his metal hand.
“I’m still here,” you whispered, fingers tracing the cool plates. “I won’t run.”
Bucky turned his hand over instantly, metal fingers carefully closing around yours like he was afraid you’d disappear. His glowing red eyes searched your face, raw and uncertain.
“There’s one more thing,” he said, voice dropping even lower, almost ashamed. “Sometimes… I can slip into dreams. Like an incubus. I’ve done it to you. Many times. I’ve made you dream filthy things while you slept. Made you feel my hands spreading you open, my mouth on your cunt, my cock buried so deep you were sobbing my name. You’d wake up soaked, thighs slick, aching so badly you had to touch yourself… and you thought it was just your imagination.”
Your breath hitched sharply. Heat flooded your face and lower, a sudden throb between your legs. “You… did that?”
Bucky’s eyes burned brighter, pupils blown wide. “Every night I couldn’t stay away. Even when I tried to stop myself. I’d stand in the corner of your room, hard as steel and push into your mind just to hear you moan for me in your sleep. I’m sorry. I know how fucked up that is.”
The silence between you crackled, thick, electric, heavy with fear, shame, and dark, undeniable desire. Your pulse thundered in your ears. You didn’t pull your hand away.
The tension finally snapped.
You stood up slowly, chair scraping against the floor. Bucky rose to meet you, chest heaving. The first kiss was slow and reverent, his hands cradling your face like you were made of glass. But hunger took over fast. The kiss turned deep, desperate, tongues sliding, teeth clashing. You moaned into his mouth and he answered with a broken growl that vibrated straight to your core.
He pulled back suddenly, breathing hard, fangs fully extended and gleaming. A thin string of saliva still connected his lower lip to your skin. He looked feral. Starving. Devastatingly beautiful.
You stared, heart pounding with something far beyond fear now. Curiosity and lust burned hotter. You reached up, cupped his jaw, thumb brushing the sharp line of his cheekbone. “Open for me, Bucky.”
His glowing red eyes flickered with surprise, but he obeyed instantly. Lips parting, he showed you the full, lethal length of his fangs. A low, needy growl rumbled in his chest, submissive and desperate, like he was offering himself up for your inspection.
You traced one fang slowly with your thumb, feeling the razor edge without cutting yourself. “Does it hurt when they come out?”
“Just a dull ache,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough and trembling. “Like an old wound. But right now… fuck, doll, it feels good. Because it’s you touching them.” His tongue flicked out helplessly. Thick drool slipped from the corner of his mouth, sliding down his chin as he fought the urge to bite.
You leaned in, eyes locked on his and dragged your tongue slowly up the length of one fang. The metallic tang mixed with his dark, cold taste, addictive and intoxicating. Bucky groaned deep in his throat, the sound broken and filthy. His metal hand tightened on your waist, hard enough to bruise, hips jerking forward involuntarily against you.
“Fuck… you’re gonna kill me,” he rasped, drooling openly now. Saliva dripped onto your chest as he watched you explore him with wide, submissive eyes. “No one’s ever… touched them like that. No one’s ever been brave enough.”
“Does drinking hurt?” you asked, still licking and teasing the sharp point, sucking gently at the tip.
“Only if I want it to.” His voice cracked into something dangerous and wrecked. “I can make it burn like fire… or feel like the best orgasm you’ve ever had. I’ve learned control over centuries. But with you-” He shuddered hard when you sucked harder. “-I don’t know how long it’ll last. Please… doll…”
You smiled, wicked and curious and took the entire tip of his fang into your mouth, sucking softly. Bucky snarled, the sound purely submissive and lifted you off the ground like you weighed nothing. Clothes were torn away in a frantic blur, your shirt ripped down the middle, his pants shoved down just enough. He carried you to the bedroom, metal arm cool and unyielding against your bare back and laid you on the bed with surprising gentleness.
But the second your back hit the mattress, the hunger consumed him.
He worshipped you for what felt like hours. Mouth everywhere. He sucked dark, claiming bruises into your breasts, fangs grazing your nipples until you arched and whimpered. He licked long, messy stripes down your stomach, drooling shamelessly over your skin, leaving shiny, cooling trails. When he finally shoved your thighs apart and settled between them, his red eyes burned up at you with raw need.
“I’ve tasted you before,” he confessed, voice thick with shame and lust, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your inner thigh. “While you slept. Just little sips from your wrist or your thigh. Never enough to hurt you. Never while you were awake, watching me like this.” He groaned, hips grinding helplessly against the sheets. “I’m sorry… but I couldn’t stop. You taste like fucking heaven.”
His tongue dragged slowly through your folds, and the broken, desperate sound he made was almost worshipful. “Let me make it up to you, doll. Please. Let me show you how good I can make it feel when you’re awake.”
Before you could answer, he buried his face in your cunt. No teasing. He devoured you, filthy, wet, obscene sounds filling the room as his tongue fucked deep inside you, curling, thrusting. His drool mixed with your slick, dripping down his chin, soaking the sheets. Two thick fingers joined his tongue while his thumb rubbed tight circles on your clit. You came the first time with a broken cry, thighs clamping around his head. He didn’t stop. He sucked your clit between his lips and growled, the vibration sending you over again almost immediately, sobbing his name.
Only then did he crawl up your body, cock heavy and leaking against your thigh. He was massive, thick, flushed dark, the head already glistening with precum and your own slick. You reached down with a shaky hand and stroked him, spreading the mess along his length.
“Bucky… you’re so fucking big,” you whimpered, eyes wide with a mix of awe and nerves.
“I know, baby,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing ragged and hot against your lips. “Gonna go slow at first. Breathe for me. I’ve got you. Tell me if it hurts, okay? I need to hear you.”
He pushed in inch by inch, stretching you open until you felt impossibly full. The burn was intense but perfect, bordering on too much. When he bottomed out, he stayed there, hips twitching, drooling onto your neck as he fought for control.
“Fuck… you’re so tight,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “So warm and wet for me. Taking every inch like you were made for this cock. How does it feel, doll? Does it hurt?”
“A little,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “It’s so much… but it feels good. Don’t stop.”
He stayed buried deep, rolling his hips in slow, careful circles, letting you adjust. “Good girl. Breathe. I’ve got you. If it gets too much, you tell me. Promise me.”
“I promise,” you whispered, legs wrapping tighter around him.
Then he started moving, deep, slow rolls of his hips at first, letting you feel every ridge and vein dragging inside you. The headboard creaked under his metal grip. Soon the pace turned punishing, hips snapping hard, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing obscenely through the room. He fucked you like he’d been starving for you for decades.
“Mine,” he snarled against your throat, fangs scraping your skin. “Say it.”
“I’m yours- fuck, Bucky, I’m yours!”
Your orgasm was building fast, walls fluttering around his cock. Bucky suddenly slowed, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in deep. His glowing red eyes locked onto yours, intense and pleading.
“Drink from me,” he rasped, slicing his wrist open with a fang. Dark, ancient blood welled up instantly. “Just a little. It’ll make everything feel better. So much better. Trust me, doll. You’ll feel like you’re flying.”
You hesitated, breath shaky. “Bucky… I don’t know if-”
“Please,” he whispered, pressing his bleeding wrist closer to your lips, voice desperate and feral. “It won’t hurt you. It’ll heighten everything. Every thrust. Every touch. Every single nerve in your body. You’ll come harder than you ever have. Let me give this to you, baby. Let me make you feel good.”
The raw need in his voice, combined with the way he was still buried so deep inside you, made you cave. You parted your lips and let him press his wrist to your mouth.
The first taste was overwhelming, rich, metallic, and strangely sweet, like dark spiced wine laced with raw power. His blood flooded your tongue and burned down your throat. Almost immediately, fire spread through your veins. Pleasure exploded tenfold. Every nerve lit up like live wires. The stretch of his cock inside you suddenly felt impossibly better, every ridge dragging against sensitive spots you didn’t even know existed.
“Oh my God-” you gasped, eyes rolling back, a broken moan tearing from your throat.
Bucky groaned loudly, hips snapping forward harder. “That’s it… good girl. Feel me now. Feel how deep I am. How full you are. Does it still hurt, doll? Tell me.”
“No- fuck, it feels… incredible,” you sobbed, legs shaking around him. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
He fucked you through it without mercy, eyes glowing brighter, drooling onto your chest as he watched you fall apart.
“Fuck, look at you,” he growled, voice wrecked with feral hunger. “Drinking my blood and creaming all over my cock like a perfect little slut. So fucking perfect. So mine. You okay, baby? Not lightheaded?”
“I’m… I’m good,” you gasped, tears of overwhelming pleasure streaming down your face. “It’s so much- I feel like I’m burning up in the best way.”
He kept feeding you small sips as he pounded into you, each swallow making the pleasure spiral higher and higher until you were sobbing, shaking, coming again and again. The room spun. Your body felt like it was on fire in the best possible way, every thrust, every drag of his cock, every brush of his skin against yours amplified into pure bliss.
“Does it still feel good?” he panted, voice rough and concerned even as he fucked you like a beast. “Talk to me, doll. Tell me you’re okay.”
“Yes- yes, Bucky, I’m okay- don’t stop, please-”
He shifted higher, mouth trailing wet, open kisses up your leg until he reached your calf. Without warning, his fangs sank deep into the soft, sensitive flesh there, right below the knee, where the muscle was firm but yielding. The sharp, burning pain exploded through you, mixing violently with the overwhelming pleasure still pulsing from his blood in your veins.
The combined sensation sent you over the edge one final time, his fangs buried deep in your calf while his thick cock slammed into you with brutal, relentless strokes. You screamed, raw and broken, vision whiting out as your walls clenched violently around him. His hot, endless pulses of cum flooded you at the exact same moment, thick ropes painting your insides until it squirted out around his pistoning shaft with every thrust, slick and obscene. The wet, filthy sound of it echoed through the room, wet squelching, skin slapping, your mixed fluids soaking the sheets beneath you.
“Fuck- take it all, doll,” Bucky growled against your neck, voice ragged and possessive, his metal fingers digging bruises into your hip while his flesh hand fisted your hair. “Gonna fill this greedy little cunt until it’s dripping for days. You’re mine now. Every drop of blood, every fucking inch of this perfect body- mine.”
He kept rutting through his orgasm, hips snapping harder, chasing the last spasms of your climax until your thighs shook uncontrollably. The bedframe groaned in protest under the force, wood creaking dangerously with every punishing thrust. You were a mess, sweat-slick, cum-stuffed, blood trickling from the fresh bite marks on your neck and calf where he’d feasted earlier. The metallic tang of your blood still coated his tongue as he licked greedily at the wound.
Then it happened.
One particularly savage thrust, his cock slamming so deep you swore you felt him in your guts, made the entire bed collapse. The wooden slats snapped with a loud crack, the mattress dropping hard onto the box spring. You both jolted, still locked together.
“Oh fuck!” you gasped, eyes wide, a breathless laugh already bubbling up.
Bucky froze mid-thrust, cock still buried to the hilt inside your fluttering pussy, his glowing eyes blinking in confusion. “What the- did we just…?”
The absurdity hit you both at once. You burst into giggles, the sound bright and giddy even as his cum continued to leak out around where you were joined. Bucky’s serious, post-orgasm face cracked, and he let out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated through his chest into yours.
“Shit, doll,” he chuckled, forehead dropping to yours, still half-hard and twitching inside you. “Broke the damn bed. Guess I don’t know my own strength when I’m buried in this tight, sloppy heaven.”
You grinned up at him, running your fingers through his messy hair, feeling the coolness of his skin, vampire cool, never quite warm like a human’s. “Mmm, worth it. You fucked me so hard I’m gonna feel you for a week. My vampire super-soldier broke the bed railing me like a damn animal. Kinda hot.”
He smirked, fangs still partially extended, glistening with your blood. “Animal, huh? Careful what you ask for.” He gave one lazy, deep roll of his hips, pushing his cum deeper, making you whimper. “Still hard for you. Could go again right here on the broken wreckage.”
You laughed softer this time, cupping his face. “Later, Buck. I’m wrecked. But… you’re not gonna sleep, are you?”
Bucky’s expression softened. He carefully pulled out with a wet sound, a gush of his spend following, dripping down your ass onto the ruined sheets. He sealed the bite on your neck first, slow, reverent licks of his tongue, warm and soothing, the healing properties in his saliva already knitting the skin. Then he moved lower, spreading your thighs wide to lap gently at the bite on your inner thigh, tasting the mix of your blood and his cum with a low, appreciative groan.
“Fuck, look at this pretty, used cunt,” he murmured filthily between licks. “All swollen and leaking my load. So damn perfect.” He pressed a tender kiss right over your clit before crawling back up.
He didn’t lie down beside you like a human would. Instead, he sat up against the tilted headboard of the collapsed bed, metal arm pulling you effortlessly into his lap so you were draped over his chest. His fingers, both flesh and metal, traced lazy, soothing patterns along your spine, your ass, the backs of your thighs.
“I don’t need sleep, baby,” he said quietly, voice low and intimate in the dark. “Haven’t in decades. I’ll stay right here, watching over you. Listening to that beautiful heartbeat. After everything… I can’t risk losing you too.”
You nuzzled into his neck, kissing the old scars there. “You’re not gonna lose me, Bucky. I’m yours. I chose this, chose you. The biting, the blood, the way you fuck me stupid… all of it. I’m not going anywhere.” Your hand slid down his abs, giving his still-hard cock a lazy stroke. “Even if you do break every bed we own.”
He let out a soft, relieved laugh, pressing kisses to your temple, your eyelids, your swollen lips. “Good girl. My perfect doll. I’ll buy a reinforced steel frame tomorrow. Maybe bolt it to the damn floor.” His voice dropped, more serious, thumb brushing your jaw. “You’re safe with me. I swear it. I’ll burn the world before I let anything touch you. You’re my light now. My reason.”
You smiled sleepily, body heavy and sated, the buzz of his blood in your veins making everything warm and floaty. “Mmm. Love you, my vampire. Even if you’re a creepy non-sleeper who stares at me all night.”
“Creepy, huh?” He nipped your ear playfully, then soothed it with his tongue. “Keep talking like that and I’ll spread these thighs again and make you scream my name until sunrise.”
“Promises, promises…” you mumbled, already drifting.
Bucky held you tighter, one hand possessively cupping your cum-filled pussy, the other stroking your hair. He stayed awake all night like that, cock half-hard against your thigh, silent blood-tinged tears slipping down his cheeks onto the pillow, heart aching with a love so fierce it terrified him. Your heartbeat was steady and strong against his chest, the last pure thing left in his long, violent existence.
And he’d protect it with every undead fiber of his being.
You woke slowly, blinking against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, your body deliciously sore and heavy with the afterglow of being thoroughly claimed. The first thing you noticed was the chaos surrounding you.
The bed was completely destroyed, slats snapped clean in half, the mattress tilted at a ridiculous angle on the broken box spring and white down feathers absolutely everywhere. They drifted lazily through the air like snow, clung to your sticky skin, tangled in your messy hair and dusted the dried streaks of cum and blood that painted your thighs and stomach. Feathers stuck to the dark bite marks on your neck and breasts, nestled in the crease of your ass and even floated gently off the ruined sheets every time you shifted.
The bed was empty. Or so you thought.
“Bucky?” you murmured, voice raspy from screaming his name half the night. A faint flutter of panic mixed with the warm throb between your legs.
Before you could sit up, the most sinful, decadent sensation hit you, a warm wet tongue dragging with deliberate, unhurried laziness up the soft, sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Each long, slow stroke pressed firmly against a fresh, throbbing bite mark, the one Bucky had left deep in the throes of last night’s passion. The feeling was possessive, almost worshipful, like he was savoring every drop of you.
A shiver raced through your body and a soft, breathy moan escaped your lips. You looked down to find Bucky right there between your spread thighs, his massive metal arm draped heavily over your hip to keep you pinned open for him. His mouth was latched onto that tender wound, tongue working in slow, reverent circles as he licked it closed, sealing it with his cool venom while tasting the last faint traces of your blood. The sting mixed with pleasure in a way that made your core clench emptily, still aching and leaking from how brutally he’d fucked you hours earlier.
He must have been waiting for you to stir.
When he felt you tense, he lifted his head just enough to look up at you through hooded crimson eyes that glowed with hunger and raw devotion. His lips were shiny, slick and stained vivid crimson with your blood. Feathers clung to his dark hair and broad shoulders like some filthy, fallen angel.
“Good morning, my sweet girl,” he rumbled, voice gravelly and thick. “Found you leaking all over the wreckage. Couldn’t resist cleaning up my mess. You taste even better in the morning- soft, warm and dripping with me.”
You let out a shaky laugh, glancing around at the feather explosion and broken wood. “We really destroyed everything, didn’t we? Feathers in my ass, feathers in my hair… I look like I got attacked by a pillow factory after the world’s hardest fuck.”
Bucky chuckled darkly, dragging his tongue slowly up your slit, collecting the creamy mix of his dried cum and your fresh arousal. “Mmm. Worth every splinter and every damn feather. I woke up hard as fuck just from smelling how soaked you still are. Been down here licking you for ten minutes, waiting for those pretty eyes to open.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. “Bucky… thank you. For last night. For letting me drink from you. It felt… God, it felt incredible. Like every nerve in my body was on fire and singing at the same time. I don’t know how to repay you for something so intimate.”
He crawled up your body with predatory grace, feathers shifting around you both, until he hovered over you. Then he kissed you deeply, hungrily, tongue sliding into your mouth so you could taste the copper of your own blood mixed with his cool sweetness and the filthy evidence of your combined releases.
“You never have to repay me, sweetheart,” he whispered against your lips, brushing feathers from your flushed face with gentle metal fingers. “I’d drain every drop I have into you if it made you feel even half that good. Your pleasure is everything to me. You’re everything to me. Don’t ever thank me like you owe me. You’re my girl. My heart. I’d burn the world down just to keep you warm and safe in my arms.”
You smiled shyly up at him, that bashful look that always made his ancient chest tighten. “I still feel lucky. Every single time you choose me.”
Bucky groaned and pressed lingering kisses to your forehead, eyelids and the tip of your nose. “Stay right here in this ruined bed, baby. Don’t move. I’m gonna make you breakfast- you need fuel after I took so much blood and fucked you raw.”
You watched him leave the room completely naked, that perfect sculpted ass and broad back on full display, long angry red scratches running down his shoulders and spine, some deep enough to have drawn thin trails of dried blood. Guilt twisted in your stomach.
When he returned balancing a tray loaded with food, you sat up quickly, clutching the sheet.
“Bucky… your back,” you whispered, voice thick with remorse as he set the tray down on the tilted mattress. “I did that? Oh God, I’m so sorry, Buck. I got so lost in it, scratching and begging like a wild animal-”
He climbed onto the broken bed without hesitation and pulled you straight into his lap, sheet and all, so your back rested against his solid chest. His thick cock, already half-hard again, nestled hot and heavy against your ass. The scratches looked even more vicious up close.
“Shh, none of that,” he murmured, kissing your temple, then your ear. “I fucking love these marks. Every single one. Means my perfect girl lost control while I was balls-deep, pounding that tight cunt and flooding you with cum. Means I made you feel so good you turned feral. You wear my bites and bruises like jewelry… I’ll wear your scratches like badges of honor. That’s how it should be between us, doll.”
You still looked guilty, so he gently tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet those glowing red eyes. “Eat, baby. Before it gets cold. I made all your favorites.”
The tray held fluffy scrambled eggs with fresh herbs, crispy bacon, sliced strawberries and melon, buttered toast and cold orange juice. You relaxed back against his chest as he picked up the fork and began feeding you slow, careful bites, one hand continuously stroking through your feather-dusted hair while the other rested possessively on your stomach, thumb tracing lazy circles over your skin.
Every few bites he’d lean down and kiss your shoulder, your neck, the dark claiming bite marks he’d left. His fingers traced the vivid bruises on your hips and inner thighs with open, filthy pride.
“Look at you,” he murmured hotly against your ear, voice dropping into that low, dirty register. “All covered in my marks like a goddamn masterpiece. These pretty thighs bruised purple from my hands spreading you open while I railed you. This sweet little pussy still puffy, sore, and leaking my cum from how many times I filled you. And these gorgeous tits…” He cupped one gently, thumb brushing the bite right above your nipple. “Marked up so anyone who sees you knows exactly who owns this body. My perfect, filthy girl. So soft and sweet when you thank me for my blood… but you turn into a desperate little cockslut when I’m stretching this cunt open, scratching my back bloody and begging me to breed you deeper.”
You whimpered around a bite of toast, cheeks burning but you pressed back against his hardening cock. “Bucky… you’re making me wet again just talking like that. I can feel you getting hard against my ass.”
He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. “Good. That’s what I want. I love how sincere you are, doll- blushing and thanking me even after I’ve had you screaming and creaming all over my cock half the night. It makes the monster in me want to wrap you up and protect you forever… and it also makes me want to bend you over these broken slats and fuck you raw again until you’re crying and begging for another load.”
You turned your head, kissing his jaw tenderly. “I love you. All of you- the monster, the man, the way you take care of me even after you ruin me and break the bed.”
His arms tightened around you, metal and flesh, and he buried his face in your neck with a low, possessive growl. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in centuries, sweetheart. You’re mine. Every moan, every drop of blood, every scratch on my back… it’s all mine. Now finish your breakfast so I can lay you down in all these feathers and lick that pretty pussy until you’re shaking and soaking my face. Then I’ll feed you more. And if you keep thanking me so sweetly, I’ll let you drink from me again while I’m buried so deep inside you that you feel me for days.”
The monster was wide awake, completely, dangerously obsessed and he had never been happier.
The honeymoon phase didn’t last long.
What started as stolen kisses in the library stacks after closing quickly spiraled into something darker, more addictive and far more dangerous. You and Bucky fell into a secret rhythm that consumed both of you. You’d sneak out of your apartment at all hours, heart hammering and meet him in shadowed alleys, on empty rooftops, or in the back of his blacked-out SUV where he’d fuck you until you couldn’t walk straight. Some nights he’d show up at your door unannounced, eyes already black and take you right there against the wall before you could even say hello.
You started wearing high collars, scarves, and heavy concealer everywhere. Fresh bite marks bloomed on your neck, your breasts, the soft insides of your thighs. Some nights he bit you in three different places just because he couldn’t stop tasting you.
“You’re mine now,” he’d growl against your skin, licking the wounds closed with slow, possessive drags of his tongue while drool slipped from his fangs. “No one else gets to see these marks. No one else gets to touch what belongs to me.”
You lied to your friends. You lied to your coworkers. You told yourself you could handle the monster you were falling for.
But Bucky was losing control.
His obsession turned feral.
Your creepy ex Lance, the one who still drunk-texted you at 2 am calling you a worthless bitch for leaving him, was found dead in his apartment four days later. The news called it a “brutal animal attack.” Throat torn out. Body almost completely drained of blood. No forced entry. No fingerprints.
You stared at the graphic photos on your phone until your vision blurred.
Then there was that jerk from the café from two weeks ago, the one who wouldn’t stop cat-calling you, who grabbed your ass when you walked past and whispered what he’d do to you if he got you alone. He was found in the alley behind the cafe the next night. Same story. Throat ripped open. Drained dry.
You knew.
You knew it was Bucky.
When he showed up at your apartment that night, soaked from the rain, you were waiting for him. The printed news articles were spread across your kitchen table like evidence at a crime scene.
The second he stepped through the door, you shoved the papers into his chest.
“What the fuck did you do?!” Your voice cracked with fury and terror. “Lance is dead, Bucky. That asshole from the café is dead. Their throats were torn out. Was that you? Look me in the eyes and tell me it wasn’t you.”
Bucky didn’t even glance at the articles. His eyes were already pitch black, fangs partially extended, a thin string of clear drool slipping from the corner of his mouth as he stared at you like a starving wolf.
“I took care of them,” he said, voice low and rough. “They touched what’s mine. They scared you. They don’t get to keep breathing after that.”
You backed up until you hit the kitchen counter, chest heaving.
“You’re killing people, Bucky. Innocent people-”
“They weren’t innocent,” he snarled, stepping closer. More drool slid down his chin. “Lance sent you death threats. Pictures of you sleeping. The other one had videos on his phone, following you home, jerking off to you. I smelled what they wanted to do to you. I saw it.”
Tears burned in your eyes. Your hands were shaking.
“You can’t just murder people because they looked at me the wrong way! This isn’t protection, this is insanity!”
Bucky’s metal hand slammed into the cabinet beside your head, splintering the wood. He was breathing hard, drooling openly now, fangs fully extended and glistening.
“I would burn this entire fucking city to the ground for you,” he growled, voice breaking. “I already lost the only woman I ever loved. I watched her die screaming my name while I tried to save her. I won’t lose you too. I won’t. I can’t.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
You should have screamed. You should have run.
Instead, you grabbed the front of his wet shirt with both hands and yanked him into a brutal, angry kiss.
He tasted like rain and blood and desperation. He groaned into your mouth, lifting you onto the counter in one motion and shoving your legs apart. His hands were shaking as he ripped your panties aside.
You were horrified.
You were dripping wet.
That night you rode him on your couch like you were trying to punish both of you, nails raking bloody lines down his chest while he drooled against your neck, fangs scraping your skin without breaking it. Every thrust was punishing and worshipful at the same time.
Afterward, when you were both panting and spent, you curled into his lap on the couch, still shaking from the intensity of it all. Your body ached. Your mind was a storm of fear and twisted desire.
Bucky buried his face in your hair, arms wrapped around you like iron bands, so tight it almost hurt to breathe. His chest heaved against your back. You could feel his drool, warm and slick, sliding down the side of your neck from his slightly parted lips. His fangs were still partially extended, brushing your skin with every ragged breath.
His voice was barely a whisper, raw with shame and something much darker.
“I’ve thought about it, you know,” he confessed against your throat, lips moving wetly over your pulse. “Turning you. Against your will.”
You froze in his lap, every muscle locking up.
He kept going, voice cracking painfully, like the words were being ripped out of him.
“I fantasize about it almost every night,” he whispered, the confession trembling. “Holding you down while you fight me. Pinning you with my metal arm so you can’t move no matter how hard you scream. Draining you until you’re weak and crying and begging me to stop… then forcing my blood down your throat while I’m still buried balls-deep inside you. Fucking you through the change until your heart stops and you wake up screaming with new fangs in your mouth.”
A broken, wet sob tore out of him. Drool and blood tears mixed on your shoulder as he pressed closer, almost rocking you.
“I imagine the way you’d hate me at first. The way you’d scream my name in terror while your body burns and breaks and reforms. But I’d keep going. I’d hold you through it. Because then you’d be mine. Forever. Safe. Eternal. You’d never grow old and die like Dot did. You’d never leave me. Even if you hated me for eternity… at least you’d be here. With me.”
His voice dropped into something truly terrifying, low, trembling, unhinged.
“Some nights when you’re sleeping in my arms, bleeding from my bites… I hold my wrist right against your mouth. I pry your lips open with my fingers and imagine forcing it down your throat while you’re still unconscious. I want it so fucking bad it physically hurts me to stop myself. My hands shake. I drool just thinking about it. I have to leave the room sometimes because I’m scared I’ll actually do it.”
You sat there in his lap, silent tears running down your face, heart hammering so hard it hurt. His drool was sliding down your collarbone. His blood tears soaked into you. You could feel his cock twitching against your thigh, still half-hard, like even confessing this horror turned him on.
You didn’t know if you were holding a man anymore…
…or the monster who was slowly going to destroy you.
Bucky’s arms tightened even more, almost crushing you against his chest. His voice cracked into a broken, childlike whimper.
“I’m so fucking scared I’m going to do it one day. I’m scared I won’t be able to stop myself. I’m scared I’ll wake up one morning and you’ll be like me… and you’ll never forgive me.”
He pressed his face harder into your neck, fangs scraping your skin, drooling openly now as fresh blood tears fell.
“But God… I want it. I want it so much.”
You sat there in the dark, trembling in the arms of the vampire who had just admitted he fantasized about violating you in the worst possible way and you still wrapped your arms around him.
You still held on tighter.
And that terrified you more than anything else.
Because deep down, some sick, addicted part of you wasn’t sure you would stop him if he tried.
The sickness came on fast. Too fast.
It started with a scratchy throat and a mild fever you brushed off, just stress from your thesis and late shifts at the café. By the second night in Bucky’s penthouse, you were shaking apart. Violent chills slammed through your body even as sweat soaked the sheets. Your lungs felt heavy, like they were filling with wet concrete. Every cough ripped through you like shards of glass scraping your throat raw. You couldn’t keep anything down.
Bucky watched it all with growing horror, red eyes wide and unblinking.
He turned his sleek, modern bedroom into a nightmare sickroom overnight. Humidifier hissing like a dying animal. Stolen IV bags hanging from a makeshift stand. Bottles of antibiotics he didn’t trust. Ancient herbal poultices that smelled like rot and grave dirt. Cold cloths. Thermometers. Nothing helped. Your fever climbed past 104. Your breathing turned wet and rattling, like drowning on dry land.
On the third night, you were barely conscious, convulsing in his arms as another coughing fit tore through you.
“James…” you rasped, voice barely more than a broken whisper, tears streaming down your fever-flushed face. “Please… take me to a hospital. I need real doctors. Tests. Medicine. I’m scared- I’m so fucking scared. I feel like I’m dying.”
His eyes flashed blood-red, fangs fully extended, drool slipping from the corner of his mouth in thick strings.
“No.” The word came out like a growl from the pit of hell. “No hospitals. They’re butcher shops. They’ll pump you full of poison, poke you with needles and watch you rot under those lights while they pray to a god that doesn’t give a shit. I watched it happen for centuries. I held Dot while she screamed in one of those places. I won’t lose you the same way.”
You tried to push him away, but your arms were limp and useless. “Bucky, please- I’m begging you. I’m terrified. I don’t want to die here like this. Let me go. Let me call someone.”
He didn’t budge. The metal arm wrapped around you like iron bands, cool and merciless, as he carried you back to the bedroom despite your weak struggles. You slapped at his chest, sobbing, screaming hoarsely.
“I’m scared! Bucky, don’t do this- you’re scaring me! Please, I can’t breathe!”
The heavy click of the bedroom door locking from the outside echoed like a coffin lid slamming shut.
You were trapped.
Hours blurred into days. The fever spiked so high the room started to warp. Shadows crawled across the ceiling like living things, reaching for you with clawed hands. You heard Dot’s screams, a woman you’d never met, mixed with your own wet, gurgling coughs. Sometimes you saw her face rotting in the corner, black buboes bursting, whispering that Bucky’s blood had killed her too.
Bucky never left your side for long. He sat like a gargoyle on the edge of the bed, eyes permanently black, blood tears carving constant red tracks down his face. Drool dripped from his fangs onto the sheets as hunger and terror twisted him into something truly monstrous.
He murmured hoarsely, pressing icy cloths to your burning skin. His voice cracked with raw desperation. “Stay with me, doll. Please. I can’t watch you burn like she did. I can’t bury another woman I love.”
When your breathing grew too shallow and your pulse fluttered like a dying bird, he made the choice.
He sliced his wrist open with a fang, dark, ancient blood welling up and forced it against your cracked lips.
“Drink,” he begged, voice shattered and desperate. “Drink for me, baby. Please. I won’t let you die.”
The blood burned like liquid fire down your throat, healing and poisoning at once. It dragged you back from the edge for a few hours but the fever only raged hotter. Your body rejected it in violent chills and vomiting.
So Bucky started hunting.
He locked you in with cameras watching your every shallow, rattling breath, then disappeared into the night like the predator he was. You woke once to the sound of the door and saw him covered in blood that wasn’t his, splattered across his shirt, matted in his hair. He carried thermoses of warm stolen blood, mixing it with his own before forcing it down your throat.
The penthouse began to reek of copper, decay, and terror.
When you finally clawed back enough strength to be lucid, you were still weak, still burning but fury gave you fire.
The second he walked back in with another thermos, blood still dripping from his chin, you slapped him hard across the face with everything you had left.
“You locked me in here!” you screamed, voice raw and cracking. “You imprisoned me like a fucking animal! I begged you, Bucky- I begged on my knees and you said no! I’m terrified of you right now. What the hell are you becoming?!”
Bucky dropped to his knees instantly, metal arm wrapping around your waist like a vice as he pressed his forehead to your stomach. Blood tears soaked through your thin shirt.
“I know,” he choked out, voice wrecked. “I’m a monster. I watched Dot die screaming because my blood poisoned her during the plague. She begged me to let her go and I held her down instead. I can’t- I won’t- do the same with you. Not you. Please don’t make me bury you too.”
You sobbed, fists pounding weakly against his shoulders. “This isn’t love, it’s control! You’re killing me slowly. I’m so scared of what you’ll do next. What if your blood makes me worse? What if I never leave this room alive?”
“I’m scared too,” he whispered, looking up at you with those terrifying black-red eyes, drool and blood mixing on his chin. “I’m so fucking terrified of losing you that I’d rather you hate me forever than watch you slip away.”
You yanked him up by his bloody shirt, tears streaming down your face.
He didn’t give you time to think.
“I need to be inside you,” he rasped, voice desperate and feral. “Right now. My blood, my cock- it will make you feel better. It will heal you. Let me fuck you. Let me fill you. I can make this okay. I can make you okay.”
You shoved at his chest hard, fury and terror giving you strength you didn’t know you had.
“No!” you cried, voice cracking. “Are you insane?! I’m sick, I’m scared and you want to fuck me?! I’m not some toy you can use to feel better about yourself! Get off me!”
Bucky’s hands tightened on your hips, eyes wild.
“Please,” he begged, voice breaking even as his cock pressed insistently against you. “Just let me in. Let me make you feel good. My blood is already in you. Let me finish it. Let me heal you the only way I know how.”
You slapped him hard across the face, the sound echoing in the locked room.
“I said no!” you screamed, tears pouring down your cheeks. “I’m terrified of you right now! You locked me in here like a prisoner, you fed me blood, you’re acting like a fucking animal- and you think sex is going to fix this?! Get the hell off me!”
Bucky froze.
For a long, terrible moment he just stared at you, red eyes wide, fangs out, drool and blood tears streaking his face. Then something in him shattered.
He dropped to his knees again, metal arm wrapping around your waist as he pressed his forehead to your stomach, sobbing openly.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out, voice completely broken. “I’m so fucking sorry. I know I’m a monster. I know I’m scaring you. I just… I can’t watch you die. I can’t do it again. Please don’t hate me. Please.”
You stood there shaking, still furious, still terrified, but the raw pain in his voice cracked something inside you. You sank down slowly, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as he trembled against you.
The fight dissolved into quiet, broken sobs from both of you.
He held you like you were the only thing keeping him sane, blood tears soaking your shirt, drool and fear mixing on your skin.
The city lights flickered outside the soundproof windows.
Inside, the air was thick with blood, sickness, terror, and the heavy weight of a love that might destroy you both.
And you still curled into his chest, listening to the dead heart that beat only for you… wondering how much longer you had before the monster inside him finally won.
The next night, after the fever finally broke and the blood-stained sheets had been burned, Bucky carried you to the roof of his penthouse.
The city sprawled beneath you like a glittering sea of lights, cold wind whipping across the concrete rooftop. He sat on the wide ledge with you curled in his lap, your back against his chest, his metal arm wrapped securely around your waist. For a long time, neither of you spoke. The silence was heavy, weighted down by everything that had happened in that locked room.
“I’m still pissed at you,” you said quietly, staring out at the city. Your voice was hoarse but steady. “You apologized, but it doesn’t just erase it. You tried to force yourself on me when I was weak and scared. That shit stays with me, Bucky.”
“I know,” he murmured, lips brushing the top of your head. His voice was rough with guilt. “And I’ll keep being sorry for the rest of your life if that’s what it takes. I hate what I did. I hate that I became that version of myself with you. I was terrified… but that’s no excuse. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I scared you. I’m sorry I made you feel like a thing instead of the only person I have left.”
You stayed tense in his arms, anger still simmering under your skin even as you leaned back against him. “Good. You should feel like shit about it.”
He exhaled shakily. “I do. Every second.” After a long pause, he continued, softer. “I want you to understand why I lose control like that. Not just hear the stories. I want you to feel them. All the years. All the deaths. All the reasons I’m so fucking broken that I’d rather force you to live than watch you die.”
You turned in his arms to look at him. His red eyes were haunted, vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache despite your lingering fury.
“How?” you asked.
Bucky pressed his wrist to his own mouth and bit down hard. Dark, potent blood welled up immediately, thick and gleaming under the city lights. He offered it to you, eyes glowing faintly red.
“Drink,” he whispered. “And I’ll show you everything. Please.”
You hesitated but finally brought his bleeding wrist to your lips. The taste exploded across your tongue: copper, power, and centuries of him. The world tilted violently.
Suddenly you were there.
Mud. Endless, sucking mud.
1917 - The Western Front
The stench hit you like a physical blow, rotting flesh, human shit, wet wool, gunpowder, and death. Freezing rain poured down in sheets. Artillery shells screamed overhead and detonated so close your teeth rattled. You felt Bucky’s constant, gnawing hunger like it was tearing through your own gut. He hadn’t fed properly in weeks. You moved like a shadow with him between the trenches, ripping out throats of German scouts under cover of night, drinking just enough to stay sane while the screams of dying men tore at what remained of his soul.
“I hated it,” his real voice murmured against your ear on the rooftop as the memory swallowed you. “But the screams reminded me I could still feel something.”
The loneliness was suffocating. Thousands of men all around, laughing, cursing, praying and he was completely, utterly alone. No one could ever know the monster wearing a soldier’s uniform.
The vision shifted with brutal force.
December 1944 - The Ardennes Forest
Bitter, freezing snow. Gunfire cracking through the trees like whips.
Then the shell.
White-hot agony ripped through your body as shrapnel tore his left arm clean off at the shoulder. You screamed with him, feeling the bone shatter, muscle rip, hot blood spray across white snow. He dropped to his knees in the freezing slush, roaring in pain while his vampire healing failed to close the massive wound.
HYDRA came next.
Straps biting into skin. Cold metal table. Blinding lights. You felt every bolt and wire as they fused the prototype metal arm directly into the raw, bleeding stump. The pain was apocalyptic. You thrashed in Bucky’s lap on the rooftop, whimpering.
“I begged them to let me die,” he whispered, arms tightening around you. “They wouldn’t let me.”
Decades of numbness followed. The metal arm never felt like part of him, just a constant, heavy reminder that even eternity could be mutilated. That even a monster could be broken beyond repair.
The blood-sharing deepened, flooding you with centuries of crushing loneliness in relentless flashes:
Nameless women fucked in candlelit rooms across Europe, then left before dawn because none of them were her.
Standing alone on a cliff in 1803, staring at the crashing ocean, wondering if he should just walk into the sunrise and end it.
Returning year after year to the ashes of that cottage in 1665, sitting among the ruins on the anniversary of Dolores’s screaming death, whispering apologies to the wind.
Feeding on killers in dark 1970s Brooklyn alleys, then returning to an empty penthouse to stare at the wall for days, sometimes weeks, with nothing but silence and ghosts for company.
Wave after wave of isolation crashed over you. Seven hundred years of it. You felt every agonizing second.
When the blood-sharing finally ended, you were sobbing violently in his arms on the rooftop, clutching his shirt like he might vanish. Bucky was crying too, silent blood tears tracking down his face.
“I’m not her,” you whispered fiercely through your tears, cupping his wet cheeks. “I’m not Dolores. I’m not going to die screaming in your arms. I’m choosing you, Bucky. Scars. Metal arm. Fangs. Murders. All the darkness. I see the monster and I’m still here. I’m still choosing you.”
He made a broken, wrecked sound and crushed you against his chest, burying his face in your neck.
“I don’t deserve you,” he choked out. “Especially not after what I did in that room. I keep waiting for you to realize that and run. Every single night I wait for it.”
You pulled back just enough to kiss him, slow, deep, tasting salt and blood and centuries of pain.
“I’m still pissed at you,” you whispered against his lips. “That doesn’t go away overnight. But I’m not running. Even when I’m terrified. Even when you scare the shit out of me. I’m staying.”
Bucky kissed you harder, almost desperately, metal arm holding you so tight it almost hurt. When he finally pulled back, his red eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them.
“You have no idea what you just did,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “You just gave a dead man a reason to keep existing.”
You stayed on the rooftop until dawn threatened the sky, wrapped in each other, the weight of seven hundred years of loneliness finally shared between two hearts, one living, one long dead.
But the darkness wasn’t done with either of you.
Not yet.
The hunters had been watching for weeks.
A group of ex-military contractors turned self-proclaimed “paranormal investigators,” they chased high-paying bounties and conspiracy forums. They’d heard the fragmented stories for months: an ancient vampire with a metal arm operating in Brooklyn, leaving bodies drained and throats torn out in back alleys. Most of them laughed at the vampire part, they figured it was some enhanced super-soldier gone rogue, maybe a Winter Soldier copycat. But the bounty was massive and the rumors were consistent enough to make them curious.
They’d been tailing both of you. Taking photos. Noting patterns.
And when they saw their opportunity: you, still pale and weak from the illness, walking alone to the corner store in broad daylight, they took it.
A black van screeched up beside you. Two men in tactical gear grabbed you before you could scream. A chemical-soaked rag clamped brutally over your mouth and nose. The world spun violently, then went black.
You woke up zip-tied to a cold metal chair in the middle of an abandoned warehouse on the edge of Brooklyn. The air smelled of rust, mildew, and old oil. Your head throbbed. Your wrists burned where the plastic ties cut into your skin. Six armed men stood around you in a loose circle, rifles held loosely, smirking like this was just another job.
The leader, a bearded man with a scarred face and cold eyes crouched in front of you, tilting his head.
“Well, well. Look who’s awake.” He grinned. “If your boyfriend really is some immortal bloodsucker, he’ll come running. If not…” He shrugged. “We’ll still get paid for the freak with the metal arm. Either way, jackpot.”
One of the others laughed, chewing gum loudly. “You really believe that vampire shit? Probably just some juiced-up psycho with a fancy prosthetic. We’ll put him down like any other target.”
Another poked your shoulder with the barrel of his rifle. “Bet she’s just some poor girl he’s been mind-controlling. Pathetic.”
You spat at the leader’s boots, voice hoarse but defiant. “You have no idea what you’re fucking with. Let me go. Now.”
The leader only chuckled darkly. “We’ll find out soon enough, sweetheart. Sit tight.”
Bucky felt it the instant they grabbed you.
The blood bond, the one he had strengthened every time he drank from you, every time he fed you his own blood, snapped taut like a live wire in his chest. Your fear. Your pain. Your confusion. It hit him so hard he dropped the glass of blood he’d been holding. It shattered across the penthouse floor.
His vision went red.
A roar tore out of him, raw, ancient, inhuman, shaking the windows and rattling the walls.
Then the monster took over completely.
He stormed the warehouse alone like judgment day.
The moment the steel doors exploded inward off their hinges, the hunters opened fire. Bullets ripped into his chest, his shoulders, his stomach, his thighs. Blood sprayed from the wounds but he kept walking forward through the hail of gunfire, eyes glowing bright blood-red, fangs fully extended, metal arm whirring violently as the plates shifted and spun.
In front of you, he became something from hell.
The first hunter raised his rifle. Bucky grabbed his arm, ripped it clean off at the shoulder with a wet, tearing sound, and beat the screaming man to death with his own severed limb. Bone crunched. Blood fountained. The man’s screams turned into wet gurgles until his skull caved in with a sickening crack.
The second tried to run. Bucky caught him by the waist, metal fingers sinking deep into flesh, and tore him in half at the torso with raw strength. The spine snapped like dry wood. Intestines spilled across the concrete in a steaming pile. The man’s dying screams echoed horribly as his upper body twitched on the ground.
The third got close enough to fire point-blank into Bucky’s face. Bucky crushed his skull in his metal fist while the man was still screaming, bone fragments and brain matter exploding between the vibrating plates with a wet, disgusting crunch. Blood and gore splattered across your lap and chest.
The fourth and fifth tried to flank him. Bucky moved like death itself, tearing one’s throat out with his teeth, ripping the other’s spine out through his back in a fountain of blood.
The last hunter dropped his gun, stumbling backward, piss staining the front of his pants.
“It wasn’t real- we didn’t think- please God, we didn’t know he was actually a fucking vampire-!”
Bucky grabbed him by the throat, lifted him a foot off the ground, and tore his throat out with his fangs in one savage bite. Arterial blood sprayed across the room like a broken hose as the man convulsed and died.
Then silence.
Only the sound of dripping blood, your ragged breathing, and the wet squelch of Bucky’s boots in the carnage remained.
Bucky stood in the middle of the slaughter, covered head to toe in blood and gore, chest heaving, fangs still fully extended, eyes glowing like twin hellfires. For a moment he looked every inch the ancient monster he was.
Then he saw you.
The monster shattered.
Bucky dropped to his knees in the pool of blood and viscera, crawling to you with shaking hands, fangs still fully extended, red eyes wild. The metal arm moved with terrifying gentleness as he reached for you first, slicing through the zip-ties with one careful claw so they fell away from your raw, bruised wrists.
“Doll- fuck, let me see you,” he rasped, voice cracking. His hands immediately started checking you, sliding over your body with desperate care. He turned your wrists gently, thumbs brushing the deep purple bruises left by the plastic ties. He ran his palms down your arms, your ribs, your thighs, searching for wounds, broken bones, blood that wasn’t from the slaughter around you.
“They hurt you?” His voice was hoarse, almost whimpering. “Tell me where. Did they touch you? Did they- fuck, I’ll kill them again if they-”
Only the angry red imprints from the zip-ties marred your skin. No cuts. No bites. No worse damage. Relief and guilt crashed over him at once.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out, pressing his forehead to your stomach, trembling violently. “I’m so fucking sorry you had to see that. But they touched you. They took you from me. I couldn’t- I can’t lose you. I can’t do it again.”
He was covered head to toe in someone else’s blood and brains, gore streaking his face, fangs out, blood tears mixing with the carnage dripping down his cheeks. His massive frame shook as he knelt in the slaughter, clinging to you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
You were shaking too, sobbing quietly, your clothes and skin soaked in warm, sticky blood that wasn’t yours. The metallic stench was overwhelming. The screams still rang in your ears.
You should have been terrified. You should have been screaming.
Instead, that dark, addicted part of you reached for him anyway.
You grabbed his bloody face with both hands, fingers sliding through the gore, and yanked him up into a desperate, blood-slick kiss.
Bucky groaned into your mouth like a wounded animal, raw, broken, relieved. The coppery taste of death coated both your tongues as he kissed you back with centuries of fear and feral love. His metal arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you tighter against his blood-soaked chest while his flesh hand cradled the back of your head.
When you finally broke the kiss, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in the carnage, you whispered shakily against his gore-stained lips:
“…Take me home, Bucky. Please. Just take me home. I don’t want to be here anymore. I just want you to take me home.”
He nodded frantically, blood tears still falling. “Yeah. Yeah, doll. Home. I’ve got you.”
He lifted you into his arms with ease, cradling you like something precious and fragile among the slaughter. Your head tucked against his neck as he carried you out of the warehouse, boots squelching through puddles of blood, leaving nothing but corpses and the heavy, metallic stench of death behind.
You clung to him the entire way, still trembling, still terrified, but refusing to let go.
The monster had won tonight.
And you were still his.
You woke up every day for three weeks telling yourself this was love.
Bucky had moved you into his penthouse the night after the warehouse massacre. No discussion. He simply carried your exhausted body through the elevator, locked it down with a code only his fingerprints could activate and whispered against your ear in that low, dangerous growl, “You’re never leaving me again, doll. Never.”
Your old life was gone. Your apartment, your friends, your thesis notes, they all gathered dust while your clothes now hung neatly beside his in the massive walk-in closet. Every night you slept naked in his silk sheets, the fabric permanently scented with blood, sex and the faint metallic tang of his ancient hunger. He fed you from his wrist, fucked you until you screamed, then held you like you were the only fragile thing left in his centuries-long existence.
You told yourself you were safe. Cherished. Loved.
Tonight, that comforting lie finally burned to ash.
The hunger had been eating him alive for hours.
You were on your back in the middle of his massive bed, legs locked tight around his waist as he fucked you with those deep, claiming strokes you’d grown addicted to. At first it felt fucking perfect, his thick cock stretching your dripping cunt wide open, dragging against that sweet spot with every brutal thrust, metal fingers bruising your hips while his mouth sucked dark, possessive marks across your tits.
“Fuck, baby… this tight little cunt is creaming all over me,” he growled against your neck, voice thick and raw. “Hear how fucking sloppy and wet you sound? Sucking my cock in like you were made for it. My perfect filthy girl.”
You moaned, nails raking down his back. “Harder, Bucky- please, I need you to ruin me-”
He gave it to you.
Then the flashback hit like a goddamn freight train.
You sitting on that filthy warehouse floor. Limp. Pale as death. Almost gone forever. Your head lolled weakly to the side, skin ghostly white, lips colorless, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. You looked so fragile, so close to slipping away that the sight nearly brought Bucky to his knees.
His control fucking snapped.
His hips slammed forward with terrifying force. The wet slap of skin turned savage, punishing. Pleasure twisted into sharp, stabbing pain that tore through your core like broken glass.
“Bucky- wait! Fuck- too hard!” you cried, voice already cracking. “Slow down, baby, please- shit, it hurts!”
He didn’t hear you. His eyes were wild, glowing crimson, fangs fully extended as thick ropes of drool poured from his mouth onto your bouncing tits. He pounded into you like a rabid, starving beast, driven by centuries of hunger and the primal fear of losing you again.
“Mine,” he snarled, the word vicious and broken, vibrating with pure desperation. “This fucking pussy is mine. You’re never leaving this bed. Never leaving this goddamn penthouse. I’ll fuck you raw every single night until you can’t even crawl away from me, you hear me? I won’t let death take you. I won’t let anything take you.”
Each savage thrust jolted your whole body. His metal arm crushed your hip with a sickening crack. Bone splintered. White-hot agony exploded through your pelvis like fire. You screamed, back arching violently.
“Bucky- stop! Fuck, my hip! It’s breaking- please, baby, please stop! I’m begging you! It hurts so fucking bad!”
He only fucked you harder, lost in the nightmare, hips snapping forward with inhuman power. Another vicious snap and your left wrist, pinned above your head, shattered with an audible pop. The pain was blinding, nauseating, shooting up your arm like lightning. You screamed until your voice broke, tears pouring down your face as you thrashed helplessly beneath him.
“Jesus Christ- Bucky, my wrist! Stop, please! It hurts so fucking bad- I can’t take it! Slow down, I’m scared! Please see me, baby, I’m right here- don’t break me!”
“Look at you,” he panted, drool dripping onto your lips and chin, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. “Taking my cock like such a good little slut. So fucking greedy for me even when you’re ruined. Gonna fill this sloppy cunt up until you’re dripping. Gonna keep you leaking my cum for days, baby. You’re never getting away from me. Never.”
Your ribs cracked on the next brutal thrust, one, two, three, sharp nauseating crunches that stole your breath completely. Blood bubbled up your throat and trickled from the corner of your mouth in dark rivulets. Your body went terrifyingly limp, only weak, wet gasps leaving you as he kept rutting into your destroyed hole like a desperate, starving animal.
“I almost watched you die once,” he growled, voice cracking between raw hunger and bone-deep horror. “Felt your heart slowing in my arms while you burned up with that fucking sickness. You were slipping away from me, right here in this bed. Never. Never again.”
His hips snapped harder, driving deep into you with every word.
“I will keep you here. Fill you. Bind you. You will never leave this penthouse. You will be my eternal companion… my blood, my breath, my only reason to keep walking through this damned night. I’ll drink from you every night until the hunger in me is quiet. I’ll hold you while you tremble and beg, and I will never let you go. You’re mine, my wife, my meal, my everything.”
You could barely speak now, only weak, broken cries leaving you between gasps. “James… please… it hurts… everything’s breaking inside me… I’m so scared… don’t let me die like this… please see me… I love you, just stop-”
He froze only when he felt how deathly still you had become, your body no longer fighting, just a fragile, ruined thing in his grasp, blood leaking from you in steady streams.
Reality crashed over him like ice water.
“No… no, no, NO! FUCK NO!” The roar that tore from his throat was inhuman, shaking the windows and rattling the walls until the glass trembled. He ripped himself out of you with a horrified shout, a flood of blood and slick gushing from your ruined cunt onto the silk sheets. He gathered your shattered body against his chest, rocking you violently as thick, black blood-tears poured down his face in rivers.
“I did it again- I fucking killed you!” he screamed, voice cracking into something ancient and monstrous. His metal fist smashed the headboard repeatedly, wood exploding into splinters, plaster raining down around you both. “I broke my baby- my perfect sweet girl- I crushed you like a goddamn animal! How the fuck could I do this to you?! After everything, after I swore I’d protect you, I still fucking destroy you! I’m a monster!”
In his panic he tried desperately to fix it.
He lowered his head and dragged his cool tongue frantically over the mangled ruin of your hip. Long, desperate licks, reverent, almost worshipful just like he did every dawn to the bite marks on your thighs. His cool venom should have sealed the wounds, should have soothed and healed. But the damage was catastrophic. Shattered bone jutted through torn flesh like jagged ivory knives. Blood poured freely. His tongue only lapped desperately at the crimson flow, mixing his saliva with your lifeblood, yet the wounds refused to close.
“Fuck- why isn’t it working?!” he sobbed, voice raw and cracking. “Heal, damn you- heal! Come on, baby, please heal.” He moved to your shattered wrist, licking over the crushed bones and swollen purple skin with frantic tenderness, fangs carefully retracted. “Heal, my love. My venom has always healed you before. Come back to me. Don’t leave me in this emptiness again. I can’t- I can’t survive without you. Please, don’t die on me!”
It didn’t work. Your ribs stayed caved in. Your insides were ruptured. Blood kept leaking from your mouth and between your legs. He traced every injury with guilty, starving strokes of his tongue, pressing wet, bloody kisses to your mangled hip, your ruined wrist, your trembling lips.
“I’m so fucking sorry- shit, I’m so fucking sorry, doll,” he choked out, rocking you harder against his chest, his entire body trembling with guilt and fear. “I tried- god, I tried everything. My tongue, my venom, my soul- nothing works when the monster in me takes over. I’m a horror. A starving, desperate horror who destroys the only thing he loves. Forgive me… please forgive me.”
Guilt, hunger and obsessive fear twisted violently inside him until his madness crystallized in an instant.
He slashed his own wrist open with a razor-sharp fang. Dark, ancient blood, thick and burning, gushed from the wound. He cradled your head with both hands, pressing your slack mouth desperately against the gash.
“Drink,” he begged, voice broken and trembling with terror. “Fucking drink, baby. Become mine forever. I cannot watch you die. I will not bury you. Take it. Let me damn you if it means keeping you by my side through all the endless nights. Don’t leave me alone again- I’m so scared without you. So goddamn hungry for you. Please… please don’t go. I need you more than I’ve ever needed anything.”
He held your head tighter, forcing the potent blood past your lips. Your body latched on instinctively, sucking with weak, greedy pulls even at the edge of death. The change ignited like liquid hellfire in your veins.
Your broken bones snapped and realigned with excruciating force, each crack wrenching agonized whimpers and jerks from your throat against his wrist. Your organs burned and rewrote themselves in waves of molten pain. Your heart stuttered violently… then stopped completely. The agony was worse than death, pure, liquid fire searing through every vein, every nerve, every inch of your soul as the vampire venom rewrote you from the inside out.
All the while Bucky kept himself buried deep inside your twitching, blood-slick heat. He rocked slowly through your torment, whispering hoarse, broken promises between every shallow, desperate thrust.
“I’m sorry, my everything… but you belong to me now. Eternally. I will hold you through every dark night. I will drink from you while you cry out my name. You will never grow old. Never slip away from me again. I love you too much- too desperately- to let death have you. Forgive me for what I’ve done… even if you hate me forever. This pussy, this body, this soul- it’s all mine now. Forever.”
Your eyes flew open.
Crimson. Glowing. Filled with an ancient, bottomless hunger.
New fangs pushed through your bleeding gums in sharp, painful bursts. You tore your mouth from his wrist, dark blood streaking down your chin and onto your chest, and stared up at him with pure, ravenous starvation.
“Bucky…” Your voice was hoarse, ruined, but dripping with dark, insatiable need. “I’m so fucking thirsty.”
requested by anon : Hi, I love your stories. If you're getting requests, I'd really like to read about vampire!Bucky. The reader would be a normal girl and he a very old vampire who becomes obsessed with her. It has a very dark vibe, but he feels VERY strongly.😭😭
➴ PAIRING: Brother's Best Friend!Bucky x Reader
➴ WC: 7.8k
➴ WARNINGS: college drinking, IT'S HALLOWEEN!, mentions of friends getting high, being at a bar, drunk kissing, drunk!reader (she is not too drunk to not consent — tipsy is the word), SMUT (cowgirl, missionary, couch sex, p in v, pull out method, oral (m receiving)), Bucky actually trying to be good, Dot being a bad friend.
➴ SUMMARY: Your brain is too reliant on technology, so when your phone dies mid-halloween bar crawl, there's only one number you know by heart. Bucky's.
+fran: time to get these two idiots through some more. thank you for all the love on their prom night <3, I meant for this to be like 5k, how did it almost get to 8k? idk special thanks to aluri for being the producer to my director/screenwriter @chateaubarnes
⤷ songs for this: snap out of it - arctic monkeys, twilight zone - ariana grande, lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off - panic at the disco
CAN BE READ AS A STANDALONE!
more
Manhattan had always been where your heart settled.
There was just something about stepping off the train at Penn Station or Grand Central that made your lungs seem to work a little easier, like your body had finally realized it could unclench. It was the only place you'd ever been where your mind quieted instead of sped up.
It made your heartbeat slow down, your blood pressure decrease, it triggered your parasympathetic nervous system into calming you down. You felt free.
You'd spent years making your parents stop in the city whenever family trips brought you anywhere remotely close. While Steve wanted Yankees games and Bucky wanted to wander into every record store he could find, you wanted to walk.
The day you got the acceptance letter for Columbia, you squealed, screamed, threw your arms around your brother's neck and then ran down the stairs to jump on the couch and tell your parents.
You pointed dramatically at the acceptance letter. "I am moving to Manhattan!"
Bucky snorted beside Steve on the couch. "I think even the current Space Mission knows that." He motion to his ear like it hurt from your shriek.
"No, you don't understand." You were already talking too fast. "I get to live there." You looked around the room like someone might still tell you it wasn't real. "I get to wake up there." Another laugh bubbled out of you. "I get to buy groceries there."
Steve chuckled. "Very exciting."
"It is exciting!" You looked back at Bucky. "I get to be one of those people that complains about the subway."
He grinned. "I've never seen anyone so excited about public transportation." He looked at you for a long second. "But I'm happy you are."
Move-in day came faster than anyone was prepared for.
Your entire life somehow fit into cardboard boxes, plastic storage bins, and two very overstuffed suitcases.
When they helped move you into your freshman dorm, Bucky and Steve were there in tow to carry the heavy things, pick on you, and flirt with girls on your floor. Well, Bucky did. Steve politely talked himself out of having to fake an alibi for Natasha if she ever sniffed out freshmen trying to get at him.
The first year had consisted mostly of Steve reading assembly instructions upside down while Bucky silently took the Allen wrench out of his hands and built the entire bookshelf in twenty minutes.
And then they were there at the end of the year to help you unpack. And back at the beginning of the year, at a different dorm building to help move— you get the picture.
Three years later, Manhattan had become home in the way only a city that exhausts you every day somehow can.
The city moved so quickly that no one noticed if you were having a bad day.
There was something comforting about being able to disappear into eight million people and somehow feel less alone than you ever had anywhere else.
It was loud, and messy, and busy, but it was home.
Sirens at two in the morning. The rumble of the subway beneath your lecture hall. Street vendors shouting over one another. The smell of roasted nuts mixing with rain-soaked concrete and coffee that somehow tasted better when it cost six dollars.
Steve and Bucky shared a two-bedroom apartment down in the Financial District. It was exactly what anyone would expect from two men in their twenties.
Reasonably clean, lived in, backbacks slung over a chair, smelling of sandalwood and saffron and a Bath and Body Works candle you gifted them, pretty neat. Except for the coffee mugs. There were always coffee mugs.
Everywhere.
You and Bucky never really talked about what happened prom night. It never… came up, per se.
Neither of you wanted to touch on the subject that could end up ruining a good thing, so you both just moved on with your lives.
Birthdays.
Christmases.
Sunday breakfasts.
Study sessions.
Phone calls that started with, "Are you busy?" and ended three hours later.
You stayed exactly what you'd always been.
Best friends. Forever.
23 blocks apart.
Halloween in Manhattan wasn't a holiday.
It was a competitive sport.
By seven-thirty that evening, the sidewalks of the Lower East Side were overflowing with pirates ordering espresso martinis, sexy astronauts trying not to break ankles on uneven pavement, and at least four different Spider-Men arguing over whose suit was comic accurate.
Your group squeezed out of the subway station laughing, immediately getting swept into the current of people flowing down St. Marks Place.
It felt like the entire city had decided to meet in one neighborhood.
Music poured out of every open doorway, bass vibrating through the pavement beneath your boots. Someone dressed as Frankenstein was arguing with a traffic cop. Two girls dressed as matching angels were taking photos in the middle of the crosswalk while yellow cabs laid on their horns. Somewhere farther down the street, a saxophone player was somehow making Thriller sound like smooth jazz.
You took a deep breath and the air smelled like cigarettes, perfume, street tacos, pumpkin beer, and roasted peanuts.
"I love this city," you sighed happily.
Kate snorted beside you, eyeing you up and down before chuckling. "You've literally said that every five minutes since we got off the subway."
"Because every five minutes I find another reason."
Yelena, dressed in what she'd proudly called "the least historically accurate vampire ever conceived," adjusted the fake cape hanging off one shoulder. "Personally," she announced, "I think New York should make Halloween a federal holiday."
"It isn't already?" Dot asked.
Ah, sweet Dot.
She was in your Intro to Statistics class and definitely pursuing an M.R.S. degree with the first Finance guy she could find. Beautiful head of hair, pretty lips that looked sinful in red lipstick, but not a light inside that house.
If there was ever an award for selling your friend out to get a man, she'd get it.
Somewhere behind you, a group dressed as the entire cast of Scooby-Doo broke into a drunken rendition of "Mr. Brightside."
The first bar was already packed wall to wall, there had to be two hundred people squeezed inside, every inch of brick wall covered in fake cobwebs and orange lights, the bartender was dressed as Beetlejuice, and someone in a Ghostface costume was singing karaoke with alarming confidence.
You squeezed your way to the bar shoulder-first, turning around ready to ask for Kate's order, only to realize she has pulled a Houdini on your Cowgirl Barbie, and disappeared almost immediately.
"Where'd she go?"
Yelena pointed toward the dance floor. "Found a cowboy."
You watched as Kate somehow convinced the poor man to spin her around, huffing. "It's been thirty seconds."
"Devil works fast, but Kate Bishop is faster." She asked the bartender for two Green Tea Shots, and once the glasses were in front of you, they were instantly downed and substituted, your eyes rolling back in grimace as you hissed at the burn of the alcohol in your throat. "Where's your boytoy?"
"His name is Joaquin, Lena." You corrected, lovingly, a chuckle escaping you as you took a sip of your pina colada that you had ordered with the shots. You pointed at the group playing darts, just in time to see Joaquin turn around, find you, and happily make his way over.
Joaquin and you met during one of the track events, he ran with Pietro, your friend Wanda's brother. Wanda, who you sat next to in Psych 102 and also shared a dorm room with for two years.
He was cute, nice, polite, smart, and kind of a charmer…
Even with his dumb joke and wanting to be dressed as… slutty Big Bird. Obnoxious, chest-painted-yellow, borrowed your feather boa, easygoing Joaquin.
Easy to talk to, easy to laugh with, easy to spend an afternoon wandering through Riverside Park with. The kind of guy who remembered to walk on the outside of the sidewalk and always sent a text making sure you got home safely.
"There she is." He smiled, leaning down to kiss your cheek before wrapping an arm loosely around your waist. "Six blocks and you already found rum."
"It found me," you corrected.
"That's what they all say." He reached over and stole your drink without asking, taking a sip through your straw.
You gasped dramatically. "My piña colada!"
"Our piña colada."
"You've known me for four months."
"I feel like that's long enough to establish communal property."
You scoffed. "You sound like a communist."
"I sound thirsty." He grinned before handing the drink back.
Joaquin slipped his hand into yours absentmindedly, thumb brushing across your knuckles as he listened to Kate and Yelena bicker.
It was sweet, throughtful. The kind of unconscious affection that should've made yout stomach flutter.
Instead your gaze drifted to the Islanders playing on the TV, and without thinking, you wondered if Bucky was watching. He'd probably have his feet kicked up on the coffee table, laptop balanced on one knee, muttering at the television whenever the ref made a bad call.
The thought came so naturally that you almost missed the next thing Dot said.
"Speaking of men," Dot chimed in, sipping the neon-blue cocktail she'd ordered solely because it came with dry ice. "Are Steve and Bucky coming out tonight?"
You looked over, your heart skipping a beat. "No." You sipped your drink. "Steve's out of town with Nat in Budapest with her grandparents. Buck's been working on a contract or something…" You realized you probably knew a little too much about the latter. "Merger something, something…" You shrugged it off.
Dot pouted dramatically. "That's a shame."
You smiled into your piña colada. "Why?"
She shrugged one shoulder, swirling the straw around her drink. "I think Bucky's cute." Kate's eyes immediately found yours, quick, almost not there at all, then sliding away again.
"Is he seeing anyone?" The question landed with surprising weight.
You busied yourself adjusting the brim of your pink cowboy hat. "No."
"No girlfriend?"
"Nope."
"No situationship?"
You laughed. "He's not… A situationship kind of guy."
"I might ask him to coffee."
Kate choked on her vodka soda and Yelena very carefully looked anywhere except your face, trying to change the subject and make conversation with Joaquin.
You took another sip of your drink before anyone could notice the strange ache settling beneath your ribs.
Beside you, Kate was already looking at Yelena over the rim of her glass. Yelena gave the tiniest shake of her head.
"...I mean, if he's single, I don't really see the harm in asking."
Your attention snapped back. "Hm?"
"Bucky." Dot shrugged. "I think I'm gonna text him. Can I have his number?"
Joaquin looked between all of you. "Who's Bucky?"
At the same time, you answered Dot with something like "Let me talk to him first before giving his number out, okay?"
Kate answered before anyone else could. "Her brother's best friend." She pointed at you.
Joaquin nodded. "Oh."
"He practically grew up with us," you added, perhaps a little too quickly. "He's basically family."
The words left your mouth with practiced ease. You'd been saying some version of them for years.
Dot smiled. "Even better."
"Better?"
"That means he's probably already been vetted." Kate's lips pressed into a thin line and Yelena suddenly became intensely interested in the fake cobweb hanging from the ceiling.
Joaquin, blissfully oblivious, laughed. "Honestly, that's a solid endorsement."
You forced a smile. "Yeah."
It was true. Bucky was kind. Patient. Reliable. Funny in that dry, under-his-breath way that snuck up on people.
He remembered birthdays without Facebook reminders. He carried heavy boxes before anyone asked. He made coffee exactly the way everyone liked it. He was, objectively, the sort of man any woman would be more than lucky to date.
You'd always known that.
You just hadn't realized how much it would sting hearing someone else say it out loud.
Kate bumped your shoulder gently.
"So," she announced, loud enough to redirect everyone's attention, "whose terrible idea was it to do a seven-bar crawl?"
One drink became two.
Two became dancing.
Dancing became laughing so hard your stomach hurt because Kate somehow won fifty dollars in a costume contest she hadn't even entered by convincing the DJ she was Barbie and everyone else was simply underdressed.
Joaquin found you every few songs, wrapping an arm around your waist to spin you beneath strings of orange lights before disappearing back toward the dart boards or the beer pong table with Pietro and a growing collection of men dressed as things that had absolutely no business standing next to each other.
At one point he was taking shots with Obi-Wan Kenobi, a banana, and someone whose entire costume was simply a cardboard cutout of the Empire State Building.
You kissed him somewhere between the second and third bar.
Quick.
Easy.
He smiled into it, squeezed your hand, and promised he'd find you after he beat Pietro at pool.
"You won't," Pietro called from behind him.
"I absolutely will."
"You absolutely won't."
Joaquin looked back over his shoulder.
"If I lose, tell my mother I died handsome."
"You'll die dressed like slutty Big Bird."
"A hero's death."
By the fourth bar, your groups had slowly begun to separate without anyone really noticing.
Pietro had made friends with a bachelor party from Boston.
Joaquin disappeared with them after someone challenged him to karaoke.
Kate adopted three girls dressed as the Powerpuff Girls because apparently they all went to Bishop Academy together ten years ago.
Dot vanished every fifteen minutes only to reappear with another free drink she'd sweet-talked out of some finance bro dressed as Patrick Bateman.
You weren't entirely convinced she'd paid for a single cocktail all evening.
Only Yelena remained your constant.
Mostly because she'd decided your level of intoxication required supervision.
"You are doing that thing."
You frowned over the rim of your drink. "What thing?"
She rolled her eyes. "The blink."
"...The blink?"
"You blink slower when you are drunk."
You faked offense. "I do not."
She pointed her hands towards you, case in point. "You just did it."
"I am blinking at a medically appropriate speed."
She hummed. "Mm."
"I am." You shook your head side to side. "Things aren't even slower when I do this like they are when I'm dru-uu-okay, yeah, yeah, I'm drunk."
You braced yourself on the wall, resting yuor back on the cool tile and sliding all the way down until you sat down on the floor, Yelena crouched in front of you. "Okay, drunkie, time to call your knight in shining armor."
You hiccuped. "He's not dressed as a knight, he's a bird." You pouted, fishing your phone out of your pocket, pressing the button, tapping the screen, and seeing nothing but a black screen staring back at you.
Dead.
The pout on your lips deepend, the furrow in between your brows showing. "Here, take my phone." Yelena talked over the music, unlocking her phone and putting it in your hand. "I'll go get you some water."
She got up from her place on the floor with you and braved the bar crowd as you dialed the all too familiar phone number.
Bucky's Halloween had been considerably less exciting.
And that was exactly how he'd wanted it.
He'd gotten enough texts throughout the week asking if he was going out that he'd eventually stopped answering them altogether.
There had been an invitation from a few guys from work to some rooftop party in Midtown. Another from a college friend involving a warehouse in Brooklyn that, judging from the address, Bucky wasn't entirely convinced was legally allowed to have people inside of it. Steve had called him from the airport to remind him that he was twenty-three and therefore morally obligated to "do something stupid while dressed like something stupid."
Bucky had reminded Steve that he was currently flying across the Atlantic Ocean to spend Halloween with his girlfriend's grandparents.
So, for the first time in what felt like weeks, the apartment was completely his.
And Bucky was having a fucking fantastic night.
He'd changed into sweatpants approximately four minutes after getting home, ordered enough Chinese food for two people with absolutely no intention of sharing it with anyone, cracked open a beer, and claimed the entire couch for himself.
The Islanders were putting up a good fight on TV, his laptop sat open on the coffee table in front of him, illuminating the spreadsheets and financial projections he'd been staring at for the better part of an hour.
SHIELD.
The internship had started that summer, and somewhere along the way, Bucky had gone from fetching coffee and sitting silently in the back of meetings to actually being trusted with things.
Small things, but real things. "Things with numbers attached to them." as you would say.
"They're important numbers!" He'd whine, nudging your foot off the back of his couch.
Tonight's particular headache was a contract his team had been going over for the past week.
Merger, acquisition, something involving projected earnings and a frankly offensive number of Excel tabs. He'd explained it to you over coffee two days ago.
You'd listened for approximately thirty seconds before your eyes glazed over. "So, merger something, something?"
Bucky had stared at you. "You didn't understand a single word I just said."
"Not a thing."
That memory made him smile now as he stared at the spreadsheet. A sharp crack from the television pulled his attention away from the smaller screen, his feet, up on the coffee table until this moment, touching the ground so he could sit forward in anticipation.
"Go, go, go—" The puck was getting closer and closer to the opposing team's goal. "Come on, come on."
And in true hockey fashion, two guys tackled his player and the puck flew away. "Oh, fuck off." He dropped back against the couch with a groan. "Are you kidding me?" The announcers continued talking like they hadn't personally betrayed him.
Bucky reached for his beer. "Terrible." He took a swing, putting it back on the coffee table and resuming his position with his back on the couch and his feet up, laptop propped on his lap. "Absolutely fucking terrible."
His phone buzzed beside him with pointless notifications from ESPN, a text from Steve with pictures, one of him and Nat ready to deboard the plane, another one of a dish Natasha's grandma made.
you look like shit 💩
Was Bucky's reply.
Steve just hearted it, and sent another picture of Nat flipping him off. He scrolled through his texts, finding ones from you earlier that night.
You standing in front of a mirror somewhere, dressed head to toe in pink and glitter, one hand on your hip and the other tipping the brim of your cowboy hat.
howdy partner 🤠
Bucky had stared at it for considerably longer than necessary.
nice hat. walker texas ranger called he wants his dignity back ;)
The response from you came with a chuckle.
you're such a hater
He was about to text Sam, and see what he was up to in D.C. at his law firm internship, when his phone buzzed in his hand.
Unknown Caller ID
He quirked a brow, almost not picking up, and then the call was missed. Just as fast, it rang again.
Unknown Caller ID
This time he picked up.
"Hello?" His voice was suspicious, until he heard a soft, muffled sound from the other end of the line.
"Buck?"
He recognized your voice immediately, even though the bass of the music made it so hard to distinguish your words. He said your name, also confused as to why you didn't call him from your phone.
Knowing you, you didn't let it charge fully before leaving the house. "What's going on?"
"I don't know." Hiccup. "Everyone's busy. Whatcha doin'?"
He chuckled. You were in the middle of a bar and asking him what he was doing? "I'm watching the game. Home. Where are you?"
"On the floor." You shrugged.
Bucky sighed in response, so lightly you didn't even notice. "What floor, sweetheart?"
You blew a raspberry to the phone. "A tile one. I don't know. It's the bar with that gigantic golden weiner on the wall—"
"You're at the Brass Rod?" Bucky got up immediately, searching his countertop for his keys, "Why the fuck would people abandon you there?!" He tried his best to keep his voice from raising.
The Brass Rod was a bar most frat boys loved, mostly because they could pay off the bouncers and get away with shit they shouldn't be able to. Which was a problem all in itself.
"Well, Kate found a cowboy, Dot is—" Hiccup. "With Christian Bale," hiccup. "And Yelena perished in the masses trying to get me the magic cure for these tequila sodas."
"So she got lost in a sea of tall people trying to get you water?" You heard the jingle of his keychain and the sound of a door closing.
"Precisely." You nodded enthusiastically, even though he couldn't see you, which made you groan at the sudden movement, your stomach complaining. "I don't feel so party rockin', Bucky."
His steps took him to the stairwell, and you heard his voice get echo-y. "I'm coming to get you, Barbie. Think you had enough for one night."
He walked out of the main lobby of his building, soft drops of rain falling onto him as it has just started to sprinkle, waving down a cab almost immediately, getting in after someone in a Batman costume stumbled past him with only one shoe.
"So," he said, keeping his voice light, "tell me what's happening around you."
You looked around, everyone was definitely taller when you're sitting on the floor in the corner. "People are drunk drunk. Someone's riding the mechanical bull." Hiccup.
"Is anyone there with you?" He asked, pulling the phone away from his face slightly to tell the cab driver where to go.
"A fairy is crying." You scanned the room more. "And someone dressed like a nun just threw up."
He snorted. "...Great."
"It was not holy."
Bucky laughed under his breath. "Stay near the wall."
"I am the wall." For some reason, just hearing his voice made the room stop spinning quite so violently.
"No, sweetheart. Stay beside the wall."
"Oh." You shifted slightly, crossing your legs so no one would step on your pants either. "There."
Bucky nodded. "Good girl." And looked at his watch, then up to the street. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
When he got to the Brass Rod, whose front entrance looked like every bad decision a twenty-one-year-old man had ever made had been condensed into one sticky doorway, Bucky immediately got annoyed at how many preppy douchebags were waiting to go in.
So he cut the line. The bouncer immediately looked him up and down, hand on his chest.
"No cutting."
Bucky rolled his eyes. "I'm not here to drink." And stepped forward again.
"Everybody says that." The bouncer was still not having it.
"I'm here to pick someone up." He put his hand up to signify your height. "Yea tall, cowgirl Barbie, probably sitting in a corner trying not to puke on your—" He looked inside the bar. "Prestigious floor."
The bouncer looked behind him to the bar, then back at Bucky. "You the boyfriend?"
Bucky huffed, getting more and more impatient by the second. "I'm—"
And was delightfully interrupted by your voice. "Buckyyyyyy!"
You moved past "not so party rockin'" to your very lovey dovey drunk self, lacing your arms around his neck and letting your weight hang onto him.
His hands went instinctively to your waist to steady you.
The bouncer looked at both of you, and then proceeded to move a couple people inside the bar as you nuzzled your face into Bucky's neck. "You smell good."
Yelena met you both outside, out of breath from apparetnly running after you. "Oh good you're—" and she realized Bucky was there and not Joaquin. "What are you doing here?"
At the same time you said "I called." Bucky responded. "She called me."
"Oh." Yelena's eyes could've bugged out of her head. "Oh."
You pulled back just enough to look at him. Your cowboy hat gone, your hair had started the night styled perfectly and was now somewhere between tousled and actively rebelling pink glitter shimmered across your collarbones.
Your lipstick had mostly survived, and for that he was grateful.
"Oh, you're hammered." Bucky snorted and looked over your head at her. "How much did she drink?"
Yelena began counting on her fingers. "I do not know."
"Helpful."
"She was drinking piña coladas, and then someone bought shots, and then Dot found finance men—"
Bucky groaned internally. "Finance men?"
You lifted your head from his chest. "I had water."
"You had three sips," Yelena corrected.
You pointed at her. "Three more than zero."
Bucky looked down at you while you smiled proudly. "Okay, Barbie." His hand moved from your waist to your back, rubbing once between your shoulder blades. "Think we're done for the night."
Bucky can fix it.
Bucky will know.
Bucky always answers.
And now, watching you cling to him outside the worst bar in Manhattan while your perfectly nice boyfriend was somewhere across the city dressed as a slutty children's television character, Yelena finally understood.
The problem wasn't that you were in love with Bucky Barnes. The issue wasn't even that he very obviously returned those feelings.
The problem was that neither of you could see it.
It took Dot approximately forty-five minutes to realize you were gone.
Which, considering she'd spent most of the evening disappearing herself, wasn't exactly surprising.
She resurfaced sometime after one in the morning, pushing her way through the crowd with her hair slightly less perfect than it had been when the night started and another drink in her hand that Yelena was almost certain she hadn't paid for. By then, whatever organization your bar crawl had begun with was completely gone. Pietro had been absorbed into a bachelor party, Joaquin had disappeared somewhere in the general direction of karaoke, and Kate's last known whereabouts involved a cowboy and a group of girls she apparently hadn't seen since middle school.
Yelena had given up.
She was standing near the bar, scrolling through her phone and seriously contemplating whether she was morally obligated to locate all of you before going home, when Dot appeared beside her.
"Where is everyone?"
Yelena glanced up. "Excellent question."
Dot laughed, looking around as if any of you might magically materialize from the crowd. "And where's Barbie?"
Yelena looked back down at her phone. "Bucky came to get her."
That caught Dot's attention. "Bucky?"
Yelena glanced at her again. "Yes."
"Like... Bucky Bucky?"
"How many Buckys do you know?"
Dot ignored that, her brows pulling together slightly as she processed the information. "I thought she'd leave with Joaquin."
"Her phone died, she could only remember Bucky's number, so we— well, she called him." Yelena chuckled, flagging the bartender down for another green tea shot.
Yelena had been unofficially appointed photographer for most of the night, mostly because she was the only person capable of holding her phone straight after the third bar.
"Can I borrow your phone? Need tonight's pics for my Stories."
There were dozens of pictures scattered throughout her camera roll—group photos outside bars, blurry bathroom selfies, Kate dancing with her cowboy, you proudly posing in your Cowgirl Barbie costume, and at least six photos Yelena wanted permanently erased from existence.
"You have thirty seconds."
Dot grinned. "You're an angel."
"I know." Yelena turned back toward the bar, trying to get the bartender's attention while Dot opened the call log, and sent herself Bucky's number, promptly deleting the message from Yelena's phone before opening another chat and sending herself the pictures.
"All done." Dot gave the phone back with a smile, ordering another drink herself.
He peeled the Rangers jersey over his head and tossed it toward the laundry basket before disappearing into his bedroom to change.
The game was back on.
Bucky had managed to avoid the score on his phone, which meant he could pick up more or less where he'd left off, the television illuminating the living room with flashes of white and blue.
The volume was turned down, just low enough that the announcers wouldn't make your undoubtedly developing headache any worse.
He'd changed into gray sweatpants and an old black T-shirt, his damp hair pushed back from his forehead after he'd run a towel through it.
The smell of Chinese food graced your nostrils as soon as you got out of the bathroom, padding into the living room to see Bucky sitting on the couch with a beer and reheated lo mein.
And on the coffee table, a plate of it for you, along with some much needed water.
His white T-shirt practically swallowed you whole, the collar hanging loosely around your neck. The basketball shorts were tied as tightly as they could possibly go and still sat dangerously low on your hips, the fabric reaching nearly to your knees.
You felt more sober now that time passed and you scrubbed your face clean.
You dropped down onto the couch beside him, close enough that your thigh pressed against his, Bucky handing you an egg roll without taking his eyes off of the TV.
You smiled. "You know me so well."
"Unfortunately." He grumbled, with no real bite behind it. You bit into it happily and Bucky's eyes drifted toward you again.
Just briefly, long enough to watch the way your eyes closed when you took the first bite, but not too long that you caught him in the act.
You settled deeper into the couch, folding one leg beneath yourself while the other pressed comfortably against his. Bucky handed you one of the bottles of water, and you obediently took a sip before reaching immediately for his container of sesame chicken.
You'd look over when his attention was fixed on the television, watching the concentration settle across his features whenever the puck moved down the ice.
He'd glance at you whenever you were distracted by the food, his eyes lingering on the way his T-shirt slipped slightly off one shoulder before immediately forcing his attention elsewhere.
The game filled the silence for you, commentators speaking low through the television while rain continued to patter against the windows, and you couldn't bring yourself to pay much attention to the puck.
Your eyes kept drifting to Bucky; tracing his side profile, the furrow in his brow, the slope of his nose, the way he gritted his teeth and hissed when the players missed a goal. "What?" Bucky caught you this time.
Your eyes immediately returned to the television, "Nothing." Faint blush spreading across your cheeks.
He waited and you could feel him looking at you. "You keep staring at me."
You rolled your eyes, trying to play it off. "I do not."
"You do." He pressed.
"I'm watching the game." You gestured vaguely towards the TV.
Bucky pointed. "The TV's over there."
"I'm using my peripheral vision." You motioned beside your eyes, turning your gaze back to him with an endeared smile.
"You're staring directly at my face."
"Maybe you have a big head." Bucky's mouth dropped open. You immediately started laughing.
He mocked offense, "Wow."
"I'm kidding." You angled your body to fully face him.
"No, no." He took the container of sesame chicken from your lap. "You insulted me in my own home."
"Give me my chicken."
"My chicken." You reached for it and Bucky lifted it away. "Buck."
"Apologize."
"Never." You reached farther. "You got a big ass head."
He moved it again.
You practically climbed over him trying to get it, one hand braced against his shoulder while the other reached uselessly toward the container he'd extended as far away from you as possible.
Somehow, you ended up straddling him as he held the container away from you. One second your laughs meshed together in the atmosphere, and in the next the room got smaller and smaller, until it narrowed down to just your gaze on his.
Your index and pointer finger timidly touched the plush skin of his lips, tugging the lower lip down and releasing it, and Bucky felt his throat run dry, too mesmerized by you to do anything but watch you do it. Like if he moved too quickly, whatever spell had settled over the two of you might break.
It felt like light years, the amount of time you spent staring into his eyes, then to his lips, then to his eyes again.
You bit your lip, contemplating what you were gonna do next. If that was the thing that would ruin your friendship forever.
You could always blame it on the tequila.
Your hands were on his shoulders, and one of his on your waist while the other still held the food away from you, just out of reach. Your palms cradled his face, and just like that, you were eighteen and making out in his car.
Bucky made a quiet sound of surprise against your mouth before kissing you back, his hand instinctively settling more securely at your waist after he let the container rest at the side table.
Your fingers curled on the back of his neck as you let your lips roll against his softly, Bucky broke the kiss after a few seconds, delicately catching your wrist. "You're drunk."
You shook your head. "No, I'm not." Your stomach felt funny for reasons other than alcohol now.
He looked at you almost pleading.
Please, don't do this to me again.
"You have a boyfriend." He reminded you weakily.
Your breath caught in your throat before the words spilled out of your mouth. "I know."
The second kiss was deeper, his hands coming to rest on either side of your jaw as he pulled you closer to him, your hips quickly settling into a rhytm all too familiar and at the same time much too foreign on top of him.
The thin fabric of the shorts you wore did nothing to dampen the friction between your bodies, his bulge growing harder inside of the grey sweats that hung low on his hips.
His tongue explored your mouth like it missed it, like he missed you.
Your nails scraped gently at the nape of his neck before moving down his shoulders, and his arms; your right hand squeezing his bicep while your left rested on his chest.
Bucky's dropped to your waist and your thigh, squeezing the supple flesh under the pads of his fingers. Your fingers traced lower, until you found the skin of his abs under his cotton shirt, scratching lightly making his muscles tense under you.
You pushed the fabric up and up, and up some more, until Bucky's hands left you momentarily to pull it over his head, exposing the plane of his chest to you fully, shifting his hair into messy strands.
His hands returned to you almost immediately, just as your lips did his. You breathed into his mouth like oxygen from him was the only type you'd ever need to keep on living.
As Bucky's hands trailed up your back dragging heat up your spine along the way, you pulled his shirt over your head with shaky hands. The cool air hit your skin, making your nipples harden, and Bucky's previously ceil blue eyes were now dilated with lust.
The stare made you self conscious for a split second, arms crossing over your chest in an attempt to hide.
"Don't." Was softly spoken from Bucky's mouth as his hands pulled your arms down, and he leaned forward to nuzzle your pulse point with his nose.
He kissed your neck where it met your chest, down your collarbone, the swell of your breast, until he tugged one nipple with his teeth, making you hiss lightly.
"Bucky…"
Your voice was sweet and syrupy in a way that intoxicated him more than any tequila shot ever could. He groaned against you as his hand pushed past the waistband of his shorts you wore, keening at the feel of your slick onto his fingers.
You murmured something under your breath at the feel, like his touch was a balm to long suffering.
Your hips stuttered into his hand, finding clumsy rhythm that had you grinding your clit over the pads of his fingers, blush creeping up your cheeks along with desire as he kept up his actions onto your chest.
When he took his hand away you pouted, grinding down on him for more friction and feeling the length of him through your clothes. Your manicured fingers found the waistband of his sweats and pushed them down along with his boxers, freeing his leaking bulge from the men confines of fabric.
Your hand wrapped around the shaft and Bucky stammered out a breath, hands gripping the couch cushins until his knuckles lost color as your found a slow lazy rhythm that had him grinding his teeth.
Lips found his neck as you stroked him, sucking and biting at the skin light enough to not leave a mark but hard enough to have shivers run down his spine, goosebumps blooming all over his arms.
It took him an embarrasingly long time to realize your were making your way down his neck and sliding off his lap, aiming for the floor, between his legs.
He stopped you with a hand on your arm and the other on your jaw, "Y-you don't have to—"
You shook your head, letting your eyes flutter closed as you kissed his palm, still continuing your path, "Want to." You voice was meek, barely above a whisper. "Can I?"
Bucky groaned, letting go of you and allowing you to pull his pants the rest of the way down, licking a thick stripe up his length before fully engulfing it in your mouth.
His right hand found your hair, pushing it out of your face as you found a rhythm that felt comfortable.
The issue was, you always felt comfortable with Bucky.
Not a single second in your entire sentient life of knowing him had his presence made you feel anything but calm. Serene. Safe and confident in your own way that everything would be okay because he was there, no matter what.
And in Bucky, you caused the same thing. Except his hands got clammy, his suave lines bled into teasing and playing off the fact that he would do anything for you.
The wet sucking noise pulled him from his trance, making his eyes relax and really look at you.
Bad idea, since he felt the knot in his stomach tightening by the second, growing closer and closer to the edge.
His hips moved back and away from you, warm hands pulling you up once he pulled you off of him with a soft "pop", helping you back on top of him.
Your hair fell around both your faces like a curtain, and Bucky brushed a strand behind your ear. "Wasn't done." You murmured, breath fanning across his lips.
He huffed out a laugh. "Yeah, well," he shifted his hips, pulling you to kneel above his lap so he could pull your shorts down. "I was about to be."
You giggled softly and Bucky could've sworn his heart would've burst right there. Your mouth hovered over his as he lined himself up with your entrance, the weeping head of his cock making contact with the hot slick between your legs.
"You're dripping." He shot you a side smile, dimple showing up briefly on the side of his mouth.
You blushed, "Don't— fuck— don't tease."
"'M not…" As he pushed in, inch by inch, a mixture of moans and choked out breaths left both of you, until he was buried in you to the hilt, looking into your eyes, glazed over in pleasure, trying his hardest not to embarrass himself by coming too fast. "… so good, so good."
You gave tentative rolls of your hips above him, suddenly so aware of his presence everywhere, in and around you, that your skin felt too hot to be lived in any longer.
He kissed you again, afraid of saying something that might make you change your mind, a whimper leaving your lips every time his tip pushed on your cervix, rubbing again and again against the spongy spot inside of you that made you feel fireworks going off in your lungs.
You switched from moving your hips up and down to a more grinding pace, rolling your eyes when your clit rubbed onto his pelvis.
Bucky felt you flutter around him, and laced his left arm around your waist, pushing you to lay against the couch cushions without pulling out, your hair fanning out behind you.
"Bucky— Jesus!" You yelped in surprise, his hips snapping up to yours at newfound depth. "Oh, my God!"
Bucky groaned in satisfaction, squeezing your right thigh higher and tighter around his waist. "Fuck, that's it."
Your eyes rolled back with new waves of pleasure hitting you, feeling Bucky impossibly deep in you, little shocks up your nerves every time he ground his hips into yours. He moaned your name, face buried into your neck, "Need— need you to come, sweetheart."
“Bucky, please, please, ah!”
His voice was strained, like it took everything inhim to not come inside of you right then and there. "Need you t'come, can't come in you, don't have a— fuck, fuck—"
"Feel so good, Buck, please—" You didn't even know what you were pleading. Pleading for him to make you come? For him to forget he's fucking you raw and just paint your insides white?
Bucky had that effect on you, to make you feel like you oculd fly if you so wished.
His hips stuttered against yours, bringing your closer and closer to your climax, walls squeezing around him like you never wanted to let him go.
And you didn't.
His mouth found yours again in a sloppy encounter one would barely classify as a kiss, neither of you in the right mind to do anything but moan into each other. His hand pushed your leg furhter up and his other thumb found your clit, rubbing fast circles on it.
Your moans got increasingly higher pitched as you tried to muffle them with a whimper, biting your own lip.
Bucky kissed the corner of your mouth and tugged the skin with his teeth.
“Good girl.” You came around him with a whine, and he gritted his teeth together to starve off his own release until he fucked you through yours.
When he felt you stopped shaking in his arms and squeezing around him, he pulled out quickly, sitting up on his knees, hand wrapping around his slick shaft.
He gave himself fast strokes until his eyes fluttered closed, coming with a groan of cuss words, spilling hot ropes of his release over your navel, catching the light from the TV faintly.
Both of you stayed in silence, catching your breaths, Bucky's vision finally coming back to normal from the tunnel vision a few minutes prior.
He muttered something under his breath, grabbing his shirt from the floor and using it to clean you up.
Morning arrived quietly.
Dark blue that faded into gray light filtered through the gap in Bucky's curtains, turning the bedroom that muted blue-gray color Manhattan seemed to specialize in after a rainy night.
For a few seconds, Bucky didn't move, he wasn't entirely sure what had woken him.
The distant sound of traffic several floors below, the radiator clicking, the faint headache beginning behind his eyes despite the fact that he'd barely had anything to drink.
Then you shifted beside him.
Your back was partially turned toward him, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the sheets pulled up around you. You looked peaceful.
Bucky felt anything but. He turned his head slightly, looked at you, then immediately looked back at the ceiling.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Before he could spin too much into his own spiral, his phone buzzed against the nightstand.
He knew that name, it was one of your friends, the blonde one from South Carolina, he thought. He'd met her once, briefly, when you'd brought a few people over before going out.
+1 (843) 737-5388:
i got your number and thought i should just text you 🙈
You gave her his number?
Before he could think of waking you up and asking, another message came through.
+1 (843) 737-5388:
I was gonna ask you for it myself but figured this was easier lol
Bucky's jaw tightened and suddenly the night before rearranged itself in his head. Something bitter settled in his chest.
He should've known better.
God, he should've known better.
You were drunk, emotional. Nostalgic. You weren't thinking straight and he felt like a fucking creep for taking advantage of you. Being exactly the type of guy he was trying to protect you from.
It didn't mean what he'd wanted it to mean.
His phone buzzed again.
+1 (843) 737-5388:
anyway i think you're really cute and if you're free sometime maybe we could grab coffee?
And in the kitchen, Bucky moved around wondering why you kept pushing him toward other people when, for one night, he'd thought maybe you'd finally chosen him.
You woke up feeling like the God of Thunder himself was banging a lightning bold against your head. Someone could've told you you were inside a church bell during mass and you'd believe them.
However, the first thing you noticed is that you were alone.
Alone, and very naked in Bucky Barnes' bed.
Guilt twisted sharply in your stomach, like you swallowed a twelve-pack of razor blades.
Absolutely nothing to do with your tequila intake.
You sat up and called his name a couple of times with no answer, looking beside you at his alarm clock that marked 10:13am.
You reached for your phone in the nightstand, seeing he had put it on the charger, and found a glass of water and two Ibuprofen.
When you touched the screen, there was a text from him.
Had to go into work. Your clothes are in the dryer. Coffee and breakfast in the kitchen. :)
No "we should talk", no "about last night", just that.
You stared at the text as though you could will another sentence to appear. What were you expecting? For him to wake you up with breakfast? For him to confess some decade-long secret? For one drunken night to suddenly change everything between you?
You were being ridiculous.
This was Bucky.
Your Bucky.
As you scrolled down you texts, you opened the groupchat to Dot sending a screenshot of your very Bucky, agreeing to grab coffee. With her. And you wondered why it suddenly made you feel like you'd made the worst mistake of your life.
a little bit of fran in your life: hey y'all.... how are we feeling.... I know, I know, don't quarter me on the town square over this please... my eye was twitching the entire time I had to write Dot. I promise I'll make them even dumber before they actually realize what's right in front of them......
[i reserve all the rights to this fic EXCEPT THE CHARACTERS bc this fic is my baby do nawt make it into a movie without asking me to direct it]
summary: After years of no contact, your concern and worry for the man you used to be so close to become too much for you to stay anymore. And after seeing you again, Bucky only realizes what he could have when he is close to losing it again
word count: 4.7k
warnings/tags: 18+, brief mentions of smut but nothing graphic, swearing, bucky is the biggest yearner ever, mentions of bucky’s mental health issues, reader is down bad for bucky, alpine is there too, a little bit of angst
author’s note: This was inspired by a TikTok I’ve seen about how Bucky lost his spark again after tftws and I really enjoyed writing this story, but I wasn’t as convinced by it anymore after I edited it. I honestly don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about this one, but I hope you’ll like it anyway!
Even though Bucky hadn't been on a mission in what felt like forever, he didn't think that the instincts fighting had taught him were something he was ever going to lose.
It was already way past midnight when he unlocked the door to his apartment, the soft click a gentle reminder that the day was over now, that he had a few hours before he had to get back to Capitol Hill, a few hours of peace and quiet he got to spend with Alpine before he would go back to spending his whole day with the kind of people whose rules he'd neither cared about or played by when he had still spend his time on missions instead of long meetings with terrible coffee and even worse opinions.
When he'd first become a Congressman and was so busy navigating this unknown territory, he welcomed all the distractions like an old friend he was more than desperate to see again- a coping mechanism Dr.Raynor wouldn't approve of, but the only one that ever really managed to pull him away from the emotions that threatened to swallow him whole.
At the beginning, it had worked so well Bucky had dared to think that maybe, just maybe, this was his chance at finally having something good.
At finally having a life that brought him the peace he so desperately wanted.
He probably should've known that something that good wasn't something a man like him would ever deserve to have, but rationality had never been something that worked when it came to Bucky's feelings.
So now that he was trapped in the same tiring cicle he had tried to escape from when he decided to leave his life on active duty behind, the life that had included you, he was grateful for the exhaustion weighing his bones down now, because it usually meant that sleep would come to him more easily than it usually did, something you learn to cherish when being asleep is the only time your mind lets you have a break.
When he opened the door, ready to mindlessly kick of his shoes and greet his little girl, a shiver so cold and dreading rolled down his back, he reached for a gun he didn't even carry anymore.
It was quiet. Not the kind of quiet he'd grown so used to, though, not the one that cruelly reminded him the only company he ever got to have was the sound of late night traffic seeping though the window and soft paws padding against the polished floor.
This felt different. The air was still, charged with something Bucky couldn't exactly place yet but definitely implicated that he had company- not the kind anyone ever wanted to have.
He was painfully aware of it when he closed the door behind him, moving through the apartment with a kind of stealthiness you only carried after spending decades of your life as the most feared assasin in the world.
Honestly, with as many enemies he had, Bucky wouldn't be surprised if somebody came here for revenge, wanting to take from him what he took from them, wanting justice for something something as cruel as what Hydra had done to them, paying no mind to the fact that Bucky was as much a victim to Hydra's violence as they were.
Most people didn't understand that, though. He was the one stained by the blood Hydra had shed, the weapon they had used to get everyone and everything out of the way that didn't fit into their system of control.
And actions led by the need for revenge were barely ever ones that cared about logic, about whether or not he had any choice in what his body had been forced to do.
Bucky understood that better than he maybe should. And he was prepared for anything, because there were endless scenarios for what might happen if there was really someone in his apartment, just waiting for the right moment of distraction that made him vulnerable enough for them to charge at him.
That moment wasn't going to come, though. Vulnerability wasn't something Bucky did anymore, which left him prepared for whatever was to happen now.
At least, that was what he thought until he saw you sitting at his kitchen table like you owned the place, Alpine blinking at him like this was a completely normal situation and you didn't just break into his apartment after two years of no contact.
Maybe it would've been normal if the two of you hadn't seperated back then, both of your lives too much of a mess for this thing simmering between you to have any future. Maybe, if you had pushed through all issues and carried the weight both of you had to deal with together, this would be your shared home now, a place that offered the kind of security and comfort neither of you ever had much of.
But this probably was't the right time to think about that.
Some of the tension seeped out of his body, shoulders relaxing when his mind registered that the intruder wasn't one of his old handlers or someone who wanted him dead, but the longer he looked at you, the more he realised that a scenario like that might've been easier to handle than this.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
The lazy grin that spread across your face didn't do much to calm his still very much racing heart, his pulse stumbling in a way it hadn't in such a long time, he hadn't thought he would ever feel it again.
You truly were as beautiful as he remembered.
Still, you also were as infuriating as ever as you stretched in your seat, taking your sweet time to answer him like you weren't pulling feelings back up that he thought were long buried under layers of denial and him repeatedly telling himself that you were better off without him anyway, that him missing you was better than dragging you into his life, a place someone as good as you had no business being in.
And here you were anyway, completely unaware of his inner turmoil and as unbothered as ever.
"It's good to see you too, Barnes. Honestly, I expected a little more enthusiasm, but I guess this works as well."
Bucky could only scoff, because of course you would be the one making jokes in a situation like this.
It wasn't funny, though. Not at all.
Watching you here, your features illuminated by the warm light the street lamp provided, that was all Bucky had wished for and still the one thing he'd dreaded the most.
You looked the same, mostly, but there were a few changes he couldn't help but notice, especially not with how well he had every little detail about you comitted to memory.
There was a roughness to you there hadn't been before, the hard lines of your face catching him off guard a little, because even on the toughest missions and in the most dangerous situations, you'd never failed to lighten the mood with the wit and fire he adored so much.
Now, the light in your eyes seemed dimmed, almost like the last years had been as hard on you as they had been on him.
It was unnerving, seeing you look so similar and yet so different, but what really worried him was that you were here, for what reason Bucky didn't know yet, but it couldn't be good if you sought him out, even after such a long time of the two of you not talking to each other at all.
And whatever it was, Bucky was in trouble, that much he was sure of.
Because if you needed his help, he was more than willing to give it to you, no matter what it might mean for the political career he had worked so hard for. And knowing that, knowing just how much power you still had over him, even now?
That was dangerous.
If it was up to him, Bucky would ask you about it immediately, more than ready to go get the duffle bag he kept packed just in case, ready to follow you wherever you needed him to be.
But you didn't work like that. You were terrible at needing help and even worse at accepting it. Calling you out on it would do more damage than good, so Bucky did his best to just focus on the next best thing and let you navigate this, at your pace.
"Already made yourself comfortable, I see." He gestured towards the half eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich sitting in front of you, something you used to eat all the time back when the two of you had still worked together.
Bucky didn't even like the combination all too much, but he kept it stocked anyway. Mostly because it helped lighten the heavy feeling in his chest, the one that usually got particulary bad when he was lying in bed at night, exhausted but unable to shut his mind off and painfully aware of how empty the king sized bed felt without you in it.
It was pathetic, eating the food you liked just to beat the lonliness for a while, but you'd always been good at making him feel the kind of things he never thought a man like him would ever get to feel again.
"Honestly, I thought with the amount of money you're making now you'd have all different kinds of fancy stuff stocked in your fridge, but you really don't have anything. What are you living off, coffee and thin air? That's just sad, Barnes."
"I eat out a lot." There wasn't even a reason for him to explain himself, but Bucky couldn't help it. Some part of him wanted you to believe that he was doing okay, that he wasn't as miserable as his apartment suggested he was, but who was he even kidding?
You'd always been able too see past his lies and performances, and with the way you were looking at him right now, it was safe to say that you knew exactly what was going on in his head.
You'd always been perceptive like that, understanding him in a way nobody else ever managed to.
And as infuriating as it was, he'd missed that.
"Sure you do, Congressman. I'm sure that these days, you're too busy for cooking anyway."
You didn't mean it in a mocking way, surely, but it irked him anyway, the way you called him Congressman. Like this version of him, the Bucky that was so lost in politics and running from his own life didn't have time for the things he used to love, that all the meals he used to cook after missions didn't have a space in this life anymore.
And maybe they didn't, now that he didn't have someone to care about and cook for anymore.
"Yeah well, some of us have more important stuff to do than that."
It was a stupid thing to say, unfair as much as it was wrong. What you did was important, even more so than the work he did, but Bucky was too stubborn to admit that the lack of quality his life really had didn't have anything to do with his job but everything with the lack if your presence in his life.
There wasn't any offense on your face, though- the exact opposite, actually. The smirk on your face only widened, an understanding look on your face which told him that you knew exactly what he was doing but didn't call him out on it anyway. Instead, you let your eyes fall onto Alpine and the small bowl sitting next to her, changing the topic for Bucky's sake more than it was for yours.
"I fed your kitty, by the way. The little thing wouldn't stop screaming at me." A chuckle slipped past your lips. "Guess you never lost the habit to surround yourself with stubborn women, huh?"
"I guess not, no."
The implication was more than clear and Bucky shouldn't engage with it, he shouldn't, but-
"There's just her now, though."
He didn't owe you anything, but it was important to him anyway that you knew there wasn't anyone in his life right now.
Not that there could be. Bucky was certain that there wouldn't ever be anyone else but you for him.
Your cocky expression turned into somethingg softer, something he hadn't seen in such a long time seeing it now felt as painful as it was refreshing. "Well, I'm sure she keepy you busy well enough."
"She sure does," Bucky agreed, also looking at Alpine now because that was easier to handle than looking at you. "You here for anything else than just the snack?"
You just shrugged, but the motion was jerky, too tense to actually count as casual. "I was in the neighborhood, figured I might as well say hi. I have to say, your security system wasn't as bad as I expected it to be but also really not as good as it should be, considering the amount of people who have a problem with you. Mediocre at best, if I had to rate it. You aren't getting sloppy, are you, Congressman?"
Hearing you call him that again was another poke at his already bruised heart, but Bucky forced himself to laugh anyway. "Well, mediocre for you is impossible to get passed for anyone else, so I think I'm good."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, but I'll take the compliment anyway," you shrugged, not letting him distract you with the praise and instead keeping your eyes trained on him, almost like you were… studying him. And that usually never meant anything good, especially not with how exposed he felt under your gaze. He was stripped raw, his emotions written in a language only you could understand, like it was the easiest thing in the world and you could read him like any other book.
It was impressive, really, but right now, he really didn't want you to be able do that.
"Talking about compliments, though- the suit looks really good on you, Barnes. Seriously, I don't think I've ever seen you in a suit before-"
"You did." The memory of that mission came crashing down on him immediately, the night that had followed something Bucky still thought about more often than he wanted to admit.
Dreamed about it, too, which usually ended with him waking up hard as a brick, the sight of your naked body almost glowing in the moonlight burned into his mind and usually leading to him taking a much needed cold shower immediately afterwards.
He couldn't tell you that, though, so he just watched as the confusion on your face was replaced by realisation as you understood what he was hinting at.
"The black suit you wore on that mission in Portugal, right?" You smiled at the memory of it, a mischievous look in your eyes. "Didn't really stay on for long thouh, did it?"
Apparently, you were thinking about the exact same thing he was.
"Not really, no." It was weird, discussing suck an intimate part of your relationship so intimately even though nothing about it had ever been casual.
But that was so typical for you, Bucky couldn't bring himself to be surprised about it. You'd always been terrible at expressing your emotions , quick to cover them up with a snarky remark or a witty joke so nobody would ever really pay attention to the mess going on inside of you.
But Bucky knew you better like that, he always had.
"Look, I really don't want to sound like I'm not glad to see you again, but-"
"That kinda sounds like the kind of thing you would say before telling me to leave."
Honestly, Bucky could've phrased that a little better because he could already see the first signs of you backtracking again. It was subtle, how you were trying to seem relaxed whilst tension coiled tightly in your shoulders, but so painfully obvious how prepared you were to bolt again, depending on what he would say now.
Again, it was really fitting for the woman he got to love all those years ago. Always ready to leave at the slightest chance of getting hurt, all the times you've been hurt before sitting in the back of your mind like a reminder you could never really seem to get rid off.
"I wasn't gonna say that. You know you're almost welcome here- you know that." Bucky wasn't sure if you really did know that, but he hoped that you did. All he ever tried to do was make sure you knew that no matter the situation, no matter what had happened or what you'd done, he would always have your back. "I don't mind you being here, I really don't- I just have a hard time understanding why exactly you would break into my place two years after we last talked to each other with your only reason being that you were in the neighborhood. I don't get that. Did something happen? Do you need my help?"
Bucky really didn't know how this could be funny in any way because he was being serious, but you chuckled anyway.
"Trust me Barnes, if I was desperate enough to seek you out for help, I wouldn't be this calm about it," you joked, but the humor seeped out of your feautures a moment later, your expression turning more serious than it had been ever since he'd first walked in on you.
When you got up from the chair, Bucky had to physically stop himself from backtracking. Not because he didn't want to be close to you-thatt wasn't it at all- but because he didn't know if he could stop himself from doing something stupid when you stood so close to him like that.
Now, with only a few inches of space between you, Bucky could see details he had missed before when you'd still been so far away, and for a moment, the two of you just… looked at each other,almost like you needed to see how much the person you used to know so well really had changed in the ast couple of years.
"I'm happy for you, you know that right?" It wasn't much more than a whisper, like saying those words too loudly was going to break something that was way too fragile to even begin with. "I really am. And I have to say, it's quite the impressive life you built yourself here. A steady job, a cat, a fancy apartment-"
"You know I never cared about that kind of stuff."
Maybe you didn't understand it, but Bucky coudn't just let you say those things, couldn't just listen to you counting off all those things that were supposed to show just how much of an amazing life he had right now, because it wasn't like that at all. Sure, he cared about Alpine, but not about the rest of it.
A good life meant absolutely fucking nothing if the loneliness ate at you so much, happiness didn't even have a chance to form with how rotten you felt most of the time.
"Well, maybe you should care. Maybe this is the kind of life you can finally enjoy, with the work you do now. Must be a lot more enjoyable than what we used to do, isn't it, Congressman?"
Again, hearing that term come out of your mouth like that was all he was to you now, a Congressman who switched his life of being an agent for this becauese he was searching for something better, for something more than what you used to have- it hurt more than he cared to admit.
"Quit calling me that." Maybe it shouldn't bother him as much as it did, because technically, that was his title now, but it just wrong to hear it come outt of your mouth.
He didn't care about the opinions other people had about him, he just cared about you.
He might be a weapon to some and a monster to others, but as long as you knew who he really was, whatever anyone else said didn't really matter to him anyway.
"What am I supposed to call you, then? You are a Congressman now, aren't you?"
God, you were such an infuriating, stubborn woman.
And Bucky couldn't be any more in love with you, not even all these years later.
"I was always just Bucky to you, wasn't I? You've never cared about that kind of titles before, so what is this about all of the sudden?"
It bothered him, how much of a distanc you were trying to put between the two of you with your words alone, but Bucky couldn't help but think that it was for a reason a little more complicated than just you trying to rile him up.
"I don't know, Barnes. Honestly, I don't even know what the fuck I am actually doing here, I just-" You ran a hand through your hair, a nervous habit he recognised immediately. "I'm glad that you got out of the bullshit Sam and I are still so stuck in, alright? I'm happy that your life doesn't consist of just fights and missions and waiting for the next job anymore, because you deserve this. Hell, you deserve it more than anyone else I know, there is no questioning that. And I know that this might not be my place anymore, but I know you, Bucky. And with all the stuff Sam has been telling me about how much you've been ignoring him again lately, it really doesn't seem like you're doing okay."
With every word that was coming outt of your mouth, the tightness in Bucky's chest only got worse, the concern on your face so visible now it was almost too much to handle for him.
With all the things you could've said and everything he might've wanted you to say, this really wasn't something he would've expected.
"I guess with all the things that have changed, that's a pattern that stuck, isn't it? You pulling away from the people you love when you're struggling?"
Again, Bucky had to stop himsef from taking a step back, from putting some distance between you as a desperate try to keeo you from seeing through him without him being able to do anything about it.
Damn you for seeing through all his pretense of wanting to seem okay in a time like this, when he was so fucking alone and miserable he didn't have the strength to pull himself out of the hole he felt so trapped in, because he didn't actually have anyone in his life to try to be okay for in his life, and doing it for himself?
Yeah, that really wasn't worth the effort.
The only constant people Bucky used to have in his life were you and Sam, but with how long he hadn't talked to you and how much of his time Sam spent in New York or Louisiana, it had been easy enough for Bucky to avoid him without seeming too suspicious.
Well, at least that was wht he had thought, but it wasn't like any tricks he tried to pull on others ever worked on you, anyway.
"Look, Buck, maybe we aren't as close to each other as we used to anymore, but I think it is safe to say that I know you. And whilst this is technically a very good life, with a routine you can rely on and nice company." Your eyes found Alpine for a moment, a small smile tugging on your lips. "You don't seem to be happy, Bucky. And that's all we ever wanted you to be- that's all I ever wanted for you. You've had enough years of your life taken from you, please don't spend even more trying to proof yourself to people who don't even care enough to stick around for the real you."
Your hand reached up, slow enough to let him pull away if he wanted to, but he didn't. He just watched as your fingers reached his cheek, so gently brushing against his skin, his knees almost buckled with how nice it was to feel it again.
"You're right, Bucky. I don't care about titles or whatever you might be to others- I care about you. And even though you might not believe it yourself, you are the best person I ever got to meet in my life, and you deserve to be happy, Buck. You really do."
Your touch was gone as quick as it came and Bucky knew that this was probably the time where he should say something, anything at all, but he couldn't bring himself to.
There just wasn't anything to say.
And before his brain could properly catch up, you already stepped away from him again, back to the window you've probably entered through, slipping through his fingers once again.
He could try to convince you to stay, just for a night so the to of you could maybe figure this out together, but Bucky knew that it wouldn't actually lead to anything.
Unfortunately, you'd never been good at staying when things got just a bit too real,and Bucky didn't have the strength to fight for someone he didn't believe he deserved anyway.
"Look, I'll be off your back now, you should probably get some rest," you said, pulling him out of his trance again, your hand already resting on the window frame.
"Just… take care of yourself, alright? That's all I'm asking for, James. And if you can't do it for yourself, then do it for me."
And with the echo of a name long forgotten echoing off the walls, the only thing Buchy could focus on was the space you'd been standing in mere seconds ago, before you vanished into thin air and left him in the state he'd been in ever since he'd brought you to that airport two years ago.
Confused, alone, and so utterly in love with you he was sure it was going to kill him one day.
Time passed again like it always did, after that night. Bucky got up the next morning, fed Alpine and made his way back to work, almost convinced that he was actually going insane now, that he'd just imagined you, his sleep deprivation and heartache so bad that his brain came up with the only thing that ever managed to bring him some comfort.
He knew that couldn't be what had happened, though, not with how much your scent ws still lingering in the air even though almost a month had passed already since you'd payed him that visit.
Your words had been playing on a loop in his head ever since, but he couldn't bring himself to act on them yet.
Not really, at least, but he also didn't decline his best friend's call when Sam's name popped up on his screen one evening, which Bucky would defintely count as progress.
"Buck?" Sam's voice sounded almost disbelieving, like he couldn't quite grasp that his best friend had actually picked up, but there was also something more urgent underneath it, something that made his heart beat faster immediately.
"Holy shit man, I thought you weren't going to asnwer-"
"Sam, what's going on?" Maybe interrupting him like that was rude, especially with how avoidant Bucky had been for months now, but he really, really didn't like how upset Sam sounded.
"Look, just- how fast can you be in New York, Bucky?"
Not at all would've been the correct answer with all the workload he was facing right now because of the upcoming vote, but even though Bucky could be a really shitty friend sometimes, he knew that Sam wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.
And he would be damned if he ever let his friends hanging like that.
"Two hours, if I push it. Sam, you're really scaring me- what the hell is going on?"
The silence that followed was enough for Bucky's heart to nearly beat out of his chest, but what followed truly made his blood run cold, filling him with so much dread and panic he felt like he was going to throw up.
"She's at the hospital, Buck. A mission went wrong and- it's bad."
pairing: bucky barnes x reader | 10.2k words | modern soulmate au
warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), soulmate bond/past life memories, multiple lifetimes, memory flashes, discussions of war, brief references to trauma/recovery, love at first sight across lifetimes, wedding night smut, destiny vs choice, happy ending
summary: when you and bucky reach for the same bag of lemons at the farmer’s market, the touch triggers flashes of the many lifetimes you’ve spent loving each other. as those memories keep surfacing, the two of you have to figure out what it means to fall in love again in the life you’re living now.
authors note: this is very loosely inspired by everything is romantic by charli xcx, and by “loosely” i mean i took several lyrics, made them devastating, and then built an entire soulmate reincarnation love story around them. many many thank you's for this fic! thank you to @/iamthatonefangirl and @/barnesonly for organizing our bwat summer collab; go check out everyone else's work! thank you to my baby, @/pinksplace for giving this idea and listening to me continuously crash out about it🫶 and a very special thank you to @/buckybsdoll for not only beta reading it, but for also encouraging this fic is indeed NOT buns, and i can do hard things. love you all🩷
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Saturday mornings belong to James Buchanan Barnes.
That is what Bucky tells himself, anyway—what he has been telling himself for the better part of three years, ever since recovery stopped feeling like a cliff edge and started, slowly, cautiously, feeling like a road. Not an easy road, not a straight one, but a road all the same. Something he can wake up and keep walking.
Saturday means the same coffee stand on the corner where the barista with the chipped purple nail polish starts making his drink the second she sees him coming. It means the farmer’s market under the green-striped awnings in the square, where he buys a loaf of crusty sourdough from the old Polish couple in stall fourteen and fresh eggs from the woman who always insists the yolks are brighter in spring. It means peaches if they’re in season, because one summer in Wakanda he had bitten into one so ripe it had run down his wrist and made him laugh out loud in the middle of a field, and ever since then peaches have felt like proof of life. It means flowers some3times, too, if the apartment feels especially bare. Something cheap and cheerful in a mason jar on the kitchen counter. Something that says a man can make a home even if he was taught for years he did not deserve one.
It is a good routine. A hard-won one. Bucky likes the honesty of it, the way these small rituals ask nothing of him except that he show up.
This morning, June sun already warming the pavement, his paper cup of coffee hot in his hand, he feels almost light. The market is crowded enough to buzz but not so packed he gets hemmed in. A violinist near the fountain is playing something bright and quick. Someone’s kid is trying to pet every dog within reach. The air smells like basil and strawberries and the faint yeasty sweetness of fresh bread.
Bucky buys his loaf first. Then tomatoes. Then a bunch of green onions. He pauses at the peach stand, testing one for give with his thumb, and decides they need another week.
By the time he reaches the citrus table, the vendor is rearranging pyramids of lemons in rough wooden crates, their skins bright and dimpled in the morning light. Bucky reaches automatically, already picturing chicken piccata for dinner, and another hand reaches at the same exact moment.
Your fingers brush his.
The world splits open.
One second he is standing in the farmer’s market with coffee on his breath and sunlight on the back of his neck, and the next—
Neon. Laughter. Chapel bells tinny through cheap speakers. Your mouth, painted the color of a ripe cherry, open on a breathless laugh. White satin clinging to your hips. A fake Elvis in a rhinestone jumpsuit grinning around too-big teeth beneath a plastic crucifix bolted crooked over the altar.
Bucky gasps.
The bag of lemons slips from both your hands and tumbles to the pavement, yellow fruit rolling in wild directions as if they’ve been startled too.
The vision doesn’t stop there. Visions of different lifetimes flash through his eyes like he’s watching the life of ten different couples all at once.
A steering wheel under his palms, worn smooth with use. Summer wind through open windows. You in cutoff shorts, feet on the dashboard, singing badly and loudly while the road curls ahead of you like a dare.
White sheets. Lace curtains breathing in a warm midnight breeze. Gold band on your finger catching moonlight where your hand presses against his chest. Your mouth moving against his throat with a broken little sound that is half laughter, half prayer.
A rough cabin wall. Splintered pine under his palm. You in a wool shift with your hair braided down your back, cheeks wind-burned, smiling over your shoulder as foxes cry somewhere out in the dark and a baby sleeps in a cradle by the fire.
Smoke and jazz and blackout curtains. East London. Silk black as sin against your skin. Your hand catching his by the wrist before he can disappear back into the war.
A beach. Bright afternoon. Children shrieking at the tide. Orange drinks sweating in glass pitchers while he kneels in the sand with his sleeves rolled up, helping a little girl press shell fragments into the turret of a sandcastle, and you walk toward him laughing, sunlight at your back so fierce it turns you to gold.
Then all of it is gone.
The market snaps back into focus so suddenly it hurts. Sound crashes in—vendors shouting prices, stroller wheels rattling, the violinist sawing away by the fountain. Bucky stumbles backward a step. Across from him, you catch yourself on the edge of the citrus crate, looking exactly as wrecked as he feels.
Your eyes lock on his.
“Oh my God,” you whisper.
Bucky’s heart is pounding hard enough to bruise. “You saw that too.”
It isn’t a question.
In this world, everybody knows about soulmarks and first-flashes. Knows that when you meet the person your soul is tied to, memory can strike like lightning. Some people get a single image. A porch swing. A train platform. A hand in a hospital room. Some get a rush of several lives at once, enough to leave them reeling for days. Most people dream of it when they’re young. Spend adolescence looking at every stranger a little too long. Wondering when it will happen, if it will happen, whether the person on the other end of them is alive or halfway across the planet or just around the corner.
Bucky stopped wondering a long time ago.
HYDRA did not leave much room for destiny.
You swallow. “That was not normal.”
“No,” he says, voice rough. “No, that was… not.”
The lemon vendor is gathering the fallen fruit with admirable indifference, the kind that says he has seen stranger things at this market and will see stranger still. “You two need a minute?” he asks.
You make a sound that could be a laugh or a near-sob. “Maybe five.”
Bucky buys the entire bag of lemons because it feels like the least insane thing he can do, then follows you blindly toward the edge of the square where there’s a row of benches under a sycamore tree. The shade dapples your face when you sit, and for one unmoored second he knows the pattern of it. Not from now. From somewhere else.
He stays standing until you glance up at him and pat the spot beside you with a shaky hand.
“You’re real?” you ask once he sits.
He almost laughs. “I was about to ask you that.”
You rub your palms over your knees as if trying to ground yourself. You’re wearing denim shorts and a white tank top and sunglasses pushed up into your hair, and you look like someone who belongs to summer. Not delicate exactly, but bright. Alive in a way that makes Bucky’s ribs ache. “I know this is a weird question,” you say, “but are you going to tell me your name, or am I just supposed to keep calling you fake-Elvis-groom in my head?”
“Bucky,” he says automatically. Then, because he has spent years relearning how to offer the softer pieces of himself without flinching, he adds, “James. But people call me Bucky.”
Your mouth curves, the first real smile since the vision hit. “I’m glad to know at least one of us looked better in Vegas.”
He huffs out a breath that is almost a laugh. “I looked good.”
“You looked reckless.”
“That too.”
You tell him your name, and the moment it lands between you something in his chest settles with a frightening kind of certainty. Not because fate says so. Not because the universe stamped your names together in some cosmic ledger. Because the sound of it moves through him like recognition. Like stepping into a room he did not realize he had been trying to get back to his whole life.
For a while neither of you says anything. The market hums on around you. Somewhere nearby, a dog sneezes. Someone drops a crate. Bucky stares at the paper sleeve around his cooling coffee and tries to swallow around the strange thickness in his throat.
“I’ve heard of people getting strong first-flashes,” you say at last, quieter now. “But not like that. That was… a lot.”
“A lot,” he agrees.
You tilt your head toward him. “How many do you remember already?”
He thinks of the chapel. The truck. The bed with the lace curtains. The cabin. The club in London. The beach. “Six,” he says. “You?”
“Same.”
A breeze stirs the leaves overhead. It smells like sun-warmed bark and citrus oil.
“I don’t know what to do now,” you admit.
That, strangely, is what steadies him.
Because Bucky knows that feeling. Knows what it is to be handed something overwhelming and not know where to put it. Knows that survival sometimes looks like doing the next smallest thing instead of solving the whole impossible shape at once.
He glances toward the coffee stand, then back at you. “You want to start with coffee?”
You look at him for one long beat, then laugh softly, incredulously, like maybe you can’t believe that is the question that just saved you from bolting. “Yeah,” you say. “I think I do.”
So that is how it begins.
Not with thunder. Not with immediate declarations. Not with some cinematic collision that resolves every loneliness in a heartbeat.
With coffee. With your hand wrapped around a paper cup. With the two of you sitting at the edge of the market, dizzy on each other’s borrowed memories, learning the outlines of the present slowly enough to survive it.
He learns that you come to the farmer’s market most Saturdays too, though usually later. That you always buy flowers you don’t strictly need. That you live twenty minutes away in an apartment with bad plumbing and excellent light. That you work in graphic design and keep odd hours and have a weakness for peaches even when they’re underripe. You learn that he is in therapy. That he likes routine because sometimes routine is the difference between drifting and staying. That his apartment in Brooklyn is small but his windows face west and the light there in the evening is good. That he cooks. That he bakes bread when the weather turns cold because kneading something until it rises feels like a miracle he can participate in.
He does not tell you everything that morning. Not about HYDRA, not about the winter that lasted decades, not about the names he no longer answers to. But you do not push. Maybe because you can feel, in the strange echoing chambers of whatever ties the two of you together, that he has already been dragged open too many times to count.
When you part, it is almost noon.
You both hover awkwardly by the fountain, neither one wanting to be the first to say goodbye.
“So,” you say, shifting the bouquet of daisies and feverfew you bought somewhere along the way into one hand. “Do soulmate rules say we’re supposed to immediately move in together now, or is there like a grace period?”
Bucky smiles before he can stop himself. “I think there’s paperwork.”
“Tragic.”
He glances at the lemons peeking out of your canvas bag. “You still owe me half of these.”
You grin then, bright and quick and devastating. “That sounds fake.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But it’s a reason to see you again.”
Something softens in your expression. “Okay,” you say. “Then I’ll take the fake reason.”
He gives you his number. You type your own into his phone and hand it back, your fingers brushing his again. No flash this time. Just warmth. Just the sharp, impossible awareness of skin.
“All right, Bucky Barnes,” you say. “Text me when you want to split custody of the lemons.”
He watches you walk away.
At the corner, you turn and look back.
The city seems to hold its breath.
Then you smile at him one more time and disappear into the crowd.
Jesus Christ on a plastic sign
The Vegas lifetime comes back first.
Not all at once. In drips. In flashes that catch Bucky at strange moments over the next few days, as if the memory has been jarred loose and is still deciding how much of itself to reveal.
He is washing dishes on Tuesday night when he looks down at a ring of soap suds circling the drain and suddenly he is twenty-six—or thirty, or some other age in some other body—and the air smells like desert heat trapped in asphalt. He can hear slot machines from the lobby below the motel balcony and your laugh from inside the room, where the air conditioner is fighting a losing battle and you are standing in front of the cracked mirror pinning your hair up with bobby pins you bought from the gift shop downstairs.
“Tell me again,” you say, smiling at him through the mirror, “why exactly we’re doing this.”
Because you had met forty-eight hours earlier in line for dollar margaritas and spent the night talking until sunrise on the motel roof. Because you had missed your flight on purpose. Because he had looked at you over watery eggs in a diner the next morning and known, with the same bone-deep certainty he feels now on a Brooklyn Tuesday in a kitchen lit by one warm overhead bulb, that life was sometimes simplest when it was ridiculous.
Because you had asked if he wanted to get married as a joke and then kept grinning at him after he said yes.
“Tax benefits,” he answers solemnly, sitting on the end of the bed in his borrowed suit jacket.
You laugh. “Romantic.”
“Practical.”
“Liar.”
You cross the room barefoot, white dress swishing around your thighs. It is not really a wedding dress. It is a satin slip from a resale shop with a tiny champagne stain at the hem and thin straps that make him forget his own name every time he looks at you. You stop between his knees and hook your fingers in the lapels of his jacket.
“Tell me not to do it,” you whisper. There is laughter in your voice but something trembling under it too, a softness that asks to be taken seriously. “Tell me we’re being insane and I’ll call it off.”
He looks up at you and feels his whole impossible life narrow into one clean, brilliant line. “I think,” he says, resting his hands on your hips, “that if we don’t do this, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life wondering why I let the best idea I ever had walk out of a motel in Vegas.”
Your expression cracks open into something so nakedly happy it almost undoes him.
The chapel is tiny and tacky and perfect. The plastic crucifix is screwed above a velvet curtain backdrop. The fake Elvis officiant keeps winking like he personally invented love. You say your vows through laughter because your bouquet is made of silk roses that smell faintly like dust and the minister’s sideburn is half detached. Bucky can barely get the ring onto your finger because his hands won’t stop shaking.
Afterward, you run into the sun with your shoes in one hand, your new husband’s name in your mouth as if you were born to say it.
On the sidewalk outside the chapel, there’s a sign for a twenty-four-hour wedding package with JESUS CHRIST LOVES YOU printed above a blinking arrow in red bulbs, and the whole thing is so absurd that you double over laughing. Bucky catches you around the waist before you can fall.
“Mrs. Barnes,” he says into your hair, tasting the words.
You lift your face to his, eyes wet from laughing. “That sounds made up.”
“Probably is.”
You kiss him anyway.
In the present, water runs cold over Bucky’s hands in the sink. He blinks hard and finds himself staring at a plate gone slippery in his grip.
He dries his hands, sits on the edge of the counter, and texts you before he can think better of it.
Got another one. Vegas.
The reply comes so fast it is almost a breath.
me too
Then, after a beat:
did we really get married because the line for margaritas was too long and we needed something else to do?
Bucky smiles helplessly at his phone.
we were committed to the bit
You start texting every day after that.
At first it is practical. Did you remember this detail? Did the chapel carpet have stars on it or was that just me? Do you think the fake Elvis was secretly judging us?
But the practical gives way to easy almost before either of you notices. He sends you a picture of a dog in a raincoat outside the bodega. You send him a photo of the flowers you bought even though your rational brain said you didn’t need them. He tells you when therapy goes badly. You tell him when work is making your eyes cross. By Friday, your name on his screen feels less like a surprise and more like the continuation of something that was already in motion long before lemons hit pavement.
The next Saturday, he finds you at the market before he reaches the citrus stand.
You are standing at the peach table, frowning at a fruit in your hand with the seriousness of someone evaluating a gemstone.
“You know those need another week,” he says.
You glance up and smile in a way that makes his whole body wake up. “I know. I’m being optimistic.”
“Reckless.”
“Wow. You meet one man in Vegas and suddenly he thinks he knows you.”
He laughs, and there is no fear in it this time.
You spend the morning together again. Coffee, bread, flowers. At the tomato stall your shoulder brushes his and warmth skates down his spine, but no memory comes. At the herb table he tucks a stray basil stem behind your ear and your breath catches, but still nothing.
It hits later, when the two of you are leaving the market and pass an old pickup truck parked crooked by the curb, windows down, classic rock spilling tinny from the speakers. You stop dead. So does he.
Your head turns toward him.
His chest caves in around a heartbeat that is no longer entirely his own.
Winding roads, doing manual drive
In that life, you are eighteen and everything feels enormous.
Summer stretches in front of you like a dare. The town is small enough to suffocate if you stay still too long, so you never do. Bucky has a beat-up blue truck with a sticky clutch and a radio that only works when you slap the dashboard in exactly the right place. He teaches you how to drive manual in the abandoned church parking lot at the edge of town, laughing every time the engine stalls because you keep popping the clutch too fast.
“You’re mean,” you tell him, gripping the steering wheel.
“I’m helpful.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“Because you cuss like my grandpa.”
You cut him a glare so ineffective it makes him grin wider. He reaches across the bench seat to guide your hand to the gearshift, his palm warm over your knuckles.
“Slow,” he says. “Feel it catch. Don’t force it.”
Outside, cicadas scream in the heat. The sun is dropping behind the trees, turning the windshield gold.
You try again. This time the truck lurches, shudders, then rolls forward smooth as breath.
“Oh my God,” you say, startled into laughter. “I did it.”
Bucky looks at you the way boys in movies are always supposed to look but almost never do in real life—like the sight of you happy is enough to rearrange his whole future. “Yeah,” he says softly. “You did.”
Once you know how, you drive everywhere with no destination at all. Back roads. County lines. Winding stretches of blacktop between soybean fields and creeks and gas stations with flickering signs. You drive because gas is cheap and the cab of the truck is a world no one else can enter. You drive because Bucky’s knee pressed against yours feels better than anything either of you have a name for yet. You drive because being young and in love can make movement feel holy.
Sometimes you pull over on the shoulder just to watch the sky bruise purple over the fields. Sometimes you kiss at red lights until the truck behind you honks. Sometimes you park at the overlook above the quarry and share a bag of gas station peanuts while Bucky tells you all the places he wants to see one day, voice gone soft with wanting.
“Anywhere specific?” you ask.
He shrugs one shoulder. “As long as you’re there.”
You laugh because you think he is teasing. Then you look at him and realize he is not.
The air changes.
He reaches up, pushes a strand of hair behind your ear with trembling fingers. “I know we’re eighteen,” he says, trying for casual and failing spectacularly. “I know people say that means we don’t know anything. But I know this.”
Your breath catches.
Behind you, the truck ticks and cools in the dusk.
“I know,” he says again, “that I could drive with you forever and never get tired of the road.”
Then he kisses you, and the whole wide summer tilts.
The memory drops away while a bus sighs to the curb and someone nearby curses over a jammed stroller wheel.
You are breathing hard. So is Bucky.
“That one hurt,” you say quietly.
He knows what you mean. Not because it was bad. Because it was good in the simple devastating way only youth can be. Because watching some other version of yourself love with that much unguarded certainty feels like pressing a bruise you didn’t know you had.
“You drove stick,” he says.
“I was bad at it.”
“You were terrible.”
You laugh then, startled and watery, and he thinks he would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound.
There is a diner half a block away with cracked vinyl booths and a waitress who calls everyone honey. He nods toward it. “Come on.”
“Is this where we process our cosmic psychic episodes now?”
“Pancakes seem medically necessary.”
So you sit across from each other in a booth smelling faintly of syrup and coffee grounds while the waitress tops off your mugs and pretends not to notice that the two of you keep staring. The market bag rests by Bucky’s boots. Your flowers lie across the seat beside you like a witness.
“You ever think about what it means?” you ask after a while.
He traces a thumb over the seam of his coffee cup. “The past lives?”
“The soulmate thing. Any of it.” Your gaze is steady on his. “Like… are we supposed to just trust that because we loved each other before, we automatically will now?”
Bucky is quiet for so long, the waitress comes by to ask if he wants more bacon.
When she leaves, he exhales. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I think maybe it’d scare me if it worked like that.”
You nod once. “Me too.”
Because obligation is not love. Because destiny without choice starts to look too much like a cage.
Bucky leans forward, forearms on the table. “I don’t want this to be automatic,” he says, surprising himself with the urgency in his own voice. “I don’t want you because of… cosmic paperwork.” Your mouth twitches at that. He presses on. “I want to know you. Now. Here. I want whatever this is to be because we choose it.”
Something in your face softens so completely it leaves him winded.
“Okay,” you say.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” you repeat. “Then we do it the hard way.”
His mouth curves. “Dating?”
“Scandalous, I know.”
He looks at you across the table, sunlight striping the booth through the blinds, and feels a piece of his life click gently into place.
“Yeah,” he says. “Dating.”
The smile you give him then follows him home and waits with him through the week and sits with him at the edge of sleep. It is still there when he picks you up for your first actual date on Thursday, when you buzz him into your apartment building wearing jeans and a green top that makes your eyes look unfair, when he spends ten whole seconds forgetting why he came.
You cook together in his kitchen because restaurants feel like too much too soon. Lemon chicken. Roasted potatoes. Salad with too much parmesan because you insist there is no such thing.
It is simple. It is easy in the kind of way Bucky once would have distrusted on principle. You move around his kitchen as if you’ve already learned its shape. You lean against the counter and steal bites from the pan. You laugh when he pretends to guard the sauce from you and do not look startled when he laughs back.
After dinner, you help him wash dishes. After dishes, you stand by the open window drinking wine while the city breathes warm and loud below.
“I had a nice time,” you say, glancing at him over the rim of your glass.
His pulse kicks. “Good.”
“I’m serious. For a man who hoards lemons as a manipulation tactic, you clean up pretty well.”
He snorts. “I’ll put that on my dating profile.”
“You should. Honest branding.”
He smiles, and you smile back, and the air between you changes.
It is not sudden. Not violent. Just the slow, unmistakable tightening of a thread.
He sets his glass down first.
You do the same.
When he steps closer, you do not move away.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, because in every life he has ever loved you there has been want in it, but in this one he wants the shape of your yes more than he wants air.
Your eyes go soft. “Please.”
He kisses you carefully at first, because he is not eighteen in a truck anymore and he is not some reckless fool in Vegas with rings in his pocket and a grin too wide for his face. He is a man who has taken years to learn how to touch gently. Who knows what damage carelessness can do.
But then your hand lifts to his cheek and your mouth opens beneath his and the careful part of him turns molten.
The flash hits so hard he breaks the kiss with a gasp.
You are hit by it too. He sees it in the way your pupils blow wide, the way your hand clutches the front of his shirt.
“Oh,” you breathe.
The apartment falls away.
Early nights in white sheets with lace curtains
The room is small and gold with lamplight.
In that life, you have been married for six hours.
Your shoes are by the door. Your veil lies in a pearly heap over the chair back. Somewhere downstairs the last of the wedding guests are still laughing over cake and champagne, but up here the inn is quiet except for the tick of rain against the lace-curtained window and your own uneven breathing.
You stand with your back to Bucky near the bed, fingers trembling where they rest at your throat. The silk of your nightdress skims the backs of your knees. Your wedding band glints like a promise.
He has never seen anything more beautiful.
You are not delicate. Nor candlelight that makes you look like something painted. You are real in all the ways that matter most—nervous and wanting and trying to be brave.
You glance at him over your shoulder, and the vulnerability in your face brings him to his knees faster than reverence ever could.
“We don’t have to,” he says softly.
Your brows draw together. “I want to.”
“I know.” He steps closer, slow enough to stop if you need it. “But I want you to know we don’t have to do anything tonight except be married.”
Something in you loosens. Relief. Love. A tenderness so intense it almost aches to look at.
“I want to be married,” you whisper.
He smiles, cupping your jaw. “You already are.”
“No,” you say, eyes luminous. “I mean like this. Here. With you.” Your breath shakes. “I want tonight.”
He kisses you then, gentle enough to ask, deep enough to answer.
The nightdress slips from your shoulders a little at a time. He learns your skin by lamplight and fingertips, by the soft sounds you make when he touches somewhere that matters, by the way you cling to him when pleasure finally starts to outrun nerves. The white sheets twist around your legs. The lace curtains stir in the open window. Rain cools the room, but your bodies are all heat.
You are not shy for long.
He kisses his way down the column of your throat, your collarbones, the slope of your breast. Your fingers knot in his hair when his mouth finds your nipple and he sucks gently, then harder at the sound that tears from you. By the time he lowers you onto the bed your hair is loose around your shoulders and your face is flushed and he is so hard it hurts.
“Bucky,” you whisper, reaching for him.
“Tell me what you need.”
You laugh softly, dazed with wanting. “You. Obviously.”
He smiles against your mouth, then works two fingers between your thighs and nearly loses his mind at how wet you are for him already. Your hips jerk. Your eyes flutter shut.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “There you go.”
He takes his time because he can. Because there is no war waiting outside this room, no clock to race. Because after the vows and the music and the endless hands grabbing at you all day, he wants this moment to belong only to the two of you. He strokes you until your body learns the shape of pleasure under his hands. He brings you apart once with his fingers, your back arching off the bed, then again with his mouth until you are clutching the sheets and crying his name into the rain-soft dark.
When he finally settles between your thighs, braced on one forearm, your gaze on his is wrecked and certain all at once.
“You still sure?” he asks, voice gone rough as gravel.
You wrap a hand around the back of his neck and pull him down until your foreheads touch. “I have never been more sure of anything.”
He pushes into you slowly, giving you every inch with a care that feels like worship. The stretch of you around him steals the breath from his lungs. Your mouth opens on a gasp. He stills.
“Okay?” he whispers.
You nod, biting your lip. “Move.”
So he does.
Slow at first. Then deeper when your nails dig into his shoulders and you lift to meet him. The bed creaks softly. Rain taps the window. He kisses you whenever your face crumples with feeling, every thrust turning more desperate as your body opens for him. You cling to him, legs wrapped around his hips, whispering his name like a secret you intend to keep forever.
When you come, it is with your mouth against his throat and tears bright at the corners of your eyes.
He follows with his forehead pressed to yours, his whole body shaking with it.
Afterward, you lie tangled in white sheets gone warm and wrinkled around you, the lace curtains stirring like breath. He draws lazy circles over your stomach while you trace the line of his mouth with one sleepy fingertip.
“This counts as a successful wedding night,” you murmur.
He laughs softly. “Good. I was hoping.”
You turn into him, already half asleep. “Anywhere is home,” you whisper, the words blurred at the edges with exhaustion, “if you’re in the bed.”
He never forgets them.
When the memory releases you both, Bucky is still standing in his apartment with his chest heaving and your hands fisted in his shirt.
The kitchen light is too bright. The city outside the window too loud. He can taste you without ever having had you in this life.
Your face is flushed all the way down your neck.
“Well,” you say after a stunned second, voice frayed. “That was wildly inconvenient timing.”
He laughs once, brokenly, because if he does not laugh he might combust.
“You okay?” he asks.
Your gaze lifts to his, honest and heated. “Ask me in five minutes.”
He brushes his knuckles over your cheek, a touch so careful it is almost absurd after what you both just saw. “I mean it.”
“I know.” Your hand slides down to cover his where it rests against your face. “Yeah. I’m okay. A little overwhelmed. A lot turned on. But okay.”
Heat hits him hard and immediate. He closes his eyes for a second.
You laugh softly. “Right. Sorry. That was—”
“Don’t apologize.”
When he opens his eyes again, your expression has gentled. “Bucky.”
He knows what you are asking. Not just whether he wants you. That is almost insultingly obvious. You are asking whether he can separate memory from present. Whether he can stand in this kitchen and want what is in front of him without letting the weight of every before crush what could be now.
He answers by leaning down and resting his forehead against yours.
“I want this,” he says quietly. “But I want our first time in this life to be ours.”
Your breath leaves you in a rush. So does some tightness in his chest he hadn’t fully realized he was carrying.
“Okay,” you whisper.
He kisses you once more, soft and lingering. Then he walks you home because if you stay the night he is not sure either of you will survive your own restraint, and because there is something holy in wanting badly and still choosing patience.
At your door, you touch his wrist before he can step back.
“For the record,” you murmur, eyes warm, “that other us had very good taste.”
He grins helplessly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I get it now.”
Then you kiss him quick and disappear inside with a smile that haunts him for days.
The weeks that follow feel like being built from the inside out.
The flashbacks do not stop, but they become less like ambushes and more like weather—still sudden, still powerful, but no longer catastrophic. A scent, a sound, a patch of light can call one up. Sometimes you text each other in the middle of the workday with fragments: did you remember the red truck in the mountain life had one broken taillight? or I think Bucharest-you stole that robe from the hotel. Sometimes a memory arrives whole when you are together and leaves both of you laughing or aching or red-faced in its wake.
In between, you date.
Real dates. Present-tense ones.
You go to a bookstore in Cobble Hill and accidentally spend two hours arguing about whether people who dog-ear paperbacks can be trusted. You sit in the park eating takeout and watch a wedding party take photos under the arch. You make pasta in your kitchen and burn the garlic because you are too busy kissing against the fridge. You let him meet your friends, who like him immediately and try not to look too smug about it. He tells Sam about you over beers and gets stared at for a full ten seconds before Sam breaks into the kind of grin that means Bucky will never hear the end of this.
And slowly, because slowness is another name for mercy, you get used to the fact of each other.
One night in late July, you fall asleep on Bucky’s couch halfway through a movie. Your head ends up in his lap, your bare feet tucked under his thigh, the credits rolling blue light over the room. He does not move for an hour because the weight of you there feels too precious to disturb.
When you wake, drowsy and disoriented, you blink up at him and smile.
“There you are,” he says before he can stop himself.
The words do something strange to the air.
You sit up slowly, blanket slipping down your shoulders. “What?”
He swallows. “Nothing. I just—”
But then the memory comes, not violent this time. Gentle as smoke.
You see it in each other’s faces as it arrives.
Sleepyhead ’cause all the fucking foxes kept me awake last night
The cabin is barely more than one room and a stubborn prayer.
In that life, winter has a vendetta against you. The land is raw and half-finished around you—trees felled and stacked, fields only partly cleared, the nearest neighbors hours away by horse. Everything aches. Your hands, your backs, your hope.
And still, you build.
By day Bucky swings an axe until his shoulders burn and your tiny patch of earth starts, slowly, to look like something that might feed you come spring. By day you mend, cook, scrub, carry water, keep accounts in a little ledger with cramped neat writing, and somehow still find the energy to laugh when the hen gets loose again and wreaks havoc under the table.
By night you sit by the fire mending his shirts while he carves handles for tools and the baby—your daughter, round-cheeked and solemn—sleeps in a cradle made from wood Bucky planed himself.
It is not easy. God, it is not easy. There are weeks when the roof leaks and the wind gets through the chinks in the walls and your flour goes sour and the loneliness of so much open land makes your chest feel flayed raw. There are days Bucky comes in from the field looking so worn you have to bite the inside of your cheek not to cry.
But there is you. There is him. There is the little sleeping weight of your child and the fire and the bed you built with your own hands.
Sometimes that is enough to make hardship look almost like devotion.
One night in early autumn, the foxes scream outside the cabin so long and loud that neither of you gets any real sleep. By dawn you are cross and bleary-eyed, hair half falling from its braid as you stand over the hearth trying to stir cornmeal mush that refuses to thicken.
“Sleepyhead,” Bucky says softly when he comes up behind you.
You elbow him weakly. “I’ll kill you.”
He laughs into your hair and wraps his arms around your waist anyway, his chin settling on your shoulder. Outside, the new fence leans and the world is still cold and demanding. Inside, his body is warm all along your back.
“We’re doing it,” he murmurs after a while.
You blink at the pot. “Doing what?”
“Building it.” He turns his face into your temple. “A life.”
The words are simple. They hit with the force of revelation.
You tip your head back against his shoulder and close your eyes. In the other room your daughter stirs. The foxes have gone quiet. Morning light pushes pale and stubborn through the little window above the table.
“We are,” you whisper.
He kisses your cheek. “Told you I’d build you something.”
You smile, tired and full to aching. “You built me everything.”
The memory fades with the warm dim glow of Bucky’s living room around you.
You are still on his couch, the television a muted wash of menu screens no one bothered to turn off. For a while neither of you says anything.
Then you reach out and lace your fingers through his.
“That one felt different,” you say.
He nods. “Yeah.”
Not youthful. Not fevered. Not all heat and spark and want. That life had been built plank by plank. Through work. Through weather. Through choosing each other when the choosing was made of practical things—fences, soup, babies, roofs, morning fires.
It lands in him heavier than some of the others. Maybe because recovery has taught him what it means to build anything worth having by hand.
“I liked them,” you say quietly. “That version of us.”
He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “Me too.”
You glance around his apartment then, at the bookshelf he assembled crooked and fixed himself, at the herb pot on the windowsill, at the loaf of bread cooling under a dish towel on the counter.
“You’re doing it too, you know,” you murmur.
He looks at you. “Doing what?”
“Building a life.”
The thing in his chest, scarred and careful and too often braced for loss, goes very still.
You squeeze his hand. “It’s a good one.”
He kisses you then because there is no other answer big enough.
By August, you keep a toothbrush at his place.
By September, there is a sweater of yours folded over the back of one of his dining chairs, two hair ties on his bathroom sink, a half-used bottle of your fancy conditioner in his shower that he is under strict orders not to touch. None of it is dramatic. None of it is announced. The shape of your presence simply grows until it feels absurd to remember the apartment before it.
The flash that takes you next comes in early October, on a rainy Thursday when you duck with him into a jazz bar in the West Village to escape a downpour.
The room is all amber light and low ceilings and cigarette-scarred booths preserved from another era. A singer in a black dress stands by the piano, crooning into a microphone. Bucky goes still before you even make it to the bar.
You know before the memory hits what it will be.
The note hangs in the air.
Then London rushes in.
late nights in black silk in east london
The war has made everything look dimmer around the edges.
Bucky is young in the way only war can make a man young—old enough to be exhausted by it, young enough to still be surprised by beauty. He is stationed overseas for too long in a city stitched with blackout curtains and ration books and the bruise-colored exhaustion of people trying very hard to act as if life is still ordinary.
Then one wet December night, a fellow soldier drags him down a narrow stairwell off an alley in East London and the whole world changes shape.
The club is hidden beneath a tailor’s shop with no sign out front. Music seeps through the floorboards before the door even opens. Inside, the room glows low and gold around the edges, tables crowded close, voices pitched just above the band. Women in silk and men in uniform and civilians with danger in their smiles. Someone is laughing at the bar like the war has never existed. Someone else is dancing with one shoe off.
And there you are.
You should not stick out. You’re not center stage or demanding attention. You’re leaning one hip against the bar in black silk gloves and a slip dress that gleams when you move, listening to the pianist with your head tilted slightly as if you know a secret about the song.
Bucky sees you and forgets how war works.
Maybe he forgets how breathing works too.
“Careful,” his friend mutters, following his line of sight. “That one looks expensive.”
Bucky barely hears him.
When you look over and catch him staring, you smile. Not coy. Curious, amused, entirely too direct. Then you lift your glass in a tiny salute.
He is doomed.
Later, after he has found enough courage or foolishness to cross the room, you tell him your brother runs supplies out of the docks and your mother thinks this place is scandalous and your favorite thing in the world is men who look like they’d fall apart if a woman in black silk talked to them too long.
“I am not falling apart,” he says, already half gone.
You laugh, low and delighted. “No? That’s a shame. You’d be awfully handsome doing it.”
You dance with him before midnight. Then again after. The band slows, the room blurs, and you fit against him so easily it feels less like meeting and more like remembering a step he somehow learned before birth.
Outside, the rain has stopped. The alley smells like wet brick and smoke.
“Are you always this easy?” you ask when he walks you to the corner.
“Only in London.”
“Convenient.”
You stop beneath a streetlamp draped in wartime dimming paint. Your lipstick has worn soft at the edges. His gloves are damp. Somewhere far off, a siren starts and then dies.
“I don’t know how long I’m here,” he says, because war steals the illusion of endless time from a man pretty quick.
You look at him with that same level, fearless steadiness you will carry in every life. “Then don’t waste the nights you’ve got.”
So he doesn’t.
He spends every free hour he can find with you in that black silk East London life. Dancing in hidden clubs. Eating chips from newspaper parcels by the river. Kissing in doorways while the city holds its breath between bombings. Falling in love so fast it would look irresponsible to anyone not living under the same shadow.
On his last night before shipping out again, this time to Bucharest, he finds you in the club after closing, curled barefoot on the stage in your black dress with your knees drawn up, humming to yourself while the pianist smokes by the door.
He sits beside you. The stage creaks.
You do not ask him if he is leaving. You already know.
For a long moment you just lean into him shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the dark.
Then you take his hand and lace your fingers with his as if you have always had the right.
“I hate war,” you say flatly.
“Yeah.”
“I hate that it teaches people to love in a hurry.”
He turns to look at you, but your face is tipped toward the empty room. “Maybe,” he says after a while, “it just teaches people not to waste time pretending they don’t.”
That makes you smile a little, though your eyes shine.
When you finally kiss him, it feels like grief and promise all tangled together.
“I’d have found you anyway,” you whisper against his mouth.
He believes you.
Presently, the jazz bar swims back around you in amber and brass.
Your hand is flat over your heart. Bucky is gripping the edge of the bar hard enough his knuckles ache.
“You were terrifying in that one,” he murmurs.
You blink at him. “Terrifying?”
“You had me done in about twelve seconds.”
Your laugh spills out warm and bright enough to make nearby heads turn. “Good.”
He stares at you, at the woman in front of him and the woman in black silk and the impossible thread between them, and something old in him loosens. That London memory is the first one that brushes directly up against the era he remembers in his bones. The first one that lets him feel, without the cold hand of history around its throat, that he once had youth. Flirtation. A version of himself that existed before damage became the loudest fact in the room.
Later, walking you home under a shared umbrella, he tells you more.
Not everything. Not all at once. But more.
About Brooklyn in the forties. About enlisted men and too much bravado and the way the world sharpened at the edges when war started circling. About the years after, in pieces, with pauses long enough to breathe in between. You listen without interrupting except to ask where it hurts. Not where it happened. Where it hurts. The difference matters so much he nearly stops in the middle of the sidewalk.
At your building, rain dripping from the umbrella’s edges, you cup his face and kiss him like he is something to return to, not something to be rescued.
That night he sleeps six straight hours for the first time in weeks.
The last of the big memories comes in November.
By then, the market has become yours together. Saturday mornings are no longer Bucky’s alone. They are yours in the plural, so natural now he sometimes forgets to be startled by it. Coffee for two. Bread for two. Peaches finally back in season for a heartbeat before the weather turns. Your fingers hooked through one of the canvas bag straps while he carries the heavier side.
At the stall with the glass-bottled lemonades and orange sodas, you reach for a bright neon-orange drink at the same time he does.
The glass knocks against his ring finger.
Sunlight slams through him.
Neon orange drinks on the beach
Salt lives in the walls of that house.
Here, you and Bucky live in a little coastal town where everyone knows everybody’s business and no one minds much as long as you bring enough food to the potluck. The house is white clapboard with a porch swing and chipped blue shutters. Sand collects in the doorway no matter how often you sweep. Wind rattles the windows in winter and smells like sunscreen in summer.
You have children in that life. Three of them.
A girl with your laugh and Bucky’s serious eyes. A boy who climbs everything he’s told not to. A baby still soft at the wrists who rides your hip with one fist full of your shirt.
The beach is five minutes from your front door. On hot afternoons you walk there loaded like pack animals—blankets, towels, snacks, toys, a cooler that bumps against Bucky’s leg every other step, the toddler already whining for the ocean before you’ve even crossed the dune grass.
It is a beautiful chaos. Your favorite kind.
The day memory gives you is bright enough to ache.
The sky is clear blue from edge to edge. Your youngest is asleep under the shade tent with one plump foot sticking free of the blanket. Your son is digging a moat around a sandcastle with all the focus of a man handling explosives. Your daughter, solemn with purpose, is handing Bucky shell fragments one by one so he can decorate the towers properly.
“No, Daddy,” she says with immense patience. “That one goes there.”
Bucky, thirty-something and sun-browned and already half buried in sand because the children have no respect for rank, nods gravely. “My mistake.”
You come down from the boardwalk carrying a tray of neon-orange lemonades in plastic cups, ice clinking. Condensation slicks your fingers. The sun catches on the rims of the cups until they glow like tiny lanterns.
Bucky looks up when your shadow falls across the sand.
Even after years, even with sunscreen on your nose and beach hair whipping your cheeks, he looks at you like there has never been anyone else worth the trouble of sight.
“You’re my favorite person,” he says as you hand him a drink.
You arch a brow. “Even over the tiny tyrants?”
“Depends. Are they giving me lemonade?”
Your daughter takes her cup in both hands and squints up at you. “Mama, Daddy made the castle wrong.”
You laugh. “I’m shocked.”
“It was sabotage,” Bucky says.
The children shout over each other. The baby wakes and starts fussing. A gull swoops dangerously low near the pretzel bag. The tide inches closer. Everything is loud and sandy and sticky and imperfect.
It is paradise.
Later, when the children are collapsing in a sugar crash on towels striped green and white, Bucky stretches out beside you and tugs you down until your head rests on his chest. The ocean hisses and folds itself a few yards away.
“You think,” he says after a while, fingers combing absently through your damp hair, “we’ll ever get tired of this?”
You tip your face up. “The beach?”
“This.”
The life. The family. The ordinary miracle of it.
You can feel the answer in him before he says it. In the steady beat under your ear. In the salt-warmed skin of him. In the children making sleepy, disgruntled sounds nearby because even paradise requires snacks and naps and somebody always getting sunscreen in their eye.
“No,” you say softly. “I don’t think so.”
His mouth brushes your forehead. “Good.”
Because in every lifetime, it turns out, what the two of you build is not grandeur.
It is a table. A bed. A road. A cabin. A dance floor. A beach towel in the sun. A thousand tiny places where love gets to put its shoes by the door and stay awhile.
When the memory loosens its grip, you are back at the market with cold glass sweating in your hand.
You are crying.
So is Bucky, though he only realizes it when you reach up and wipe at his cheek with your thumb.
“That one was rude,” you say thickly.
He laughs through the ache in his throat. “Yeah.”
It isn’t the children, not really. Though that got him. It’s the ordinariness of it. The ease. The way love in that life had settled into the bones of things so thoroughly that joy looked almost plain. A beach day. Lemonade. Sand. A family.
A future.
You look at him with tears still bright in your eyes. “Do you ever think maybe that’s why it keeps happening?”
“What?”
“Us.” You glance down at the bottle in your hand, the impossible orange brightness of it. “Not because we’re destined in some giant dramatic way. Maybe just because every time the universe throws us somewhere new, we keep making the same choice.”
The market blurs around the edges.
Bucky takes the bottle from your hand and sets both your drinks down on the stall so he can hold your face in both palms.
“I think,” he says, voice low and unsteady, “that no matter where I find you, you keep teaching me that a life doesn’t have to be extraordinary to matter.”
You inhale sharply.
He goes on because he has spent too much of his existence losing time, losing names, losing chances to say what needed saying. Because he will not waste this one.
“I loved you in a chapel with a plastic sign. In a truck on back roads. In a bed with lace curtains. In a cabin when we had almost nothing. In London when the whole world was on fire. On a beach with kids climbing all over me and sand in places there should never be sand.” Your mouth trembles around a laugh. His thumbs catch the tears on your cheeks. “And every time, it wasn’t because things were perfect. It was because it was you.”
Your hand covers one of his. “Bucky—”
“In this life,” he says, holding your gaze, “I don’t care what fate says. I don’t care what we were before unless it helps me be better to you now. I just…” He exhales, helpless in it. “I just know I am more myself when you’re in the room. And I want to keep choosing that. For however long I get.”
Something breaks open in your face.
Then you are kissing him in the middle of the farmer’s market, November wind cold around your ears and strangers surely staring and lemons probably within a three-yard radius somehow, and Bucky does not care about any of it.
When you finally pull back, you rest your forehead to his and laugh wetly.
“You took forever to say that,” you whisper.
He blinks. “I did?”
“Yes.” You kiss him once, quick and smiling. “It’s okay. I was going to let you.”
That night you come home with him.
Home, because that is what it is now no matter how recently he learned to say it.
The apartment smells like the rosemary chicken you cooked together and the bread he baked that morning and the cold air that followed you in when he opened the door. Your overnight bag sits by the couch. Your laughter is still in the walls from where you nearly dropped the oranges while making cocktails because he kissed your neck and ruined your concentration on purpose.
There are no visions this time.
No past lives pouring through the cracks.
Just the two of you in the warm gold hush of his bedroom, lamplight soft on the sheets, your sweater slipping from one shoulder as you sit on the edge of the mattress and look up at him.
“This is ours,” you say quietly.
He nods. “Yeah.”
You reach for him.
The first time you make love in this life is not a reenactment of any before. There are echoes, maybe. The same reverence. The same hunger braided with tenderness. But this is its own living thing, shaped by who you are now—older in different ways, scarred in different places, more careful and more certain all at once.
He undresses you slowly, like unwrapping something he intends to keep. You do the same for him, kissing each mark on his body as if introducing yourself to every chapter. When your fingers brush the long scars at his shoulder and side, you do not hesitate. You just look at him for permission and then kiss them too.
His throat goes tight.
On the bed, he takes his time. He is afraid this time, rather he wants to feel every second of being chosen with full knowledge. Your skin under his mouth. Your breath hitching when he drags his thumb over your clit. The way you smile against his lips when he says your name like a marvel. He works you open with his hands first, then his mouth, until you are clutching the sheets and half laughing, half sobbing because pleasure in this body, in this life, feels new and familiar all at once.
“Bucky,” you whisper when he comes back up over you, eyes dark and wrecked.
“I’ve got you.”
You nod, hands framing his face. “I know.”
When he pushes into you, slow and careful, your mouths are open against each other. He feels your body welcome him in inch by inch, feels your legs tighten around his hips, feels the tremor that runs through you when he finally settles deep. It is overwhelming in the simplest way. Not because of memory. Because of presence. Because you are here. Because he is too.
He moves. You move with him.
Outside, the city keeps being itself. A siren in the distance. Somebody laughing on the street. Heat clanking faintly through old pipes. Inside, his bedroom narrows to breath and skin and the soft wreck of your voice. You scratch lightly through his hair and murmur yes against his mouth and he nearly comes from the sound alone. He holds himself back long enough to watch the exact moment pleasure overtakes you, the way your eyes go bright and your body arches up into his with a cry he feels all the way to his ribs.
He follows soon after, buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, your names tangled together in the dark.
Afterward you lie under the sheets while the room cools around you. Your head rests on his chest. His hand drifts up and down your bare spine. The curtains are plain cotton, not lace. The sheets are soft gray, not white. The city outside is Brooklyn and not some inn in another century. It does not matter.
You draw lazy circles over his sternum.
“You know,” you murmur sleepily, “I think I liked every version of you.”
His fingers still for a second. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You tilt your chin to look at him. “But this one might be my favorite.”
Emotion catches him so hard it almost hurts.
He bends and kisses your forehead because if he tries to speak right then, he will probably embarrass himself beyond repair.
Months later, when winter gives way to spring and then, at last, to summer again, Saturday morning finds the two of you at the farmer’s market under the same green-striped awnings where everything began.
Bucky has two coffees in a cardboard carrier. You have a bouquet of sunflowers tucked under one arm. The bread guy waves. The peach stand is finally, gloriously in season. The lemon vendor clocks you both and grins like he has been expecting to see how this turns out.
“Need a bag today?” he asks.
You glance at Bucky. Bucky glances at you.
Then, smiling, you both reach for the same lemon on purpose.
No flash comes.
There is no need.
Your fingers lace together instead, easy as breath.
The square is bright with morning. The violinist by the fountain is playing something warm and sweet. Coffee steams between you. Peaches perfume the air. Beside you, your soulmate—your chosen person, your present-tense miracle—squeezes your hand.
And because love, in the end, is often this simple, you walk the market together like you have done it all your life.
Maybe you have.
Maybe you will again.
Either way, the peaches are ripe, the bread is warm, and Bucky Barnes is laughing at something you said with his whole face open to the sun.
It is not a dramatic ending.
It is better.
It is a life.
And every ordinary second of it feels, impossibly, like falling in love again and again.
Series Summary: Some wounds don’t bleed. They just teach you how to disappear. Before being adopted, you learned early that love had rules: don’t ask, don’t need, don’t take up space. Bucky – your brother in everything but blood – was the only exception. Now you’re an adult, brilliant, controlled, almost untouchable… until one dinner shatters the fragile balance.
Wordcount: 11.3k
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, mentions of past Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of Y/N), Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff
Warnings: childhood trauma, adoption trauma, abandonment issues, orphanage abuse, corporal punishment mentioned, religious trauma-adjacent themes, emotional self-hatred, shame, suicidal ideation / one moment of passive suicidal thought, complicated family dynamics, raised-as-siblings but not blood-related romantic tension, implied non-explicit underage intimacy in the past, emotional aftermath of sex, verbal cruelty, heartbreak, therapy, healing, reconciliation. See the whole exhaustive list on the masterlist post.
A/N: Gentle reminder that this series is heavy on trauma so I beg you to read the whole list of warning on the masterpost. I won't tolerate any complaints about not being warned of something. Beta read by Cassie (@blobfishlol ) as always.
I want to thank you all a lot for the engagement with this story. It means a lot to me.
Masterlist - Series Masterlist - Prev- Next
The next morning in New York, Bucky didn’t go straight to your apartment.
He couldn’t.
Not with Steve’s words still ringing in his head. Do it right. Don’t leave her in limbo. Not with the sour taste of cowardice still sitting on his tongue, the knowledge that every day he waited was another day he was letting someone else pay the price for his inability to face what he’d done.
So he went to Natasha.
Her building was the kind of place that tried to look casual about money – clean lobby, polished brass, a doorman who pretended not to notice who came and went. Bucky’s hands were cold by the time the elevator reached her floor. He had rehearsed the first sentence in his head a dozen times and none of them sounded like something a decent person would say.
He knocked anyway.
Natasha opened the door in sweatpants and a T-shirt, hair still damp, mug of coffee in hand. For half a second, her face softened with the familiar sight of him – automatic affection, the assumption of normal.
Then she saw him properly.
The exhaustion. The way he stood like he didn’t know where to put his body.
Her expression sharpened immediately.
“What happened?” she asked, voice already guarded. “And don’t tell me it’s nothing.”
Bucky swallowed hard. “Can I come in?”
Natasha hesitated, then stepped aside.
Her apartment smelled like clean laundry and eucalyptus cleaner, like a life that ran on routines and sharp edges. Everything had a place. Everything made sense. That used to comfort him.
Today it felt like an accusation.
Natasha closed the door behind him. “Okay,” she said, setting her mug down on the counter with deliberate care. “Talk.”
Bucky stared at the floor for a moment, then forced himself to lift his eyes.
“I need to end this,” he said.
The words landed like a slap.
Natasha blinked once. Twice. “What?”
Bucky’s throat tightened. “I can’t– I can’t keep doing this. It’s not fair to you.”
Her face went still in that dangerous way – too calm, too controlled. “You’re breaking up with me,” she said flatly, as if naming it would make it less ridiculous.
“Yes.”
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then Natasha’s expression fractured – anger and hurt flashing through in equal measure, her composure cracking at the edges.
“You don’t get to just walk in here and say that,” she snapped, voice rising. “Not after two years. Not after everything we’ve–”
“I know,” Bucky said, too quickly, too raw. “I know.”
Natasha let out a short, sharp laugh that held no humor. “You know?” Her eyes were already wet, but the tears didn’t soften her. They sharpened her. “Do you? Because you’ve been distant for weeks, and now you show up with a bruise on your face and decide you’re done?”
Bucky flinched. “It’s not–”
“Oh, it’s not what?” Natasha cut in, stepping closer, hands curling into fists at her sides. “Not sudden? Not cruel? Not exactly the thing you always do when you can’t handle your own feelings– pull away, shut down, pretend it’s about ‘fairness’ so you don’t have to admit you’re leaving because there’s someone else?”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. His eyes burned.
Natasha saw it.
And because she was Natasha – because she was terrifyingly perceptive even when she didn’t want to be – she followed the thread.
“Is it her?” she demanded.
Bucky didn’t answer fast enough.
Natasha’s face twisted, like the confirmation physically hurt. “Of course,” she breathed, and the tears finally spilled. “Of course it’s her.”
“It’s not like that,” Bucky insisted, voice breaking. “I didn’t– I didn’t cheat on you.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Natasha shot back, stepping even closer now. Her voice cracked on the next words. “I asked if it’s her.”
Bucky swallowed hard, shame heavy in his chest like a stone.
“Yes,” he admitted, barely audible. “It’s… it’s always been her.”
The air between them went tight, electric.
Natasha’s eyes widened, hurt turning instantly into rage. She slapped him.
“You asshole,” she whispered, and then the whisper broke into a shout. “Do you have any idea what you did to me? Two years– two years of me trying to build something with you while you were– what? Practicing? Pretending?”
“I wasn’t pretending,” Bucky said, voice hoarse. “I cared about you. I do care about you.”
Natasha let out a sob that sounded like a laugh. “Caring is not love, Barnes.”
Bucky’s hands flexed helplessly. “I tried. I tried to make it– normal. I tried to want the right things.”
Natasha’s mouth trembled, and for a moment her anger faltered, revealing the devastation underneath. “And I was the right thing,” she said softly, like she couldn’t quite believe she was saying it. “I was the safe choice you could hold without getting burned.”
Bucky couldn’t look at her.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Natasha wiped her cheeks violently, furious at her own tears. “Don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t say you’re sorry like it fixes anything.”
Bucky took a shaky breath. “I know it doesn’t.”
Natasha stared at him, chest heaving, eyes bright and red. For a moment, it looked like she might hit him again.
Then she did something worse.
She stepped back as if he’d become untouchable.
“Get out,” she said, voice low and shaking. “Get out of my apartment.”
Bucky didn’t move immediately. Not because he wanted to argue – because leaving felt like adding another cruelty on top of the ones he’d already done.
Natasha’s voice rose again, raw now. “Get out!”
Bucky nodded once, throat tight. He reached for the door, fingers clumsy.
As he opened it, Natasha threw the words after him like knives.
“I hope she never comes back,” she cried, voice breaking. “I hope you live with what you did.”
Bucky froze in the doorway for half a second.
Then he left.
He didn’t slam the door. He didn’t have the energy for drama.
But when the door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoed in his chest like a verdict.
When Bucky met Steve outside your building later, Steve took one look at him and exhaled through his nose.
“Thought I told you not to make a habit of getting hit,” Steve said.
Bucky’s mouth twitched, the closest thing to a smile he could manage. His cheek was red again – different side this time, faint swelling at the edge of his jaw.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
Steve’s brows lifted. “Natasha?”
Bucky swallowed. “I broke up with her.”
Steve didn’t react immediately. He just stared, like he needed to make sure Bucky wasn’t lying, wasn’t postponing the truth again.
Then he stepped aside toward the entrance.
A silence stretched between them as they went up the stairs – thick, heavy, but not hostile. Steve didn’t fill it. Steve knew when words would only make things worse.
At your door, Steve unlocked it with the key Bucky had given him, pushing it open slowly.
Bucky hesitated on the threshold.
The apartment smelled stale – closed up, unoccupied. Not dirty, exactly, but like a space that hadn’t been lived in for too long. The air had that faint, trapped quality, as if it had been holding its breath since the moment you left.
Bucky stepped in, eyes scanning automatically, instinctively looking for signs of you – your shoes by the door, your bag on the chair, a sweater thrown over the armrest.
Nothing.
And then he saw it.
In the entryway, on the wooden console table, the frame that should have been hanging on the wall was lying flat – placed with deliberate care.
Face-down.
The photograph of you and him pressed against the wood as if it had been too painful to look at, but too meaningful to throw away.
Bucky stopped so abruptly Steve nearly bumped into him.
His throat tightened, hard and immediate, like someone had reached inside him and wrapped a fist around his windpipe.
He stared at the frame, unable to move.
Because the message was clear in the simplest, cruelest way.
You hadn’t destroyed it.
You hadn’t smashed it in anger.
You had just… turned it away.
As if you couldn’t bear the sight of him anymore.
Steve opened his mouth like he was going to say something – something gentle, something careful, the kind of words he’d been rehearsing in his head for weeks. His hand even lifted slightly, as if he might reach for Bucky’s shoulder.
Bucky stopped him with a small shake of his head.
Not sharp. Not angry. Just… final.
“No,” he rasped, staring at the frame on the console table as if it might suddenly turn itself back over. “Don’t.”
Steve’s hand fell back to his side.
For a second, they just stood there in the entryway, the apartment quiet around them. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel peaceful – it felt like it was listening. Like every wall had absorbed the echo of your footsteps leaving and was waiting to see if you’d ever come back.
Bucky swallowed hard and forced his body to move.
He stepped past the entryway without touching anything. Without even looking at the frame again. Because if he did, he wasn’t sure he’d keep breathing.
“Let’s just… do it,” he said, voice low.
Steve nodded once, understanding without asking what it meant. Because they both knew. Cleaning wasn’t about dust. It wasn’t even really about you finding the place neat when you returned.
It was about giving their hands something to do so their minds didn’t destroy them.
They fell into a rhythm almost immediately.
Steve went for the kitchen first, sleeves rolled up, moving with the familiar efficiency of someone who’d spent years making small spaces livable. He opened the trash can, tied the bag, and set it by the door without comment. He gathered stray cups and plates and moved them toward the sink. The clink of ceramic against stainless steel sounded too loud in the quiet apartment.
Bucky grabbed the vacuum.
He didn’t wonder where you kept it. He already knew. He hated that he knew.
The cord slid out with a soft hiss as he pulled it, the plastic wheels bumping lightly against the hardwood as he dragged it into the living room. He pressed the button.
The sudden roar of the motor filled the space, blessedly drowning out the silence.
He started with the rug, pushing the vacuum in slow, deliberate lines like the pattern mattered. Like if he did it neatly enough, if he did it properly enough, he could erase the imprint of that night. The path from the couch to the door. The invisible trail of your pain.
Steve moved through the kitchen, opening cabinets, checking expiration dates. He didn’t ask first. He didn’t need to. He knew you’d hate wasted food, hate mess, hate the idea that something in your life might rot quietly in the background while you were gone.
He pulled out containers from the fridge one by one. Leftovers gone too long. Milk that had soured. A tub of hummus that had turned into something unrecognizable.
He held each item for a moment, reading the dates like they mattered, then tossed them in the trash with a grim, steady motion.
The smell hit him when he opened the produce drawer – faint, sweet rot. He grimaced and muttered something under his breath, then cleaned it out quickly, wiping down the plastic with paper towels and disinfectant from under the sink.
Bucky stayed out of the kitchen entirely.
Not because he didn’t want to help.
Because it felt too intimate. Because the kitchen was where you used to lean against the counter and talk while he pretended he wasn’t watching you. Because it was where you’d sat at your little table with Pietro and Wanda and Steve, laughing softly, alive.
He focused on the floors. The corners. The baseboards.
He moved to the hallway, vacuuming carefully along the edges, picking up little bits of lint and hair and the evidence of life.
He did not go into your bedroom.
He didn’t even let his gaze drift toward the door.
The bedroom was a line he couldn’t cross.
Not today.
Steve noticed.
Of course he did.
Steve didn’t say anything about it. He just finished wiping down the kitchen counters, rinsed the dishes that had been sitting in the sink, loaded them into your dishwasher with quiet efficiency. He ran water over a sponge, scrubbed a stubborn ring out of a mug, then set it carefully in the drying rack.
Then he walked down the hall and paused in front of your bedroom door.
He looked back once, checking Bucky’s position – still in the living room now, vacuuming the same strip of carpet for the second time like he needed the repetition.
Steve pushed the bedroom door open.
The room smelled like you. Or at least it had. Now it smelled like closed air, like fabric that hadn’t moved in weeks. The bed was made, but not tightly. The sheets had a faint crease where you must have sat before leaving. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in a narrow band of daylight that cut across the comforter.
Steve swallowed hard and forced himself to focus.
He stripped the bed quickly, gathering the sheets and pillowcases, folding them into a neat bundle the way you would have. He didn’t linger over the small things – the indentation of your head in the pillow, the way your side of the bed seemed… untouched.
He carried the linens to the laundry hamper, replaced them with clean sheets from your closet, and remade the bed with crisp precision.
Tight corners.
Smooth surface.
A bed that looked ready for someone to come home.
When Steve stepped back into the hallway, he pulled the door closed quietly behind him.
Bucky was still vacuuming.
The sound of the motor filled the apartment, but it couldn’t fill the hole you’d left.
After an hour, maybe two, they were done.
Trash bags by the door. Counters wiped clean. Floors vacuumed. The fridge cleared of anything expired. The apartment didn’t feel lived-in anymore – it felt paused. Like a set waiting for its lead actor to return.
Steve turned off the last light in the living room and stood near the entryway, hands on his hips, surveying the space like he was checking for mistakes.
Bucky unplugged the vacuum and wound the cord around its hooks with meticulous care.
Then he stood there, staring at the hallway.
At the closed bedroom door.
At the frame still lying face-down on the entry table.
His chest tightened again, that familiar constriction.
He couldn’t stay.
Even clean, even orderly, the apartment felt wrong without you. Like a body without a heartbeat. Like a place that had been designed for your presence and was now haunted by the shape of it.
“I can’t,” he said quietly.
Steve looked at him. “Yeah,” he answered, because there was no point pretending otherwise. “I know.”
Bucky grabbed his jacket, hands shaking slightly as he shoved his arms into the sleeves. He didn’t look around again. Didn’t let himself take in any details that might anchor him here.
He headed for the door like it was a lifeline.
Because staying would have meant facing the absence head-on.
And right now, he could barely survive it from the edge.
Bucky asked Steve to keep your spare key.
He did it right outside your apartment door, fingers still smelling faintly of lemon cleaner and dust, eyes fixed on the lock as if he could will it to open for you instead of for them.
“Keep it,” he said, voice low.
Steve held the keyring up between two fingers, brows knitting slightly. “Bucky–”
“Please,” Bucky cut in, the word rawer than he meant it to be. He swallowed, jaw flexing. “Just… keep it. So I don’t do something stupid.”
Steve looked at him for a long moment, understanding settling in. The key wasn’t about access. It was about restraint. About boundaries Bucky didn’t trust himself to hold if panic hit again.
“Okay,” Steve said finally, and slipped it into his pocket. “I’ve got it.”
Bucky nodded once – gratitude without the softness.
Neither of them spoke about the frame in the entryway. About the face-down photograph. About the way the apartment had felt like a held breath.
They just left.
In the hallway, their footsteps echoed quietly. In the street, the city swallowed them whole like it always did.
And then they split, each heading back to their own place with the same heaviness sitting in their chests in different shapes.
Steve’s apartment was dim when he got home.
He hung his jacket on the same hook he always used, kicked off his shoes by the door, and stood there for a moment too long – still hearing the hum of the vacuum in his head, still seeing the too-clean counters in your kitchen, the bed remade tight and crisp like you might walk in at any second.
He sat on the couch without turning on the lights.
The room around him was quiet, familiar, and yet his mind kept drifting back to you. To the way you used to sit on that same couch, knees tucked under you, mug in hand, teasing him for his terrible taste in late-night documentaries. To the way you’d always pretended you were fine – even when he could tell you weren’t.
His phone was on the coffee table.
Steve stared at it for a few seconds, thumb hovering. He didn’t want to intrude. He didn’t want to be another missed call, another pressure, another voice demanding something from you.
But he also couldn’t do nothing.
So he picked it up and typed.
Not a speech. Not a plea. Just the truth, in the simplest words he could manage.
Hey.
We went to your apartment today. We didn’t go through anything personal. We just cleaned – dust, trash, kitchen, that kind of stuff. I changed your sheets.
I’m holding onto your spare key so Bucky doesn't have it around.
I miss you.
I hope you’re okay. I hope you found what you were looking for.
He read it once.
Twice.
Then, before he could overthink it, he hit send.
The message disappeared into the void of silence you’d created, and Steve set the phone down like it might burn him. He leaned back, closing his eyes, letting the quiet settle around him again.
It didn’t feel like relief.
It felt like waiting.
Bucky went home and immediately regretted it.
Not because his apartment was unpleasant, but because it was his – because it held him too well, because it was full of reminders he couldn’t outrun. The bowl of green apples by the window. The candle stub still on the table. The faint lingering smell of garlic that had never truly left since that night, as if the place itself refused to forget.
He didn’t turn on the TV.
He didn’t eat.
He went into his bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together like he was trying to keep himself from falling apart. His face still ached – Natasha’s nails had caught his jaw during the breakup, the fight turning ugly and loud and raw. His mother’s slap still burned in memory more than skin.
But none of it hurt like the thought of you.
The thought of you on that bridge.
The thought of you alone in a hotel room for days, sleeping like your body was shutting down to survive.
The thought of you believing – because of him – that you were unwanted.
Bucky picked up his phone and unlocked it.
He opened your contact and stared at your name until his eyes blurred.
He didn’t call.
He didn’t have the right to call.
So he wrote.
At first, it was just one sentence.
Then another.
Then the words started coming out like blood finally finding air.
I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry.
I don’t know if you’ll read this, but I need you to hear it anyway.
He paused, swallowed hard, and kept going.
I didn’t mean what I said. I didn’t believe it. Not then, not ever.
I was hurt and angry and scared and I lashed out in the worst way. I said the cruelest thing I could think of because it felt easier than admitting what I was actually feeling.
His thumbs shook. He had to stop and wipe at his eyes with the heel of his hand, breathing through the tightness in his throat.
I know I can’t take those words back. I know saying sorry doesn’t erase them.
I just need you to know that I hate myself for it. I hate that I put that poison in your head.
You are not empty. You are not unlovable. You never were.
He stared at the screen for a long moment, chest heaving, then forced himself to write the next part.
Because you deserved the truth – even if you never spoke to him again.
I ended things with Natasha today.
I’m not telling you that because I expect anything from you. I’m not telling you so you’ll come back or forgive me or… anything.
I’m telling you because you deserve honesty from me, for once.
He swallowed hard, blinking rapidly.
I love you.
I don’t know when it started. I think it’s been there longer than I’ve been willing to admit. Maybe always.
I told Mom and Dad. I told them the truth about how I feel.
The words looked too big on the screen. Too naked.
He kept going anyway.
Steve and I cleaned your apartment today. We didn’t go through your stuff. We just… cleaned.
Your picture…
I saw it.
I understand. I do.
His breath hitched painfully.
I’m glad you found your dad. I’m glad he accepted you. I’m glad you got an answer that isn’t pain.
I’m glad I was wrong.
And then, after everything else, after the apologies and confessions and truths he should have said years ago, he typed the simplest line.
The one that had been sitting in his chest like a bruise for weeks.
I miss you.
Bucky stared at the message until the letters blurred.
His thumb hovered over the send button.
He didn’t know if you’d ever read it. Didn’t know if it would land like comfort or like another intrusion. But the words were already written, already real. Keeping them locked inside him felt like another form of cowardice.
So he closed his eyes and pressed send.
The message whooshed away.
Bucky sat on the edge of his bed in the dim light of his phone screen, staring at nothing, breathing through the ache of missing you – knowing that loving you didn’t mean he was owed anything in return.
Only that you deserved the truth.
Finally.
After a full day of work – real work, the kind that made your brain ache in a satisfying way – you finally closed your laptop and leaned back in the hotel chair, rolling your shoulders until something in your neck popped.
Pietro was sprawled on the other bed with his own phone and calendar open, rescheduling patients with the kind of apologetic efficiency only a psychologist could manage. His voice had been gentle all afternoon, low and steady as he moved appointments and reassured people that yes, he was fine, yes, it was temporary, yes, he’d call them back.
When he hung up the last call, he exhaled long and dramatic and threw his phone onto the pillow like it had personally offended him.
“I hate being responsible,” he announced.
You snorted softly, rubbing your eyes. “Liar.”
He sat up, stretched, then glanced at you with a faint smile that softened almost immediately into something more thoughtful.
“Let’s get out,” he said. “You’ve been staring at your thesis like it’s going to confess something if you glare hard enough.”
You hesitated for half a second – habit, instinct – but then you nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
Outside, Miami was still warm even as evening fell. The air smelled like salt and sunscreen that refused to leave people’s skin, like restaurants and street food and humid pavement cooling down. You and Pietro walked without a real destination, letting the city carry you the way New York used to, except this time there was space around you. Less noise. Different energy.
Pietro walked with his hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, eyes moving constantly the way they always did – reading, assessing, cataloguing.
After a few blocks, he muttered, “Everything feels weird.”
You glanced at him. “Weird how?”
He gestured vaguely at… everything. The palm trees. The open sky. The way the light hit buildings. The fact that people didn’t look like they were always rushing toward the next thing with their teeth clenched.
“Like the city is on vacation,” he said. “Like it doesn’t know what urgency is.”
You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “It’s just not New York.”
Pietro’s eyes flicked to you. “Yeah.”
You kept walking, your steps matching his. “It’s different,” you added softly.
Not better.
Not worse.
Just different enough that your body didn’t keep waiting for the next hit.
Later, back at the hotel, you stared at the new phone on the nightstand for a few seconds before finally picking it up.
Your thumb hovered over Tony’s contact.
The fear wasn’t the same as before – not the fear of rejection – but something else. The fear of accepting. Of letting something good exist without immediately bracing for it to be taken away.
Pietro didn’t pressure you. He just watched you quietly from the edge of his bed, expression calm and encouraging.
You hit call.
Tony answered on the second ring.
“Hey,” he said immediately, like he’d been hoping it would be you. “You okay?”
You felt your throat tighten a little. “Yeah. I’m… yeah. I wanted to ask something.”
“Anything.”
You exhaled slowly. “My best friend is here.”
A beat. “Okay.”
“He flew down,” you added, as if you needed to justify it. “He’s… he’s my person.”
Tony’s tone warmed instantly. “Then I definitely want to meet him.”
You blinked. “Really? I mean– I know you’re busy.”
“I’m not too busy for you,” he said, like it was obvious. Like it was a fact of physics. “When do you want to do it?”
There was a pause on your end, and then you admitted, quietly, “Tonight? If that’s not insane.”
Tony chuckled. “It’s only insane if you don’t like dinner.”
Pietro raised his brows at you when you lowered the phone, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard.
You shrugged, a little helpless. “He just… makes space.”
“Hmm,” Pietro hummed, as if filing that away for future judgment. “We’ll see.”
Tony’s house – because of course it was a house and not just an apartment – wasn’t ostentatious the way you’d expected it might be. It was elegant, modern, warm in that curated way that still felt lived-in. Lights glowed softly through large windows. The air smelled like something rich and comforting – garlic and herbs and roasting meat.
Maria greeted you both at the door as if she’d been waiting with her whole heart.
She kissed your cheek, then turned to Pietro with a polite smile that immediately became something more once she looked him in the eye – recognition of importance.
“You must be Pietro,” she said.
Pietro straightened slightly, the way he always did when he met someone he respected. “Yes, ma’am.”
Maria’s smile widened. “Oh, I like you already.”
Pietro flashed his most charming grin. “Most people do.”
You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest was unmistakable.
Tony appeared behind his mother with two glasses of wine in hand, scanning Pietro with open curiosity. His gaze flicked from Pietro to you and back again, clearly trying to map the dynamic.
“You’re… Pietro,” Tony said, offering his hand.
Pietro shook it firmly. “That’s me.”
Tony’s eyes narrowed slightly in amused confusion. “I was expecting…” He stopped himself, then laughed at his own assumption. “Okay, so– my bad. I don’t know why my brain decided best friend meant woman before hearing masculine pronouns.”
Pietro deadpanned. “It’s the hair.”
Tony barked a laugh, genuinely entertained. “Fair.”
Dinner was… surprisingly normal.
Not normal in the sense that this wasn’t your billionaire genius father’s dining room with your grandmother and your best friend, because that was objectively insane. But normal in the sense that the conversation flowed easily. Maria asked Pietro about his work. Pietro explained psychology in a way that made Maria ask more questions, genuinely engaged. Tony kept throwing little comments in, snark and warmth braided together, as if he couldn’t help testing the edges of the room to make sure everyone was comfortable.
You found yourself sitting beside Maria, talking with her as if you’d known her longer than a few days.
She asked about your thesis again – more specifically this time, because she remembered what you’d said at lunch. She asked about your childhood in Brooklyn, about the museum you’d loved as a kid, about whether you still liked the same kinds of books.
It felt like being gently examined – not for flaws, but for familiarity. Like she was trying to place you into her life without forcing you to fit.
At some point, Tony pushed his chair back and nodded at Pietro. “Come on. Drink?”
Pietro stood, shooting you a brief glance – You okay? – and you nodded.
They moved a few steps away, toward a sideboard with whiskey bottles lined up like trophies. You stayed with Maria, but you couldn’t help watching them from the corner of your eye.
Tony poured. Pietro declined at first, then accepted a small amount with a shrug. They stood facing each other, two very different kinds of dangerous – one sharp with intellect, one sharp with instinct.
Pietro didn’t waste time.
He took one sip, then looked Tony straight in the eye and said, casually, like he was asking about the weather, “If you hurt her, I will ruin you.”
Tony blinked.
Then, instead of scoffing, he laughed once – soft and surprised. “Okay.”
Pietro didn’t smile. He held Tony’s gaze, unwavering.
“I’m serious,” Pietro added, voice low. “I don’t care who you are. I don’t care what you can buy. If she ends up destroyed again, I’ll make it my life’s work to make sure you regret waking up every morning.”
There was a beat of silence.
Tony’s laughter faded, not into anger, but into something attentive. He studied Pietro like he was recognizing something – something familiar and deeply important.
Then Tony nodded slowly.
“Good,” Tony said, and there was no sarcasm in it. “Good. She needs someone like that.”
Pietro’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if he hadn’t expected that answer.
Tony took another sip of his drink, then set the glass down with deliberate care.
“I’m not going to hurt her,” he said quietly. “But I appreciate you telling me what the stakes are.”
Pietro’s posture eased by a fraction. “You’d be surprised how many people don’t take the stakes seriously.”
Tony’s mouth twisted. “I take them seriously.”
He glanced over Pietro’s shoulder toward you for half a second, expression softening in a way that looked almost painful.
“She’s my kid,” Tony said simply. “That makes her my priority. Not my accessory.”
Pietro watched him for a long moment, then gave a small, reluctant nod – approval, not trust earned yet, but trust possible.
“Alright,” Pietro said. “We’ll see.”
Tony snorted. “Yeah. I figured you’d say that.”
They returned to the table a minute later, both of them wearing faces that were a little too neutral, a little too composed.
Maria glanced between them with knowing eyes.
You raised a brow at Pietro silently.
Pietro didn’t answer out loud.
He just reached for his fork and said, far too casually, “Dinner’s great.”
Tony sipped his wine and added, equally casual, “Glad you think so.”
And you sat there between Maria’s warmth and Pietro’s presence and Tony’s steady, determined attention, realizing – slowly – that this wasn’t just a moment of comfort.
It was the beginning of something that might actually hold.
By the time dessert arrived, you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to sit at a table without bracing.
Not completely – your body didn’t forget that easily – but enough that you found yourself answering Maria’s questions without rehearsing every sentence three times in your head. Enough that you tasted the food instead of swallowing around a knot. Enough that when Tony refilled your water without asking, it didn’t feel like an intrusion. It felt like… care.
The dessert was set down in front of you with a quiet clink of porcelain. Something warm and sweet – chocolate, maybe – paired with fruit and a little too much elegance to be casual about it. Maria murmured an approving sound. Pietro immediately went for his fork like he hadn’t eaten on the plane at all.
Tony didn’t touch his yet.
He watched you for a moment, expression thoughtful in a way that made you sit up straighter without meaning to.
“So,” he said, carefully casual, like he was trying not to spook you. “What was your childhood like?”
The room didn’t go silent, exactly, but the air shifted. The question was ordinary on the surface – the kind of thing people asked when they wanted to know you – but here, in this context, it felt like stepping onto a floor you weren’t sure would hold your weight.
You had mentioned your adoptive mom already. You’d talked about Brooklyn, about school, about skipping grades, about your thesis and the way you’d built your life like a scaffold around stability.
But he knew you hadn’t grown up with the woman he’d loved.
He knew there was a gap there.
And he was asking gently, without forcing, what filled it.
Your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.
Your instinct – the reflex honed into you since you were four – was to offer the safe version. The polished version. The one where you said It was fine and smiled and redirected the conversation to something easier.
You glanced at Pietro.
He didn’t speak.
He just lifted his brows once and gave you a small, almost invisible nod.
A quiet encouragement.
Tell the truth. Not the softened one. Not the one you invented to make people comfortable.
Your fingers tightened around your fork for a second. Then you set it down carefully, because your hand had started to shake.
“I…” You inhaled slowly. “I grew up in an orphanage until I was four.”
Tony’s expression changed instantly – surprise first, then something else, sharper. His brows rose, and Maria’s hand paused midair above her plate.
You heard the faintest intake of breath from Maria, controlled but real.
“That’s…” Tony started, then stopped himself, as if he’d realized anything he said too quickly might push you back into silence. “Okay.”
You swallowed. The words were lodged in your throat like stones.
“It wasn’t…” You searched for the language, because you had spent most of your life not giving it any. “It wasn’t a good place.”
Maria’s face tightened in a way that made her look suddenly older. “What do you mean, not a good place?” she asked, voice quiet and edged with restraint.
Under the table, Pietro’s hand found yours.
He didn’t squeeze hard. Just enough to remind you you weren’t alone in this moment. His thumb brushed once over your knuckles – steady, grounding.
You stared at your plate.
Then you made yourself look up, because part of telling the truth was not hiding from it.
“It was a religious orphanage,” you said slowly. “Very strict. They believed… they believed obedience was the same thing as virtue.”
Tony’s jaw clenched, barely perceptible.
Maria’s eyes didn’t leave your face.
You took another breath, and the next words came out more easily once the first ones were spoken.
“If you disobeyed,” you continued, voice flat, almost clinical, as if describing someone else, “you got punished. Not… not like time-out.”
Pietro’s grip tightened slightly.
You forced yourself to keep going before you lost momentum.
“They used… corporal punishment,” you said. “On our backs. Sometimes on our legs. Sometimes just… wherever they could reach.” Your throat burned. “And it wasn’t always for big things. It could be for talking during mass. Or laughing. Or holding someone’s hand.”
Maria’s hand rose to her mouth, fingers pressing briefly against her lips like she was holding back a sound.
Tony’s face had gone very still. The kind of stillness that looked like restraint. Like rage being contained by sheer force of will.
You felt oddly detached as you spoke, like you were watching yourself from above. Like the words were leaving your mouth but not fully touching you yet.
“There were good days,” you added automatically, instinctively trying to balance it, to make it less awful. “But the bad days were…”
You shook your head, unable to finish.
Maria’s voice was soft but firm. “Did they do this to you?”
You hesitated.
Then nodded once.
“Yes.”
The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that felt like the room itself didn’t know what to do with the truth.
Pietro squeezed your hand under the table, steady and present.
You blinked quickly, fighting the sting in your eyes.
You didn’t say saved me, because you weren’t sure you believed in that kind of simple narrative. But the word hovered in the space anyway.
“She was… good,” you said, voice softer. “She was kind. She didn’t have to be. She chose me.” You swallowed hard. “But I was four. And I was–” You laughed faintly, but there was no humor. “I was smart enough to understand that it could be taken away.”
Tony frowned. “Taken away?”
You nodded, gaze dropping again.
“I thought…” Your fingers curled tighter around Pietro’s hand like it was the only thing keeping you tethered. “I thought that if I asked for too much, she’d change her mind.”
Maria’s eyes filled with tears she didn’t let fall. “Oh, sweetheart…”
You shook your head quickly, because you didn’t want pity. You wanted them to understand.
“So I didn’t,” you said. “I didn’t ask. Not for attention. Not for time. Not for reassurance.” Your voice thinned. “I was terrified of being… inconvenient.”
Tony’s eyes flicked over your face, like he could see the child version of you behind your adult one. Like he was mentally putting pieces together – your control, your politeness, your habit of being “okay.”
“I learned really fast,” you said quietly, “that if you’re easy to have around, people keep you.”
The sentence landed like a bruise.
Maria reached across the table then, slowly, giving you the chance to pull away if you wanted. When you didn’t, she covered your free hand with hers – warm, trembling slightly.
“You were a child,” she whispered. “You should never have had to earn love.”
Tony’s voice was low, careful, but there was a tremor of anger underneath. “Does your mother know? Your adoptive mother?”
You hesitated.
“She knows I was there,” you said. “She knows it was strict.” A pause. “But I never… I never told her the details.”
Tony’s jaw flexed. “Why not?”
You could have lied. You could have given a neat answer.
Instead, you told the truth.
“Because I thought,” you said softly, “that if she knew I had been punished, it meant I had done something wrong.” You inhaled shakily. “And I was scared she’d send me back.”
Maria’s grip tightened, and her eyes finally overflowed – one tear slipping down her cheek as she shook her head slowly, devastated.
Tony’s gaze stayed locked on you, something fierce and protective building behind his eyes.
“You were four,” he said again, like he needed to repeat it until the world understood. “You were four.”
Your throat tightened. You nodded once, unable to speak for a second.
Pietro’s thumb stroked your knuckles under the table, steadying you through the worst of it.
And somehow, even as the story hung in the air – ugly, painful, undeniable – you didn’t feel the old shame swallow you whole.
Because this time, the people listening weren’t recoiling.
They weren’t looking "through" you.
They were staying.
They were seeing you.
And for the first time, telling the truth didn’t feel like asking to be sent away.
For a few seconds after you finished speaking, the room didn’t move.
Even the small sounds – the clink of a fork against porcelain, the soft hum of the air conditioning – felt muted, as if the house itself had decided to hold its breath with you.
Tony’s face was tight, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere past your shoulder like he was trying to see the child you’d been. Maria’s hand still covered yours, warm and steady. Pietro’s fingers were laced with yours under the table, his thumb stroking slow, grounding circles like a metronome.
Then Tony pushed his chair back.
The scrape of wood against the floor sounded too loud.
He stood, breathing through his nose, shoulders tense. He took one step as if he meant to leave the room – then stopped. Hesitated. You saw the conflict in him as clearly as if it had been spoken out loud: the fear of doing the wrong thing, of overwhelming you, of touching a wound that wasn’t his to handle.
His hands flexed at his sides.
He looked at you again.
And then he walked around the table.
He stopped behind your chair, hovering for a heartbeat.
“Can I–” he started, voice rough.
You didn’t answer fast enough, not because you didn’t want it, but because your body always needed a second when something unexpected approached. You felt your shoulders draw in, instinctive. You held your breath without meaning to.
Tony swallowed, and his arms came around you anyway – careful at first, as if he’d be ready to pull back the second you stiffened too much.
You did stiffen.
For a few seconds, your spine went rigid, hands frozen on the edge of the table, the old reflex firing: don’t react wrong, don’t take up space, don’t make it worse.
Then Pietro’s hand squeezed yours under the table, firm and steady.
Maria’s palm pressed gently against your knuckles on the table, reassuring.
And slowly, the tension in your shoulders eased.
You lifted your arms and returned the embrace, tentative at first, then more fully – your cheek resting against Tony’s chest, the fabric of his shirt warm against your skin.
Tony exhaled, the sound shaky.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice low near your ear. “I’m so sorry.”
You blinked hard, the sting in your eyes back again.
“I would’ve stopped it,” he said, and there was grief there – real, raw grief for something he hadn’t known he’d lost. “If I’d known… I would’ve–” He swallowed. “I wish that never happened to you. I wish none of it had.”
Your throat tightened too much to speak, so you just nodded once, small, against him.
He held you a moment longer, then eased back, keeping his hands on your shoulders as if he wasn’t ready to let you slip out of reach completely. His eyes were bright, but he didn’t let the tears fall. His jaw was clenched hard enough you could see it.
Maria wiped her cheek quietly, then gave you a look that was both soft and fierce.
Pietro didn’t move his eyes from yours.
You drew in a breath and did what you always did when emotions threatened to drag you under: you reached for narrative. For structure. For the next piece of the story that made sense.
“I… um,” you started, voice hoarse. “After the orphanage, my mom got married.”
Tony’s gaze sharpened, listening.
“There was… her husband,” you said carefully, “and his son.”
You didn’t say his name.
You kept your tone neutral, brisk, like you were describing a fact on a timeline. You didn’t linger on how that boy had become the safest part of your childhood. You didn’t say how his presence had been a kind of shelter you hadn’t known how to ask for anywhere else.
“It was… complicated,” you added softly, then moved on before the word could open a door you weren’t ready to walk through.
“I skipped two grades,” you said, more firmly, returning to safer territory. “I was always ahead in school, and they didn’t know what to do with me, so they just… pushed me forward.”
Tony blinked once, a faint, incredulous smile tugging at his mouth despite everything. “You skipped two grades?”
You gave a small shrug. “I didn’t have a lot else going on.”
Pietro made a low sound of agreement, as if to say understatement of the century.
“And that’s how I met Steve,” you continued. “He was our neighbor. He lived close by. We… we got close pretty early.”
Tony’s eyes flicked briefly to Pietro, as if silently asking Steve is…? and Pietro responded with a subtle nod – important, safe, not the problem.
“I’ve told you about Wanda,” you added, nodding toward Pietro. “And Pietro. They’ve been in my life for a long time.”
Maria smiled gently at Pietro. “I can see that.”
Pietro’s mouth quirked. “She’s stuck with me.”
You huffed a small laugh, grateful for the tiny release of tension.
Then you went on, because once you started, it felt easier to keep moving than to stop.
“High school happened,” you said. “Steve and I… we dated.”
Tony stilled, then carefully kept his expression open.
“It was my only relationship,” you admitted, a little embarrassed by how simple that sounded on paper.
Maria’s eyes softened. Pietro squeezed your hand again under the table.
“It was… real,” you said, choosing your words. “But it didn’t last. We ended it because…” You paused, then shook your head lightly. “It wasn’t because of him. Not really. And it wasn’t just because of me either.”
Tony watched you closely, as if trying to read between the lines without pushing.
“We’re still friends,” you said. “We love each other. Just not… like that anymore.”
There was quiet understanding in the room. No judgment. No awkwardness. Just acceptance.
You exhaled slowly.
You didn’t talk about the night after Steve.
You didn’t talk about how comfort had turned into something you’d never dared name, and how shame had followed like a shadow.
You didn’t talk about waking up the next day and feeling like you’d stepped over a line that could never be redrawn.
You didn’t talk about the silence that had felt like a guillotine dropping.
You didn’t talk about the weeks Pietro had spent putting you back together in small, patient pieces.
You couldn’t.
Not yet.
So you pivoted again, letting the future be a place you could safely stand.
“I chose archaeology,” you said, and this time the words carried a spark of genuine excitement. “I know it sounds… random, compared to everything else, but it made sense to me. Digging. Understanding what’s been buried. Piecing things together.”
Tony’s expression shifted into something softer, proud almost without meaning to be.
“I want to go to Europe when I’m done,” you added. “After my doctorate. I want to–” You smiled faintly. “I want to see the places I’ve been reading about for years. Touch the stones. Walk the sites. Be… somewhere else.”
Maria nodded slowly, eyes shining. “You will.”
“And at university,” you continued, “I lived with Wanda and Pietro at first. We had this tiny apartment in New York. It was awful and perfect.” You glanced at Pietro, remembering. “We could hear the upstairs neighbor sneeze.”
Pietro grinned. “And he sneezed like he was trying to start a war.”
You smiled properly this time – small, but real.
“It was the first time I felt… normal,” you admitted quietly. “Like I belonged somewhere without having to earn it every day.”
Tony’s gaze held yours, steady, intent.
“I want you to have that,” he said softly. “From now on.”
Your chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t panic.
It was something warmer.
Something frightening in a different way.
Because it felt like hope.
Later that evening, when the dishes had been cleared and Maria had excused herself with a knowing smile and a gentle squeeze of your shoulder, Tony asked if you would walk with him for a bit.
Not talk – walk.
You appreciated the distinction immediately.
The house was quieter now, lights dimmed in the living spaces you weren’t in, the air outside warm and heavy with night-blooming flowers. You followed him out onto the terrace, where the city sounds were distant enough to feel unreal. Tony leaned his forearms against the railing, looking out for a few seconds before speaking, as if choosing where to start.
“She was… brilliant,” he said finally.
You didn’t interrupt. You didn’t rush him. You had learned – painfully well – that some truths needed space to arrive.
“Your mother,” he went on. “She worked in restoration. Ancient materials, old texts, fragments most people would’ve written off as unsalvageable.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “She loved impossible things.”
Your chest tightened in a way that felt familiar and strange all at once.
“She was stubborn,” Tony added, fond and exasperated in equal measure. “Uncompromising. Strong in a way that didn’t bend just because someone louder was in the room.”
He glanced at you then, really looked at you, and his expression softened.
“You have her eyes,” he said again, quieter this time. “But it’s not just that. It’s the way you listen. The way you think before you speak. The way you don’t back down once you’ve decided something matters.”
You swallowed. “You make her sound like you.”
He huffed a short laugh. “That was the problem.”
You waited.
“She and I…” He shook his head slowly. “We were too similar. Two immovable objects convinced the other one should yield. The arguments were frequent. Intense. Not about small things either – about values, about priorities, about what kind of life mattered.”
Your fingers curled lightly against the cool stone of the railing.
“And the last one?” you asked, voice careful. “The one after which she left.”
Tony closed his eyes for a moment.
“I said things,” he admitted. “Things meant to wound. Things meant to win instead of understand.” His jaw tightened. “I assumed she’d come back once we cooled off. She always did.”
He opened his eyes again, and there was something raw there.
“She didn’t,” he said simply. “And when she didn’t answer my calls, when the weeks turned into months…” He exhaled slowly. “I told myself she’d chosen to disappear.”
You hesitated, then asked the question that had been sitting heavy in your chest since the moment you’d learned his name.
“Do you think that’s why she left me?” you asked softly. “Because of you?”
Tony didn’t dodge it.
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
The word landed with weight, but not cruelty.
“I don’t think she abandoned you because she didn’t want you,” he continued immediately. “I think she was hurt. Ashamed. Afraid. I think she believed that cutting everything clean was the only way to survive what we’d done to each other.”
He looked at you then, eyes fierce with certainty.
“And that was her mistake,” he said. “Not you.”
You nodded, the knot in your chest loosening just a fraction.
The days that followed settled into a rhythm you hadn’t known you were craving.
You worked on your thesis during the day, hours slipping by as you lost yourself in texts and annotations and arguments that felt solid and solvable. You worked at the dining table sometimes, sometimes by the pool when the heat was too tempting to ignore.
Tony didn’t hover.
Maria didn’t pry.
They simply… existed around you.
Lunches turned into dinners. Sometimes all three of you. Sometimes just one of them. Sometimes quiet. Sometimes filled with conversation that drifted from history to science to the most mundane things – favorite foods, terrible movies, places you wanted to see.
And slowly, almost imperceptibly, your shoulders stopped living permanently hunched near your ears.
When Pietro finally told you – gently, reluctantly – that he needed to return to New York, you felt the familiar flare of fear spark in your chest.
He noticed instantly.
“Hey,” he said, sitting across from you at the kitchen counter one morning. “I’m not disappearing.”
You huffed. “You better not.”
“I’m serious,” he said. “You’re… different now. Calmer. Still tired, but not… hollow.” His gaze softened. “I can go back knowing you’re okay.”
You nodded, trusting him because you always had.
Tony listened to the conversation quietly, arms crossed, expression thoughtful.
When Pietro left later that day – hugging you hard, whispering that he’d call every day whether you liked it or not – you watched his taxi disappear down the drive with a mix of gratitude and grief.
The house felt larger without him.
That evening, Tony found you standing in the kitchen, staring absently at your laptop screen without actually seeing it.
“You don’t have to rush back,” he said, not unkindly.
You looked up. “I know.”
He hesitated, then cleared his throat.
“Why don’t you stay?” he said. “Here.”
You blinked. “You mean–”
“I mean here,” he clarified. “The villa’s big enough that we won’t be in each other’s way. You’d have space. Privacy. And…” He shrugged, trying for casual and missing slightly. “I’d like it.”
You considered it.
Not just the logistics, but the feeling.
The way you no longer flinched when he entered a room. The way Maria treated you like you’d always belonged at the table. The way this place, improbably, felt safe.
“I think I’d like that,” you said finally.
Tony smiled – not the flashy kind, not the performative one. Just quiet. Relieved.
“Good,” he said. “Then it’s settled.”
And for the first time in a very long while, settling didn’t feel like giving something up.
It felt like arriving.
Pietro had barely had time to drop his bag in the hallway before his apartment started feeling too quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet. The kind that made every creak in the building sound like an accusation. The kind that reminded him – too sharply – that you weren’t on the other side of the wall, that Wanda wasn’t in the kitchen humming while she made tea, that he wasn’t about to hear your voice from the bedroom asking him to read a paragraph of your thesis “just to make sure it made sense.”
He told himself it was fine.
You were in Miami. You were safe. He’d seen you. He’d held you. He’d watched you sit in the sun and breathe like your lungs weren’t fighting you anymore. He’d watched your hands steady on your keyboard, watched the color slowly return to your face.
He’d done what he came to do.
And still, stepping back into New York felt like stepping into a room where the air had been trapped too long.
He kicked his shoes off by the door and dragged his duffel to the bedroom without bothering to unpack. He poured himself a glass of water, drank it in three gulps like his body needed to prove it was still functioning, then dropped onto his couch and stared at his phone.
Wanda had answered his text immediately when he told her he was boarding: a line of hearts, a promise she wouldn’t tell anyone anything you hadn’t permitted.
He’d known – because he knew Wanda – that she would still worry.
He’d known – because he knew Steve – that Steve wouldn’t just sit with worry when he could turn it into action.
He didn’t expect action this fast, though.
Exactly an hour after he closed his apartment door behind him, there was a knock.
Pietro froze for half a second, then groaned out loud as if the universe had personally inconvenienced him.
“Of course,” he muttered, pushing himself off the couch.
He didn’t even bother looking through the peephole. He already knew. His whole body knew.
He yanked the door open.
Wanda stood there, arms folded tight across her chest, eyes red around the edges like she’d been crying at least a little. Beside her was Steve, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, posture rigid in that way it always got when he was trying very hard not to look like he was panicking.
Pietro leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling for a beat, then looked back at them with a long-suffering expression.
“You two,” he said flatly.
Wanda opened her mouth.
Pietro lifted a hand immediately. “Don’t. Don’t start with the ‘we were in the neighborhood’ thing. You were not.”
Steve’s mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. Wanda rolled her eyes, but her shoulders loosened a fraction.
Pietro stepped aside, gesturing them in with an exaggerated flourish. “Come in. Invade my privacy. Make yourselves at home.”
Wanda brushed past him first, immediately scanning the living room like she expected to find you sitting there on the couch. When she didn’t, something in her expression tightened again. Steve followed, gaze sweeping the space with the same restless, searching energy.
Pietro shut the door behind them and turned.
He didn’t give them time to ask.
He knew why they were here. He knew the questions stuck in their throats. He knew the fear, the hope, the unbearable need for certainty.
So he started talking – fast, blunt, relentless – like if he got it all out in one breath, maybe he could stop them from trying to dig for more.
“She’s fine,” he said.
Wanda’s eyes widened. Steve’s jaw clenched as if the words physically hit him.
Pietro lifted a finger. “She’s not just ‘fine’ as in alive. She’s fine as in – she eats. She sleeps. She’s not wandering the streets at night like a ghost anymore. She’s not crying all the time.”
Wanda exhaled shakily, shoulders sagging.
Pietro kept going, because he’d learned a long time ago that if he stopped, they’d interrupt with a dozen questions and he’d end up reliving everything anyway.
“She works her ass off on her thesis,” he continued. “Like, full academic feral mode. She’s basically been using archaeology as a coping mechanism, which honestly? Good for her. Better than the alternatives.”
Steve’s gaze stayed locked on him, unblinking.
“Her father is…” Pietro paused, as if begrudgingly admitting something surprising. “He’s good. He’s actually good. Sympathetic. He doesn’t push. He listens. He makes time whenever she contacts him. Same with her grandmother. Maria is–” Pietro shook his head, almost in disbelief. “Maria is adorable. Protective in this quiet, terrifying way.”
Wanda’s hand rose to cover her mouth, eyes shining again.
“They made her their priority,” Pietro said, firm. “Like immediately. No hesitation. No weirdness. No ‘prove you belong.’ Just–” He snapped his fingers. “You’re here, we’ve got you.”
Steve’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Is she… staying there?”
“She’s still at the hotel,” Pietro said, then added quickly, “but I think she’s finally going to accept moving into his place. She’s more comfortable now. She doesn’t flinch when he walks into the room. She doesn’t look like she’s waiting to be kicked out.”
Wanda pressed a hand to her chest like that sentence physically hurt.
Pietro’s gaze softened for a second, because he wasn’t made of stone even if he pretended to be.
Then he hardened again, because there was one question he knew they were carrying like dynamite.
“No,” he said before they could ask it. “She doesn’t talk about Bucky. She doesn’t say his name. She doesn’t even come close.”
Steve’s eyes flickered down, then back up. Wanda’s face tightened, anger and sadness warring across her features.
Pietro didn’t let them linger there.
“She did talk about her past,” he said. “Not all of it, not every detail, but enough. With her dad. And he handled it the way he should’ve. Open. Gentle. Paternal. No judgment. No pushing. Just…” He spread his hands, searching for the right word. “Present.”
Steve’s shoulders loosened slightly at that, like the idea of you being met with the right kind of care made something in him unclench.
Pietro finally stopped talking and looked at them both.
He tilted his head, eyes bright with a challenge that wasn’t cruel – just tired.
“Questions?” he asked. “Or did I cover pretty much everything you showed up to pry out of me?”
Wanda blinked.
Steve opened his mouth, closed it again, then let out a long breath through his nose.
Wanda’s voice came out small. “She’s really okay?”
Pietro’s expression softened despite himself.
“Yes,” he said. “She’s really okay.”
Steve nodded once, sharp. “Does she–” He stopped, jaw tightening. He tried again. “Does she want… space from us?”
Pietro studied him for a moment.
“She didn’t say she never wants to see you again,” he said carefully. “She just… can’t hold all of it right now. Not you, not Wanda, not her mom, not–” He didn’t say Bucky’s name. He didn’t need to. “She’s holding the pieces she can manage. That’s all.”
Wanda wiped at her cheek quickly, frustrated with her own tears. “Did she say anything about… coming back?”
Pietro’s mouth tightened. He shrugged, but it wasn’t casual.
“She didn’t talk about timelines,” he admitted. “But she’s planning. Europe after the doctorate. She’s thinking about the future again.” His gaze sharpened. “That’s a good sign.”
Steve’s eyes closed briefly, relief crossing his face like a wave he didn’t want them to see. When he opened them again, he looked at Pietro with a kind of quiet gratitude that made Pietro uncomfortable.
Pietro cleared his throat, immediately defensive. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t do anything heroic. I just showed up.”
Steve’s mouth twitched. “Yeah,” he said softly. “You did.”
Wanda stepped forward suddenly and hugged Pietro, surprising him.
He stiffened for half a second – pure reflex – then wrapped his arms around her with a quiet sigh.
When she pulled back, she looked at him with wet eyes and tried to smile. “Thank you.”
Pietro rolled his eyes again, because if he didn’t, he might actually start feeling things. “You’re welcome. Now stop stalking me.”
Steve huffed a faint laugh – small, real – and it was the first time Pietro had heard that sound from him in weeks.
They stood there for a moment longer, the tension in the room shifting from panic to something heavier but more manageable: waiting, hope, the dull ache of missing you.
And Pietro – still holding the boundary you’d asked for – made it clear with his posture, with the set of his shoulders and the sharpness of his gaze, that this was all they were getting for now.
Because for once, the priority wasn’t their need to know. It was you.
Steve’s question came after a lull – after Wanda had stopped wiping at her eyes, after Pietro had made them sit down instead of pacing like anxious ghosts in his living room.
Steve was perched on the edge of the armchair like he didn’t quite trust himself to relax. Wanda sat beside him on the couch, hands clasped together so tightly her knuckles were pale. Pietro remained standing for a moment, leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, the posture of someone who was very deliberately holding the line.
Steve cleared his throat.
“So… her father,” he said carefully, like he was stepping onto thin ice. “What does he do?”
Pietro’s gaze sharpened immediately. Not defensive exactly – strategic. You had asked him not to tell. Not where you were, not why, not the details that would make anyone else insert themselves into your life before you were ready.
He chose his words with the precision of someone who lived in them.
“He runs his own company,” Pietro said. “Tech.”
Steve’s brows lifted slightly. “Tech?”
Pietro nodded. “Yeah. Big enough that he has people handling most of the day-to-day. But he’s… involved. He’s the kind of guy who’s in charge because he actually built the thing.”
Steve absorbed that in silence. His expression didn’t shift much, but something in his eyes did – understanding, maybe, of what that implied. Power. Reach. Resources. The kind of stability you’d never had to lean on before.
“Okay,” Steve said quietly, and nodded once.
Wanda’s gaze flicked between them, sensing there was more there – something Pietro wasn’t saying. She didn’t push. She knew better.
Pietro exhaled slowly, then added, “He talked to her about her biological mother.”
Steve’s head tilted. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Pietro confirmed, and his voice went a shade more serious. “He told her who she was. What she did. What she was like.” A beat. “He didn’t sugarcoat it. Their story wasn’t… easy.”
Wanda’s lips parted slightly. “Is she–”
“She’s gone,” Pietro said, cutting the question off before it could fully form. Not harshly. Just… firmly. “Not in the picture. And from what he said… she probably won’t ever be.”
The room went quiet again, that particular silence where people rearranged their expectations in their heads – where grief shifted shape.
Steve stared at the floor for a few seconds, jaw tight, then looked back up.
“Bucky broke up with Natasha,” he said.
Pietro’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t look surprised – more like he was checking whether Steve was telling the truth or just hoping it was true.
“When?” Pietro asked.
“Yesterday,” Steve replied. “He went to her place first thing in the morning. It was… bad.” His voice softened for a moment, then steadied again. “But it was the right thing to do.”
Pietro held Steve’s gaze for a long second, then nodded once – approval, but not forgiveness, not yet.
“And we cleaned her apartment,” Steve added, almost like a confession. “Me and him. We didn’t touch her stuff. We just… cleaned. Took out expired food. Changed the sheets. Made it… livable again.”
Pietro’s expression tightened at the mention of the apartment, as if he could picture it too clearly – the place you’d left behind with a door click and a silence like a blade.
“She’d hate coming back to it dirty,” Wanda murmured, voice small.
“Exactly,” Steve said, nodding.
Pietro didn’t comment on the coming back part. He didn’t discourage it either. He simply let it sit in the air like something they all needed.
Then he lifted his chin slightly, eyes moving from Wanda to Steve.
“And before you ask,” Pietro said, tone clipped but not cruel, “she’s still keeping her phone off most of the time.”
Wanda’s face fell. Steve’s shoulders stiffened.
“She hasn’t read any messages,” Pietro continued. “Hasn’t listened to any voicemails. Nothing.”
Steve swallowed. “So she hasn’t–”
“No,” Pietro said simply. “She hasn’t seen what you sent. Or what he sent.”
Wanda let out a shaky breath, fingers twisting together in her lap. “But she called her mom.”
Steve nodded once. “Bucky told me.”
Pietro’s gaze stayed steady. “Yeah. That happened. That’s… something.”
His tone made it clear what he meant: it wasn’t a door flung open, but it was proof you weren’t cutting every tether. Proof you were choosing contact in the places that felt safest. Proof you were still there.
Steve leaned back slightly, as if the information was both relief and heartbreak in equal measure.
“So we just…” Steve started, then trailed off.
Pietro’s expression didn’t soften, but it wasn’t unkind.
“You wait,” he said. “You live your lives. You stop spiraling. And you let her decide when she’s ready.”
Wanda blinked hard, tears threatening again.
Steve’s jaw tightened. “And Bucky?”
Pietro’s eyes flickered – brief, sharp.
“Bucky can wait too,” he said flatly. “He doesn’t get to rush the healing just because he finally decided to be honest.”
Steve nodded slowly, like he couldn’t argue with that even if it hurt.
The three of them sat in the thick quiet of Pietro’s apartment, the city noise muffled outside the windows, each of them holding the same fragile truth in different hands:
summary: it's been a long time since you've enjoyed having someone in your bed, and you were okay with that. that's what your toys were for. however, they lose their luster once a certain super soldier joins the team.
w.c: 7.9k+
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, piv (protected), oral (fem! receiving), pussy pronouns, possessiveness, yearning, intense feelings of pleasure, big dick Bucky, Bucky Barnes in general
a/n: it's finally here! my labor of love and self-indulgence is finally here! this story is from my JuneJukeboxScribbles: tired of toys and devil red. you don't have to read them to get the story. this is a fic that combines both premises. not proofread bc i got tired and wanted to be done with it lmao. i hope you enjoy and if you don't: LIE!
thanks to @chateaubarnes for the dividers!
masterlist
Five years was a long time.
It was a little more than the average time to get an undergraduate degree.
It was longer than most graduate programs.
It was longer than most people spent in their first job.
It was long enough for a newborn to grow up and go to school.
And it was how long you had gone without having sex, or any intimate touch, from another living soul for that matter. You had forgotten what it felt like to be tenderly touched by another, or even how it felt to be ravaged by someone. Hell, the only touch you were used to was being tackled by enemies or the rough hands of the tower’s medic crew stitching you together from whatever injury you sustained during whatever mission.
Five years was a long time to rely on yourself for pleasure. At the beginning, it had been terrific; you were able to get yourself off when partners in the past had struggled to do so. You finally understood the hubbub around sex once you were able to experience a genuine climax. But the few silicon vibrators and dildos that you had could only do so much after a few years.
You weren’t really in the market to date, as being an Avenger took up most, if not all your time. If you weren’t on a mission, you were training, reviewing debriefings, learning to use Stark’s new technology, or trying to catch up on sleep. And on the rare occasion that you couldn’t catch a wink of sleep, you always resorted to the little box you kept tucked under your bed which held your favorite toys. After an hour or two with them, you were always able to get a few quality hours of sleep.
But recently, your vibrators and dildos weren’t doing what they used to do. You couldn’t find the right position. You couldn’t reach the same spots that you used to. It took longer for you to get off.
One night, less than a week ago, you had become so frustrated from not being able to climax that you had threw the vibrator across your room, trashed the box that held the rest of your intimate toys, and threw it into the back of your closet, never to see the light of day again.
Ever since then, you have been a little more on edge than usual.
“Hello,” Natasha drawled out, calling your name. “Are you paying attention?”
You shook your head, clearing your murky thoughts as you focused on the present. The two of you were in the tower’s gym, doing some cool down stretches after sparring and conditioning. Your friend was looking at you with slight concern, but you tried your best to brush it off.
“Sorry,” you apologized. “The training really took a toll on me.”
“Mhm, sure it did,” she agreed sarcastically. She took inventory of your posture and distracted look as she stretched her arms behind her head. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the lack of vibrations coming from your room the past few nights, does it?”
Immediately, you felt your face become engulfed in flames and your eyes bulge out of your head. Sometimes it was a gift to live so close to your best friend, but in this moment, it was curse. Damn the former widow and her sharp senses.
“Shh,” you practically hissed. “Someone could hear you! We live with super soldiers and a literal God.”
“Oh, relax,” Natasha waved off. “They’re grown men, they should be able to handle women talking about their sex lives… or lack thereof.”
You shook your head in disbelief. “Key word being ‘should’, Natasha. Steve and Bucky would go into a coma if they knew what women got up to in this day and age. And let’s not even talk about Thor. He would probably be so confused and ask us to clarify in horrifying detail what we were talking about.” You paused, considering her last jab. “Besides, what time do I have to fool around? Tony’s got us booked into next year unless we are on a mission.”
“Hmm, that just sounds like excuses – valid excuses, but excuses nonetheless,” the redhead replied, throwing you a teasing smirk as she jumped up from the mat and grabbed a towel nearby to dry her sweat.
Following in her footsteps, you got up and turned to grab a drink from your water bottle when the gym doors opened, revealing the two super soldiers you were just talking about. Steve was in his typical workout gear and he was avidly going on about something to his friend, but Bucky just gave minimal replies to his childhood friend.
Your attention remained on Bucky as he walked further into the gym with the blonde. The compression tank top that Bucky was wearing was sinful; clinging to his pecs and abdominal muscles like the fabric was about to rip at the seams. The tank top left his mouth-watering biceps on display and you could feel the saliva start to pool in your mouth. His gray sweatpants left nothing for your imagination as you could see his thick thighs straining under the fabric. If you looked close enough – and you certainly weren’t looking close enough – you could faintly see the outline of his dick through the pants. Your thighs clenched together faintly as you ripped your sight away from the Adonis in front of you.
“Afternoon, ladies,” Steve greeted you and Natasha as they came over to the benches to wrap their hands for their sparring session. “Good session today?”
“It’s always a good session when I get to wrap my thighs around someone’s head,” Natasha almost cooed, giving the blonde soldier something dangerously close to bedroom eyes.
It was no secret that Natasha and Steve were fooling around. Natasha was proud anytime she could make the All-American Boy blush, and Steve was still not used to having such blatant desire thrown his way.
Steve choked on his own spit and you could see his mind trying to conjure the image of her thighs wrapped around someone’s face; you just couldn’t tell if he was picturing you or him since he wouldn’t make eye contact with anyone.
With that response tucked into her back pocket, Natasha sauntered towards the communal showers after sending a wink over her shoulder to the Captain. He remained frozen in place even when Bucky waved his hand in front of his friend’s face.
You suppressed a laugh, amazed at how hypnotized the former Widow could leave the Golden Boy.
Bucky moved his attention to you, letting his friend sit in the moment and daydream to his heart’s content. You looked at the super soldier, anticipating him saying something, but he stayed rooted in his spot and just looked at you with eyes that contained a mix of many emotions that he was clearly trying to mask.
After several moments, you just gave him a shy smile and turned to follow Natasha to the showers. “Have a good session, boys,” you called out with a friendly wave.
Later that evening, you and Natasha were sitting in the common space on the floor that you shared with the two super soldiers. The men were still down in the gym, working out their heightened energy levels while you and Natasha were having quality girl time with each other.
There were cocktails, chips, and makeup strewn about the table in front of you. Natasha had it in her head that she was going to play around with her makeup skills to make sure she still had the skill under her belt. You had laughed at her and told her that she could never lose that skill since she looked amazing every day.
Currently, you were sipping your cocktail through a small straw while Natasha was putting some blush on your cheeks.
“You know,” Natasha started, “I think it’s time for you to get back out there. It’s been, what? Five years since your last relationship? Don’t you think it’s time to get a real dick in you instead of the silicone ones you use?”
You choked mid sip on your cocktail. Natasha and you shared a wall with your living quarters and you had been a fool to think Tony would soundproof the walls.
"I heard you throw something around a few nights ago after an hour of buzzing,” she continued, rooting around for a bigger reaction from you. She was lucky you were such close friends or you would have iced her out of your life for a comment like that.
“I mean, it was fun the first few years,” you started to explain. “My past partners never really knew how to get me there. They would always finish, roll over, and text their friends without doing much for me. So, the toys were a way that I could pleasure myself without fail.”
Natasha nodded along as she moved to pick up some eyeshadow, eyeliner, and mascara. You closed your eyes, already knowing she would need complete access to your eyelids.
You continued, “I learned new things about myself, but recently, it’s been getting predictable and I think I’m just used to the sensations. It’s losing its appeal to me.”
“Well, maybe you just need someone else to be the navigator while you enjoy the ride,” she said. “You’re predictable to yourself so getting another person involved in the mix might bring the zest back.”
“Maybe,” you agreed, taking another sip of your drink as you felt the assassin drag a brush over your lids. “But there’s no way in hell I’m going out to those gross clubs or jumping on the heinous dating apps just to get laid. It’s never been my scene and after working in this field, I don’t think crowds will ever appeal to me again.”
You heard her hum in agreement before she gave your shoulder a small tap, letting you know she was done with her eyes. You relaxed back against the couch and took another sip of your cocktail as Natasha looked at the supplies before her to decide what she wanted to work on next.
“That’s fair,” she agreed. “But there are other ways to meet people. There are libraries, cafes, parks, even grocery stores.”
“Who meets people in the grocery store Natasha?” you asked in genuine disbelief. “Only serial killers pick up people from the grocery store.”
“Okay, maybe that was a bad example, but you know what I mean,” she chided, grabbing the tube of red lipstick. You played the dutiful client and leaned forward so she could swipe the crimson pigment across your lips. “I just want my friend to have a good time and not die from the shock of a frayed wire in an old vibrator.”
Once she was finished, you leaned back and turned to look at the mirror she had set up on the coffee table. Your breath caught in your throat momentarily as you looked at the woman staring back at you. You were mesmerized by her visage.
It had been ages since you wore makeup. It wasn’t necessary in the field you worked in. During your time not fighting crime, you were conditioning yourself in the gym, cooking in the kitchen, or lounging around.
The woman staring back at you still looked like you, but your features were more exaggerated and alluring in this sultry look.
As you stared at yourself in the mirror, you were so caught up in your thoughts that you didn’t hear the elevator doors open, dumping the two super soldiers out into the common room of your shared floor. You heard someone talking, but you couldn’t register much at the moment, still swept up in your features.
“What do we think?” Nat’s voice eventually broke you out of your thoughts and you turned to look at who she was talking to.
There, standing with his hands on his traitorously slim hips, was none other than Bucky Barnes. His skin was glimmering with the sweat that clung to him and you found yourself momentarily jealous of the beads of sweat that rolled from his temple all the way down to his clavicle. The muscles in his arms, chest, abdomen, and thighs looked particularly mouthwatering after his gym session and you had to remind yourself that you were in front of other people so you didn’t start drooling.
You tore your eyes away from him, looking down at your hands for a second to gather your wits. While you were collecting yourself, you heard shuffling and the sound of someone getting elbowed, making you look up at the men to see Bucky glaring at Steve and the blonde grinning at you and Natasha with an innocent expression.
Natasha arched an eyebrow, waiting for one of them to say something. You already knew she had some plan unraveling in her mind, you just didn’t know where you fit into it and what these two men had to do with anything.
After another long stretch of silence, Bucky cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention to him. “Uh…” His hand reached up to scratch the back of his neck as he looked straight at you and took in your appearance. “You look – you look really – um, you look -”
You basked in the attention he was giving you and hearing him stumble through his words to describe you sent small sparks shooting down your spine. There have always been moments between you and Bucky that you felt were charged. You never knew if he felt them too, if you were reading into your interactions too much, or if you were projecting your crush too loudly.
With another elbow to the side from his childhood best friend, Bucky cleared his throat again before looking at Natasha and nodding his head. “Uhm, it looks fine,” he said with a painfully awkward smile on his face and Steve eagerly nodded along like a dog who was loyal to its owner.
The sparks you felt earlier fizzled out upon hearing the word “fine” leave his lips. “Fine” wasn’t beautiful. “Fine” wasn’t gorgeous. “Fine” wasn’t ugly. “Fine” was… lackluster and a bit underwhelming.
“Fine” was what Bucky Barnes thought of you, apparently. It wasn’t what you wanted him to think of you. You wanted him to be enamored with you, enraptured or enthralled. His stuttering earlier had given you so much hope that he felt an inkling of the same way that you felt for him. But one word dashed all your hopes and dreams in less than a second.
“That’s all you have to say?” Natasha asked, thoroughly unimpressed by the former assassin in front of her.
“Fine is good, isn’t it?” Steve asked, clearly trying to help dig his friend out of the hole he had put himself in.
Your shoulders deflated the slightest bit and you quickly pulled on your proverbial mask, not needing anyone in the room to see what “fine” really made you feel. You grabbed your cocktail, downed the rest of the drink, and stood up quickly.
“I’m going to get another drink,” you said, making your escape without looking at anyone in the room.
Once you reached the kitchen, you ditched your glass in the sink and walked over to the balcony that was attached to the dining area. The cool air hit your face as soon as you stepped outside and it helped the stinging feeling of “fine” leave your system.
You leaned against the rail of the balcony and looked down at the city below. The bright lights of the buildings and cars beneath were hypnotizing. The sound of people going about their lives was a nice soundtrack to have as you attempted to sort through your thoughts.
God, what was wrong with you? How did one person have such a hold over you? It was silly. You were letting one word from a man that you happened to be yearning for dictate your mood – something you had promised you wouldn’t fall into again after your last relationship. You were more than how a man made you feel, even if said man was a Grecian God embodied in muscle and skin right before your eyes.
“Ugh,” you groaned to yourself, shaking your head. “Stupid men. Stupid words. Stupid feelings!”
Before you could continue on your barrage of insults towards the other sex, Natasha popped her head out from the door. She gave you a soft, knowing look that made tears of frustration well in your eyes.
“Hey,” she greeted calmly. “I’m headed to bed. Do you need anything?”
You gave her a tight smile and shook your head. “I’ll be okay. Thank you for the makeover, by the way. I haven’t seen myself like this in a long time.”
“You’re welcome, but just so you know, you’re gorgeous. Not just ‘fine’,” she said, winking at you as she went back inside and sauntered to her room.
After almost an hour of sitting outside, you pushed away from the balcony’s railing and walked back inside, coming to a halt when you saw a tall form with a metal arm standing at the fridge, looking through its contents for something to eat or drink.
At the sound of your footsteps stopping, the soldier turned around and met your gaze. You bit the inside of your cheek, not knowing what to say or do. The two of you just stood there, staring at each other, holding your breaths.
Bucky was the one who ended up breaking the silence. “Hey,” he breathed out.
You gave him a tight-lipped smile and nodded your head towards him. The silence consumed the space between you once more. Deciding that you wanted this moment to end, you gave him another nod before walking towards the doorway of the kitchen to go to your bedroom.
“Wait,” Bucky’s voice stopped you in your tracks. You turned to face him and saw him walk around the island so he could stand in front of you. “I’m… I’m sorry for that whole… thing back in the common room.”
Your eyes widened a bit in surprise.
He scratched the back of his neck again; a gesture you were coming to know was his tell when he was feeling put on the spot. “I haven’t exactly had practice talking to women the past few decades.” An awkward, self-conscious chuckle came out of his mouth. “Much less someone like you.”
“Like me?” you repeated, not understanding what that was supposed to mean exactly.
The hand that was on his neck dropped and clenched into a fist briefly before he let it go and shook his fist out. His eyes dropped from yours and flickered around the room before finding yours again.
“Yeah, someone like you,” he repeated. “Someone who is much more than ‘fine’.”
“Bucky, what –” He cut you off, answering the question you couldn’t fully ask.
“Someone who is probably the prettiest dame I’ve ever seen in my life,” he said quietly in a low tone. If you were three more feet away from him, you don’t think you would have heard him; but you did and now you had a blushing super soldier standing in front of you, looking at his feet because he didn’t want to meet your eyes after his confession.
Your whole body was stunned. Your feet couldn’t move. Your eyes were frozen wide open. Your mind was stuck on “prettiest dame I’ve ever seen”. Everything you had spiraled about on the balcony was all for naught after hearing Bucky’s words.
The more you thought about it, the more you realized that his actions around you have never been out of avoidance or convenience like you feared. Almost all the interactions you have had with Bucky have been awkward. Sure, you had a hand in making the encounters awkward with your incessant crush and never knowing what to say around someone you found physically attractive, but Bucky was also awkward during your encounters.
He was awkward in the way he would always send you a shy smile in the gym before immediately turning around to do something else.
He was awkward in the way he would scoot over on the couch during movie nights to make ample room for you before offering you three different blankets.
He was awkward in the way he fumbled over his words to you every time, except during missions.
It was all because Bucky was feeling awkward since he found you attractive, too.
The realization brought you out of your stupor and you shuffled forward half a step before reaching out to lift his chin with your pointer and middle fingers. While you moved his head up to hopefully make eye contact, you found that he was still avoiding your eyes. A slight chuckle came from your chest, effectively pulling his gaze back to you.
His blue eyes twinkled under the fluorescent kitchen lighting, making him look slightly more youthful and innocent. The blush on his cheeks earlier had yet to fade, still leaving his cheeks a dusty rose. His teeth held his bottom lip captive as he scanned your face, looking for something that might tell him he messed up. But he wouldn’t find anything like that.
You trailed the two fingers holding his chin up down the side of his throat, lightly petting the smooth skin beneath your digits. Something like a purr resonated from his vocal cords and chest, making the smile on your face pull tighter and wider.
“Prettiest dame you’ve ever seen, huh?” you gently asked him, watching as the blush across his cheeks intensify.
“Uh…” he cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, I’d say so.”
You bit your lip to keep your smile from splitting your face in half. It was ridiculous how fast your heart was racing just because he was fumbling around in your presence. You could hear your blood racing in your ears and something behind your ribcage was threatening to break out at any moment.
“I don’t know how it took me so long to realize how awkward you are,” you whispered. His eyes widened in shock and a look of disbelief flashed over his features. You quickly put his worries to rest. “It’s super cute.”
Bucky groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, looking like he wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. “Cute isn’t exactly what I was going for.”
“Yeah? Well, ‘fine’ isn’t exactly what I was going for, either,” you quipped, watching his face drop in mortification at the reminder of his blunder earlier in the night. Before you could think twice, you leaned in and gave his cheek a quick peck, making sure to subtly inhale his scent while you were this close.
The moment your lips connected with the skin of his cheek, Bucky’s body went rigid beneath you. You pulled back slowly, watching as he stared at your mouth and robotically brought a hand up to his cheek to touch the place where your lips had been.
You didn’t know what to do after this and there was a part of you that was dying to go to your room and scream into a pillow over the fact that Bucky Barnes found you attractive. So, you listened to that part of you and gave him a small smile before slowly walking backwards and leaving him to his own devices. Once you rounded the doorway of the kitchen, you squealed and ran to your room in record time.
The moment your bedroom door closed behind you, you started to jump around and twirl, needing to get the giddy excitement out of your body somehow. You launched yourself on to your bed and buried your face in your pillows, flailing your limbs around to express your bundle of emotions.
Your celebration was cut short, however, with a knock at your door. You sat up quickly, figuring it was probably Natasha coming to ask what the ruckus was. You stood up from your bed and skipped over to the door, throwing it open to tell your friend everything.
Where you expected to find a small redheaded woman, you found a tall brunet haired man with blue eyes that were almost eclipsed by his pupils.
“Buck-”
Before you could even get his name out of your mouth, the super soldier stepped forward into your space. His hands came up to cup your face as he pulled you into his orbit and covered your lips with his. The sensation of his warm, slightly chapped lips against yours was enough to send all your senses haywire. You saw stars behind your eyes, and you felt as if your body was about to fuse with Bucky’s massive frame. You would happily let him consume you if it meant you could keep kissing him.
It all ended too quickly for your liking. Bucky pulled away and stared into your hazy eyes with eyes equally cloudy.
“Bucky,” was the only word that was able to eek out of your brain.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I’ve been wanting to do that a long time, but I should have asked before kissing you. I’m so sorry, I really am.” His hands dropped from your face and he took multiple steps backwards.
You shook your head, unable to conjure words to placate his mounting anxiety. You followed after him and grabbed the front of his shirt, stopping him from backing away from you further. The two of you stood in the hallway, staring at each other with heaving chests, not moving. The tension between you both was so tense, you felt something start to fray from being pulled too taught. And that something was your desire for the super soldier in front of you.
“Bucky,” you murmured, “you don’t have to apologize.”
“No, I do,” he countered. “I shouldn’t kiss you without your consent. My Ma is rolling over in her grave.”
You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up out of your chest. Even though the man in front of you had been a weapon for decades, there was still no taking the well-mannered boy out of his forties’ expectations.
“What if I told you I liked that you kissed me like that?”
That brought his attention back to the current moment between you. His pupils eclipsed his hypnotizing blue irises and you could see his body coil with restraint as you gently tugged him into your room by the front of his shirt. His hands flew to your waist as he stumbled forward, already under the spell of your confidence and persuasion.
He swallowed harshly before huffing out a laugh. “Then I would say, good, because I really liked kissing you.”
“How about we do it again?”
That was all he needed to hear before he wound his metal arm around you, entwined his flesh hand in the hair at the base of your neck, and pulled you forward into yet another breath-taking kiss. Your arms wrapped around his neck and you felt the muscles under his shirt shift as your hands touched his skin.
The hand at the back of your neck tilted your head back so he could deepen the kiss, causing a moan to burst from your throat. Bucky took advantage of the momentary opening of your lips and slipped his tongue into your mouth. The wet muscle traced your teeth before entwining itself around your tongue. Bucky was surprisingly very great at kissing for not being in control of his body for decades upon decades.
Your hands started to eagerly pull at his shirt, needing to feel his warm skin under your palms while the two of continued to explore each other. Bucky briefly pulled back from the kiss to rip his shirt over his head before pulling your body flush against his. The moment your hands touched his pectorals, Bucky let out the most pathetic whimper you had ever heard come from a man. Heat flooded your system and you swore you could feel your heartbeat in between your thighs.
You raked your nails over his skin, drawing another sound from Bucky. His hands started to paw at your body, one hand sneaking up your shirt and the other slipped under your pants, grabbing a handful of your ass. You gasped, not expecting Bucky to make such a bold move, but thoroughly enjoying the sensation of his calloused, warm hand grabbing the soft flesh of your bottom.
It was clear that he was enjoying himself by his growing erection poking your lower tummy. While you were able to see sublet outlines of his endowment through some of his sweatpants, he felt much bigger than you imagined he was, and the moan you let out as you rubbed yourself on top of him let him know just how you much you craved him.
“Off,” you mumbled against his mouth. “Clothes off.”
He broke apart from you slowly, as if it pained him to do so, before he stripped his pants and boxers off, leaving him bare in front of you.
Now, you had envisioned Bucky naked many times. You had seen him shirtless before, but never anything below the belt. In your mind, you gave Bucky a generous sized cock, surrounded by a trimmed, shallow bush, surrounded by his thunderous thighs. But seeing the real thing was making you feel guilty for not giving him more.
While he did have a smattering of chest hair and a happy trail that made you very happy, you were simply at a loss for words. Between his legs, hung the most thick, flushed, and lengthiest dick you had ever seen. It was menacing, to be quite honest. Your toys were based around the average male’s size and you had no idea if he could fit himself inside of you. However, the most mouthwatering part of it all was the thick, dense curls that sat at the base of his delicious cock. It was so rugged and masculine, and in the current state you were in, it was enough to make your knees actually quake. Bucky’s right arm shot out to steady you, thankfully.
“Are you okay?” he asked, worry seeping into his tone.
You nodded your head, unable to pull your gaze away from his groin. “More than okay,” you answered after gulping down the saliva that had pooled in your mouth. Bucky’s deep chuckle pulled your eyes back to his. While you had expected him to be flushed from the attention you were giving him, he appeared more confident under your hungry gaze. Dare you say: he was glowing from your blatant ogling. A small smirk sat on his devastatingly swollen, pink lips and you couldn’t hold back a groan as you lunged for his lips.
He held you back, much to your dismay. His eyes stared down at you and it felt like you were going to get sucked into the black hole that were his eyes. “You’re wearing too much.”
Suddenly, two sets of hands were ripping at your clothes. You were focused on your top and Bucky was working on the zipper of your jeans, shimmying them down your legs once they headed his demand. You tossed the cotton shirt to the ground and unhooked your bra. Before you could pull the straps off your shoulder, Bucky stopped you. His fingers took over the task, slowly pulling them down your shoulders, savoring the moment.
Once your breasts were free from your bra, you could hear Bucky grunt as if someone had dealt a blow to his solar plexus. In the next moment, his hands and mouth descended on your chest, enveloping the delicate skin with calloused and wet heat. Your hands flew into his hair and tugged on the roots, pulling his face impossibly closer to your chest. Every tweak to your nipples from his metal fingers or his teeth and tongue caused your underwear to cling to you more and more.
“Bucky,” you moaned, earning one back in response. Your fingers that were threaded through his thick hair pulled, trying to bring him back up to your mouth, but he stubbornly latched on to your breast and refused to move away. When his teeth came down gently around the peak of your nipple, you felt your legs give out from the overwhelming sensation. Bucky’s strong arm supported your weight as he slowly turned you around and backed you up to your bed.
He trailed his mouth to your other breast and laid the both of you down while he lavished his attention all over your chest. You never knew that you could feel so good from stimulation on your breasts alone, but what a revelation it was. Your back arched as you were laid out on the bed with Bucky’s weight hovering over you. He let out a satisfied moan when your action pushed your soft skin further into his hand and mouth.
After another moment, Bucky moved his attention from your chest and trailed wet, hot, sloppy kisses down your torso until he reached the cotton of your underwear. He looked up, catching your gaze, and you gave him a small nod of consent to pull your underwear off.
“I need your words,” Bucky softly chided. “I need to know you want this.”
“I do, yes!” you eagerly answered. “I want this so bad, Bucky.”
“Yeah?” he questioned as he pulled your underwear down with an excruciatingly slow pace.
You nodded your head, completely mesmerized as you looked down at him. How could you not be mesmerized when he looked at you with something akin to awe or worship? It was taking everything in you not to grab him, throw him down on the bed, and ride him until the break of dawn. But you would be a fool to rush your first time together. You wanted this moment to last forever. “I’ve wanted you – this – since you joined the team.”
“You’re telling me we could have been doing this since I joined?” he asked as he crawled back up your body, peppering kisses on whatever exposed skin he could. You nodded your head quickly and pulled him into another searing kiss. “We have a lot of time to make up for then,” he said between kisses.
You were about to draw him closer when suddenly, you heard something vibrating under your bed, sending small vibrations through the bedframe. The two of you pulled away and looked at each other with confusion, not understanding what was happening.
The vibrations continued, prompting Bucky to pull himself off you and move off the bed. After a few seconds, he came back up, holding a box you had thought was buried in the back of your closet. Your eyes grew wide like saucers as Bucky put the box on the bed and opened the lid before you could come to your senses and stop him from seeing what was inside.
His brows furrowed as he pulled out the culprit – your bright red, bullet vibrator. Bucky looked up at you with a puzzled expression. “What is this?”
You snatched the vibrator from his hands, turned it off and threw it across the room. “It’s nothing!” you immediately responded, feeling anxiety creep into your veins. What would Bucky think of your box of vibrators? What would his old-fashioned mind come up with and would he be finished with what you were about to do when he realized what it was?
“Nothing? Then why is there a note from Natasha in here?”
“What?”
You pulled the box closer to you and looked inside to see a small note inside. On it, Natasha just wrote "I dusted these off for you”, with a winking face underneath, a condom tapped to said note, and her initial. You groaned, burying your face in your hands. You knew she meant well, but it was mortifying to know she had dug around in your closet, found the box, and then put it back where you had it hidden before. You didn’t even want to know how she knew where it used to live.
“Hey,” Bucky said softly, grabbing your wrists to pull your hands from your face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
You sighed, realizing there was no way to get around this other than going through the awkward moment. “Um, it’s a bit embarrassing, but… these are my… adult toys, you could say.”
When you looked at Bucky, you could tell he didn’t quiet get what you were saying. How could he when talking about sex was taboo during his youth and when he was a brainwashed assassin for the last however-many-decades.
"Uh, I kinda used to use them to help me… relax,” you tried again, hoping your euphemism would translate in his brain.
“Relax?”
You buried your head in your hands again and murmured.
“What did you say?”
“They’re my sex toys!” you burst out, looking up at him with wild, expectant eyes. You saw the moment clarity hit his brain. His face shifted from confusion to understanding to flushed in the span of one second. He was silent for a minute before he spoke up.
“Sex toys?” He said it like he wasn’t expecting an answer, so you didn’t respond to him, waiting to see how this situation would unfold. “You used these… while I was just down the hall.”
You sat there, frozen, watching as Bucky took the box from your hands and put it down on the floor before kicking it away from the bed. He stood up and crawled on to the bed, pushing you down gently before he laid his body on top of yours. The warmth, the weight, and the scent of him flooded your senses, making you effectively forget how to produce words.
“I never want you to use those again,” he growled. “Not while I’m here.”
With that, he gave you a scorching kiss before he moved down the bed, positioning himself at the apex of your thighs. He gently pushed your thighs apart so his broad shoulders could situate himself to access your pussy.
“She’s so pretty,” he cooed as he looked down at you with the hungriest look you have ever seen grace his face. He drew a finger through your slick folds, and a violent shiver made its way up your spine, sending your back arching off the bed. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked darkly as he held your hips down with his beautiful vibranium arm. “I’m just getting started with her.”
His mouth descended on your core while his fingers continued to draw lazy shapes near your entrance. The moment his lips touched the hood of your clit, you practically let out a scream. Everything he was doing felt more sensitive than it should have been. You could say that was the one perk of being single for the last five years.
His tongue, lips, and fingers worked over your pussy with rapt attention. He held you down with every attempt your hips made to cant up into his touch, fully engrossed in the task he had set for himself.
“God, you taste so sweet,” he slurred against your sex.
Your hands gripped the sheets underneath you and your eyes rolled to the back of your head when his fingers finally entered you, curling inside your walls. Every drag of his fingers, every swipe of his tongue over your clit, every grumble and groan that came from his chest sent you soaring higher and higher. Your bones felt like they were catching fire while your muscles felt like they were turning to liquid. Your body was overwhelmed with pleasure and you came with a scream before you could voice anything to Bucky.
The solider between your legs eagerly lapped up every last drop of your release, moaning against you enthusiastically. Your chest heaved with uneven breaths as you rode out the warm waves of your orgasm. You were so encapsulated in the fuzzy warmth of your pleasure that you didn’t notice the Adonis of a man crawling back up your body until he connected his mouth with yours.
The tangy taste of yourself on his tongue made you reel even as you were coming down. Bucky’s hands closed around your wrists and brought your hands above your head, pulling your body taught beneath his as he settled on top of you once more. You felt a warm liquid bead just under your navel when Bucky pressed his hips into yours.
“Bucky, please,” you begged. “I need to touch you, please.”
“Shh,” he hushed against your lips. “I know, but I need to be inside of you right now before I lose my mind.”
You whined like a petulant child as you were denied from handling Bucky the way you had been dreaming about since you saw him, receiving a chuckle from the man above you.
Bucky pulled a hand away from your wrists, holding them with his other, while he wrapped his metal hand around himself. He dragged the angry red tip of his cock through your folds, lubing himself with your slick. Stars erupted behind your eyes as you basked in the feeling of him. After a moment, Bucky let himself fall against your core as he reached to get the condom he slyly put next to you before he kicked your box of adult toys away. He quickly ripped the package open with his teeth and rolled the condom on to his obscene length.
There was a brief moment where everything froze between the two of you and you just stared at each other.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” you whispered, afraid if you spoke too loudly that you would ruin the moment.
“This is just the beginning,” he said while lining himself up with your entrance. “I need you to let me know if I hurt you.”
“I’ll tell you,” you replied immediately, knowing that consent and safety were very important to Bucky after all that he had been through. “I promise. But I need you inside right now.”
A sly grin formed on his face before he started to slowly push in. Your hands fought against his hold, wanting to clutch his shoulders tightly while he was splitting you apart with his monstrous dick. The stretch was lethal. You could feel him impaling you, but there wasn’t any pain like you were afraid there would be with a man of his size. Instead, the stretch caused a blossoming heat to begin unfurling in your lower tummy.
“Oh, my God,” you moaned. The sound was borderline pornographic, but that was the least of your worries at the moment. “Bucky, you’re so big.”
Bucky dropped his head to your shoulder upon hearing your words. “You can’t say things like that while I’m inside you, doll. I’ll finish before we can even begin.”
You giggled, feeling the warmth increase at the thought of Bucky being too worked up and finishing before he was fully inside of you. There was nothing you found more attractive than Bucky loosing his cool at the thought of you or the words you said.
A groan tore out of his throat at your giggle. “You can’t laugh either. I can’t control myself when you clench around me.” You ceased your laughing for his sake and instead focused on his cock sinking into you. After a few more moments, Bucky was fully sheathed inside of you, and you had never felt fuller or this content than you did in this moment.
“Please, move,” you whispered into his ear, urging him on with a roll of your hips into his.
Bucky didn’t need to be told twice. He immediately set the perfect pace, pulling and pushing his hips into yours, eliciting lewd sounds from where the two of you were joined. Bucky’s head remained on your shoulder, but you felt his teeth sink into the flesh of your shoulder and the slight burst of pain sent a thrill down your spine and a moan fall from your lips.
“God, you’re so tight,” Bucky wheezed. “How are you this tight?”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve let someone into my bed,” you answered.
“No one else is allowed in this bed,” he growled, punctuating his possessive comment with a particularly harsh thrust of his hips. The tip of his cock brushed a spot inside of you that you had only been able to find once before with one of your toys. But with each thrust afterwards, Bucky had no problem reaching the same spot, sending all conscious thought out of your brain. “No one else will ever get to know what you feel like.”
You could feel the coil in your belly threatening to snap once again with each roll of his hips and every word that came out of his mouth. In this moment, it felt as if this man was made for you. The way his cock fit inside of you. The way his head fit perfectly in your shoulder. The way his skin felt against yours. The way the coarse hairs at the base of his cock brushed against your clit with each thrust.
Bucky’s hand let go of your wrists and flew to hold himself up on the bed as he began to speed up his strokes. With your hands free, you reached down and latched on to his shoulders, bringing your bodies closer together. With the pleasure building in your tummy, you felt yourself fly higher towards the sun.
If this was how Icarus felt, you understood why he couldn’t resist the warmth and beauty of the sun.
“I’m close,” you whined, sinking your fingernails into Bucky’s shoulder. “Right there. Please, don’t stop, Bucky.”
“Come for me,” he commanded. “I want to feel you come around me.”
With his permission, you felt the tight band of pleasure snap, flooding you with endorphins while you rode out the best orgasm of your life. Bucky whined above you as he stilled his hips and you could feel the condom fill with his release as the two of you came together.
The two of you laid entangled together afterwards and the weight of his body on top of yours was lulling you to sleep. When you felt Bucky shift above you, you latched on to him, not wanting him to go anywhere.
“I’m not leaving, I just don’t want to crush you,” Bucky laughed as he rolled you both on to your sides. With his head on your pillow, you soaked in the sight of him looking much lighter than he ever has. You reached out and brushed a strand of his hair behind his ear, dragging your thumb over the skin of his cheekbone. His eyes fluttered shut and he let out a content sigh. “I’m never leaving this bed,” he said.
Butterflies erupted in your belly as you thought about waking up to Bucky every day. It was a sight you knew you could get used to. “I guess we’ll have to send in our resignations to the team,” you joked, earning a genuine smile from the man out of time laying next to you.
He curled his arms around you, pulling you flush against his body. “About those toys,” he mumbled into your hair. You leaned your head back to look into his eyes and giggled when you saw the faux menacing look on his face. “We’re getting rid of those devil red toys tomorrow. First thing.”
You laughed and leaned in to press a kiss to his lips, not knowing how else to express your joy and awe for the man finally laying in your arms.
a/n: if you made it this far, THANK YOU!!! i hope you enjoyed this very self-indulgent fic of mine! reblogs and comments are much appreciated <3
Summary: You, Nat and Wanda are scrolling through TikTok when a new trend catches your eye.
A/N: Divider by @whimsicalrogers
Natasha, Wanda, and you were scrolling through TikTok. You were laughing hysterically at the different videos you showed each other when Natasha suddenly started smacking Wanda’s arm and pointing to her phone. Wanda’s eyes grew large and she nodded giggling.
“What are you two hiding?” You smile at the two.
“Watch.” Natasha shows you the video. A headline reading “‘He’s just a friend’ ight then text him ‘lets fuck’ and see what he says” is followed with a video of the responses the TikToker got. Ranging from mean to funny to eager.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you and Bucky get stranded on a mission, and the hotel... well, you know the rest✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, friends to lovers, light emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, smut, big porn level smut (dirty talk, there was only one bed, praise kink, teasing, nipple play, finger sucking, super soldier senses, posessive sex, forced eye contact, dumbification, making out, sensitive reader, perfectly "appropriate" use of bucky's metal arm, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, mean!bucky, degradation kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 7k✦
✦Author's Note: request! a true classic for a reason✦
This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.
An hour ago, that worst thing was the rain, pounding down over you and Bucky’s heads, drenching you right down to your bones. Before that was the mission starting late, which meaning it would run late, which meant that you weren’t going to be home until almost four in the morning. Before that it was being put on the mission with Bucky. Just Bucky.
Just you and Bucky, in the middle of Norway, alone with about fifteen ex-Hydra scientists. You weren’t even supposed to be in the field to begin with. You’re the nerd, the glasses, the intelligence and books and never the fists, until Walker and Yelena decided they hated you, and put you here.
“I don’t know how- How to do field things, or- I can’t even shoot a gun-“
“You will have Bucky Barnes,” Yelena had waved her hand, not looking up from her tablet. “It will be fine.”
“But what if it’s not fine,” you’d pleaded. “What if there’s a- A storm, or more people than we thought, or- Or Bucky gets hurt-“
“Who is in charge of Bucky’s health?” Yelena had cut you off with a pointed look, and you’d swallowed.
“I’m not- I wouldn’t say in charge-“
“You make him eat vegetables. That is in charge.”
“I make all of you eat vegetables-“
“You don’t make me eat vegetables,” Walker had muttered, and you’d flipped him off.
“That’s because I hate you.”
Walker had scowled, Ava—pressed against the wall of the room and clearly trying not to be involved in this conversation—had snorted, and Yelena’s mouth had twitched.
“See,” she’d given you a winning grin. “You are a natural leader. You will be fine.”
“I will not be fine-“
Bucky had said your name, and everyone in the room had gone still. He’d been left out of this meeting. From Yelena’s wide eyes and Ava’s smirk, it hadn’t been hard to work out that it was on purpose.
“What isn’t going to be fine,” Bucky had muttered, and Walker and Yelena had an exchanged sharp, you do it looks.
Walker had lost the glare off, sighed, and turned to Bucky with a wide, winning grin.
“You’re taking the scout on her first mission, buddy, congrats- Shit- Hey-“
Bucky had stormed forward, metal hand flexing like he was thinking about wrapping it around Walker’s throat. He’d stopped himself, shot you a strange look, and jerked his head.
“Out,” he’d grunted, before pausing and adding, “Please.”
The please hadn’t been necessary. You’d almost run out the room with a nervous look back, a little worried you were going to come back to a bloodbath. The glass was supposed to be fully soundproof. You’d still been able to hear muffled, furious shouting.
Bucky had stormed out after almost an hour, given you a tight look, strange look, then stomped down the hall. Yelena had given you a thumbs up. You’d—foolishly—hoped that meant you were off the hook.
It hadn’t.
You’d been dropped in Norway with Bucky a week later, an hour after planned—Alexei wanted to bring his camera, and wouldn’t hear anyone tell him no—with plans to be picked up in the morning.
“Stay close,” Bucky had muttered, not meeting your gaze. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
You’d nodded, your voice barely more than a breath. “James, I- I don’t know what you’d do.“
“Then don’t do anything.” He’d snapped.
You’d shrunken into yourself. You knew he didn’t like this—you weren’t a big fan either—but the bristling, electric anger almost radiating off of him, it wasn’t anything you were used to. Bucky was usually kind to you. He opened your doors and brought you muffins from the bakery down the street. You made him watch movies when he couldn’t sleep, and he asked you questions about pop culture when he was confused. You had a good—confusing, but good—relationship.
Yelena likes to tease that he like likes you. You try to punch her in the face, and always miss. He doesn’t. He couldn’t. He’s Bucky Barnes, and you’re a dork with a computer that he’s nice to because he’s a good man.
A kind, handsome, perfect man with a jawline you’d kill to kiss and hands you’d die to hold. A man who remembers your birthday when you sometimes forget, and knows your coffee order, and lets you push him around even thought he could crush you with a single hand. You’d like him to crush you with that hand. Maybe pin you down with it and split you open and kiss you with those soft lips that always ghost with a smile at your stupid jokes.
You never should’ve told Yelena about your tiny, little, totally manageable crush on him to begin with. It’s going to be the death of you. You’re sort of starting to worry that this was Yelena’s grand plan to finally make you talk to him. If it was, you’re actually going to kill her, or hire someone who can.
Because it started raining. And after it started raining, lightning cracked through the sky, and thunder followed, and you and Bucky got slowed down. Slowed down enough that—combined with the weather conditions—Alexei couldn’t come pick you up. And you had to find a hotel in Norway.
And the only room left had one bed.
And you’re going to jump off the balcony and pray that Bucky doesn’t catch you.
“You should take a shower,” he mutters, tossing your bag onto the couch. “I’ll go find some extra clothing.”
You nod, pulling at the sleeves of your drenched shirt. “I- I can take the couch-“
“No.”
You sigh. “Bucky-“
“I’m on the couch,” he shoots you a stern look, bracing his hands on his hips. “And you’re on the couch.”
You swallow, and nod. Arguing with him right now doesn’t seem productive. You’re lucky he’s still talking to you after the mission.
It didn’t go poorly. In fact, given everything, it actually went better than you could’ve hoped for. But Bucky is still looking at you like you’re a problem, and it’s making you sort of sick. You don’t want to be something extra that weighs on his shoulders. Don’t want to be an extra layer of ice, pressing down on his chest when he’s already the one keeping you both together. It’s already cold enough as it is.
You shower. Bucky finds clothing—an oversized, thin fabriced shirt that just drapes past your thighs—and follows after you. Neither of you say much, and you try not to let the silence feel like poison, but it’s hard. He’s never been quiet with you this long, but you’ve also never been in this kind of situation with him before.
“Alexei will get us in the morning,” he mutters, stepping out of the shower with only a towel wrapped around his waist. “Then we’ll get you home.”
“Oh- Okay.” You flush, staring down at your hands. His chest is broad, and bare, and warm looking. The rivers of scars over his shoulder and pecs look like they’d be easy to map, and the dip of his towel show off the strength of his stomach. Thick and muscled, soft in all the right places, probably easy to wrap yourself in, and-
Bucky mutters you name, and you’d stopped staring at your hands without thinking. You clear your throat and slide into the bed, grabbing your phone with shaking fingers and pretending to be deeply invested in the blank lock screen. In your periphery, Bucky doesn’t move for a long moment. You dare to look at him under your lashes, and find him staring back.
“Bucky?” You ask softly, and Bucky’s throat bobs. “Are you-“
“You did good,” he grunts, and you blink, heat rushing between your thighs.
“I- I did good?”
He nods tightly. “Today. You did good.”
“Oh.” You swallow, unable to break his gaze. “I- I didn’t do much-“
“You got me through the lab. You listened.”
“Anyone can listen, James.”
Bucky’s jaw twitches, and he huffs something close to a laugh. “You’d be surprised,” he mutters, grabbing his warm clothing off the arm of the couch. “And don’t sell yourself short, doll. You listen real well.”
Your mouth falls open, and you think you might be frozen in place. Bucky retreats back to the bathroom, and you’re not even sure what to do with yourself. You’re sure he didn’t mean it like that, but god, it would’ve been nice if he did. Your head certainly takes the thoughts and runs with them. Bucky over you in this same bed, that metal hand pressed against your stomach, cooed praise and light orders of take it and make some noise for me, doll. The gleam in his eyes when you’d listen, the way he’d feel buried inside of you, the burn of blue eyes as he’d watch you come apart, driving into your cunt over and over and over-
“Night,” Bucky grunts, and you blink at him through the dark.
“Night,” you breathe back, and for a second, you just stare at each other.
Bucky’s gaze softens slightly. You could swear is does. And maybe it’s just a trick of the light, but his gaze drags down the fabric of your sleep shirt, catching on your bare thighs and spread legs. His tongue darts over his lips, and you press your thighs together, shifting nervously on the mattress.
He looks back up to you, jaw working tight.
“Night,” he mutters again, and you swallow.
He goes for the light, and you glance at the couch. It’s small. More of a sectional than a functional piece of comfort.
“Bucky?” You say, before you can think better of it. “Do you- Do you want to sleep in the bed.”
Bucky freezes, his hand on the light switch. You swallow, pulling the sheets higher up your body, and Bucky mutters your name. “You don’t have to-“
“Are you going to be able to sleep on the couch?” You whisper, and his jaw ticks again.
“That’s not your shit to worry about-“
“Alexei’s going to talk the whole ride home,” you push, and his throat bobs. “And you- You get really grumpy when you don’t sleep.”
Bucky chuckles. “I get grumpy, huh.”
You nod, and he sighs. His hand curls into a fist, and for a second, you’re sure he’s going to tell you no.
“I- I really don’t mind-“
“Alright,” he cuts you off, words short and clipped. “You win.”
You blink, and try not to smile when he hits the lights. The streetlamps outside let you see his figure, walking over to the bed. You force yourself not to hold your breath, and lie down like everything is perfectly normal.
The mattress dips. Bucky lies flat and stiff on his back, slowly pulling the sheets over his body, and you turn away, trying to hide the flush blooming over your face.
This was a mistake. That’s clear now. You adore him too much, and you wanted to help, and it made you forget about the actual consequences of Bucky being right there, next to you, wearing only sweats and emitting heat like a furnace. The bed feels smaller than it did a moment ago, but that might just be the size of him. Your fingers brush, and his hand jerks away like he thinks you’re going to burn. You twist further over, pulling the blankets with you.
“You’re hogging,” Bucky grunts, and you pull your knees a little into your chest.
“Sorry,” you mumble, trying to loosen your grip. “Just- Cold.”
It’s not cold. It was, before he climbed in next to you. Now it’s impossibly humid, like you’ve been dropped in to a hot spring. Bucky sighs, and doesn’t take the slack of the sheets you offered. You shift in the bed, trying to make yourself smaller, trying to offer him more space.
The minutes crawl past you. It’s been an exhausting day, but you’ve never been more awake. You’re worried he can hear your heartbeat. You’re worried he can smell the arousal, pooling between your thighs whenever your feet brush. You’re almost curled fully into a ball, the sheet wrapped around you like a cocoon. A restless, anxious pill bug of a cocoon, trying to find a spot on the bed where you’re not painfully aware of Bucky’s presence.
His hands, brushing near your spine when you roll the wrong direction. The steady sound of his breath, that should be calming but only works you up more and more. The line of his jaw when you risk a look, and the flutter of his lashes as he stares at the ceiling. At least he’s not sleeping either. You can be grumpy together, in the morning.
“You’re movin’ too much,” Bucky grunts, and you’re flushing so deeply you’re worried you’re going to light on fire.
“Sorry,” you breathe, and he sighs.
“’S fine.”
You think he might just give up and go back to the couch, but he doesn’t. You consider taking the couch yourself, but you’re stubborn. You asked him to do this, and if you try to go to the couch, Bucky will just throw you back to bed and take the couch himself.
That’s a nice idea. Strong arms wrapped around you, manhandling you, folding you over and tossing you wherever he pleases like a fuckdoll.
You risk another look, and almost whimper.
He’s staring at you in the dark, that strange, hooded look gleaming in his eyes. Your heart pushes into your throat, and your fingers dig into your hips as you hold yourself. Neither of you seem to be able to think of anything to say. Bucky licks his lips again, his eyes darting down to the arch of your neck, and your breath catches. The air seems to be pressing over your skin like a shroud. You’re not sure what to do with yourself but try to breathe.
This must be a dream. Bucky wouldn’t look at you like that during the day. And if it isn’t a dream, he probably doesn’t mean it the way your sleepy, addled brain thinks. He’s always had the same effect on you as a strong drink. Making you a little loose-lipped and foolish and delusional. There’s a reason you don’t go out with him. You’re not trying to ruin the good, steady friendship you’ve had for so long.
“I’m sorry you got stuck with me,” you whisper, and Bucky frowns.
“Stuck with you?”
“On- On the mission.”
His frown deepens. “I’m not stuck with you, that’s-“
He cuts himself off, rolling onto his back with a groan. He runs a hand over his face, and you swallow, pushing up a little to hold his gaze.
“It’s okay, I- I get it-“
“I wasn’t stuck with you,” he cuts you off, tone surprisingly stern. “I mighta been- Harsh,” he lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “But listen to me, I’m never- I like havin’ you around, alright? Never stuck with you.”
“But-“
“You matter,” he grunts, staring firmly up at the ceiling. “I don’t like this ‘cause you- You’re not supposed to be in these kinda situations, doll. That’s it. Don’t think it’s anything else.”
“Oh- Okay.” You whisper, and Bucky’s eyes dart to yours.
“Got it?”
You nod, and he sighs, looking back to the ceiling. His arms are still crossed, and he doesn’t look cold, but just lying there without blankets, it can’t be comfortable.
“Bucky?” You say softly, and he grunts. “Do you want the blankets?”
“I’m good-“
“We could share,” you add quickly, and he shoots you an amused look.
“I tried to share. You’re the one who kept yankin’ them away from me.”
You flush, wrinkling your nose. “They’re small-“
“They fit the mattress. Should fit two people.”
“Well, they didn’t think one of those people would be you.”
Bucky raises his brows, and your eyes widen.
“I- I just mean- You- You’re very big, and- I’m smaller- The sheets are smaller, and you’re big-“
“Said I’m big already,” he drawls, and you’re going to smack him.
“Well, you are,” you snap, yanking the sheets fully around you. “And now I’m not sharing. Because you’re being a butt.”
You flip over, burying your face in a pillow when Bucky laughs. It’s a low, deep sound that rolls through your body, almost making you dizzy. You feel the mattress shift behind you, and curl further into yourself.
“Your heart is racing,” he mutters, low and rough, and you’re sure you’re dreaming now.
“Your heart is racing.”
Bucky chuckles again. That’s a dangerous sound. He shouldn’t be allowed to make it.
“You’re bein’ bratty tonight,” he murmurs, a large, light hand tracing over the curve of your hips. “It’s cute.”
You want to roll over and hit him or something. It’s not fair to do that. Not right now, not to you. “James…” You whisper, and he hums.
“Love when say my name like that,” he toys with your hair between, and you bite back a moan. “You know you’re the only one I let say it, right? Only one who could get away with damn near anything ‘round me.”
You make a disgruntled, confused little sound that’s a mix between a moan and whine. You’re really not sure what the fuck is happening, but you’re terrified to ruin it. To move wrong and break from the dream.
“But Christ, doll,” Bucky wraps his hand slowly around the back of your neck, and you can’t stop yourself from leaning back into the touch. “I’m tryin’ real hard to be gentleman, and you’re not making it easy.”
His thumb drags over the base of your hairline, and the mattress dips again. Your breathing becomes shallow, as Bucky leans down. His lips brush near your ear, and you whimper, clinging onto the sheets for dear life.
“I can smell you,” he says, and you’d like the mattress to just swallow you whole. “Can smell how you get fuckin’ wet looking at me, how you gush whenever I touch you,” he squeezes that back of your neck gently. “Tell me to back off. Before I do something real stupid and selfish.”
You roll over slowly, and try not to moan at just the sight of him. Hanging over you in the dark, broad shoulders and parted lips, staring at you like he wants to eat you alive.
“Selfish?” You manage to breathe, reaching up to rest your hand, flat against his burning chest. “James, you’re not-“
“Don’t.” He catches your wrist, but doesn’t push you away. “I want you all to myself. I’d call that selfish.”
You shake your head, your heart pounding your ears. Your nails scrape over his skin, and his whole body almost shudders with restraint. He mutters your name, cupping your cheek, his thumb dragging against your lower lip.
“Please,” he rasps. “Don’t look at me like that, doll, c’mon-“
“What if I want you to look at me like that,” you whisper, and Bucky’s fingers flex against your jaw. “What- What if I want you too.”
Bucky’s gaze drops back to your lips. His tongue flicks out again, and when he looks at you, you can feel the desperation, tight as a wire between your bodies, begging to be snapped.
You’re not a brave person. You have never been. But under his attention, you feel like you could do anything. You drag your hand over his shoulders, and he shudders. You hold him, trembling with anticipation, and tug him down. He lets you, lowering until your lips are just brushing, his eyes lidded and features blown out.
“You sure?” He mutters, letting out a sharp breath when you nod. “I’m not- One night ain’t gonna be enough-“
“Good,” you whisper, and Bucky groans, fully dropping his brow. “Bucky- Please-“
Bucky kisses you, and you’ve dedicated countless hours to dreaming of this moment. You’ve played it out in a million scenarios, a million different ways, with a million different results. You never dared let yourself think that the reality would be better than the dream, and yet you’re here. And Bucky’s kissing you, and you didn’t know anything could feel so good.
He’s slow. Almost cautious, like he’s trying to test the waters of just how much he’s allowed to take. His lips are chapped and warm, working softly against yours, lighting a little fire with every single, teasing kiss. His tongue brushes over your low lip and you suck in a sharp breath. Bucky hums, pressing a little further down, caging you beneath the mass of his body, trapping you beneath him.
You’re exactly where you want to be. You open your mouth when his tongue presses on your lower lip, tugging gently on his hair to coax him on. He moans down your throat, weaving his fingers into your hair and tugging ever so lightly back. You let him guide you, clinging to his shoulders, getting swept away in the mass of him, the feeling of having him everywhere. His free hand drags down to caress your side, and you arch into the touch with a soft, uncontrolled sound.
Bucky groans, and his kiss gets sloppier. His movements become shorter, his lips demanding against yours. You’re already out of breath, but you don’t dare to push him away. You’ll let him kiss you like this until your head is spinning, until you pass out from the pleasurable, burning ache of his kisses and touches.
“Jesus,” Bucky mutters against your lips, kissing between every word as if he can’t stop himself. “You’re so fuckin’ soft for me, doll, so sweet and easy.”
You whine and Bucky chuckles, kissing you deep and long and so torturously slow. His hand drags further down, tugging the hem of your shirt up. Your legs spread mindlessly, all the thoughts in your head being sucked away by Bucky’s kisses. Cool, metal fingers drag up your sensitive thigh, and you gasp, whole body shivering under the touch.
“You like that, huh,” Bucky kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other. “Tryin’ to take it nice and slow, but you’re already begging for a little, more. Look at you,” he kisses up your cheek, over your jaw. “Gonna take real good care of you, doll. Make it feel real good for my pretty, needy girl.”
Words are already failing you, and you’re getting a little worried for what kind of boneless, fuckdoll puppet you’re going to be when he’s done with you. It’s an electric, hopeful fear. You hope you can feel him when you sit down tomorrow. You hope you can’t walk straight for a fucking week.
Bucky kisses over your nose, then your neglected cheek, and down your jaw. His teeth graze against you, his hand in your hair angling you around so he can suck little bruises right under your jaw. Those thick, metal fingers are still teasing along the inseam over your panties, and when his thumb brushes against the embarrassingly wet spot against your core, he groans against your skin.
“So wet,” he mutters, kissing over the sore mark under your jaw, then attaching his lips near your pulse point. “All for me, isn’t it? Thinkin’ about me fucking you, nice and slow.”
His tongue flicks against your throat, and you make a borderline pathetic noise.
“Bu- Bucky-“ You cry out, wrapping your arms fully around his neck. “Just for you- Only for you- Please-“
Bucky groans, pushing his face further into your neck. His thumb drags back against your clothed slit, teasing the lightest amount of pleasure until you’re clenching around nothing.
“More,” you try to demand, but it’s breathy and broken. “James, I- I need more-“
You roll your hips up, and Bucky’s thumb bumps right up against your clit. Your thighs try to push together and hold him there, but he grabs them forcing them back open and pushing his knee right against your core.
“Demanding,” he presses a quick kiss to your lips then pushes back up, tracing his thumb over the curve of your swollen bottom lip. “You wanna try that one again?”
You swallow and shake your head, trying to push him just a little, just to test what will happen. Bucky’s jaw ticks. He pushes his knee further forward against your cunt, and you cry out, rolling your hips to chase a little extra friction. Bucky lets you, his thumb pushing a little further into your mouth.
He groans when you take him, swirling your tongue and sucking as the need between your thighs builds impossibly high. He keeps hitting against your clit, but not with nearly enough pressure, and he’s planted against your fluttering cunt, but you need him in you. You need to not be able to think, outside of Bucky all around you. If you were stronger, you’d try to pull him back down, but you’re not. You’re a messy, fluttering mess beneath him, unable to remember how cold it was moments ago as you suck on his thumb like a whore.
Bucky presses on your abdomen, pushing you deeper into the mattress, and you grab his wrist. You give him your best, watering, pathetic eyes. You need more of him the same way you need oxygen. His knee isn’t enough, no amount of him is enough. If you don’t get to drown in the pine scent and massive strength of him, you might start actually screaming.
“Look at you,” Bucky mutters, leaning over your body with a smirk. “So pretty like this, doll. Could drive a man fuckin’ crazy.”
You whimper, eyes dropping to his crotch. To the thick, massive tent pressing against his sweats, and the slightly dark spot against the gray fabric. You moan around his thumb, and watch it twitch slightly. Bucky groans, leaning further down so the head of his cock drags against your soft thigh. He pulls his thumb away, smearing a line of spit over your cheek, then ducks down and lick it away. You moan, turning your face to try and meet his lips, and he chuckles.
“That’s right,” he mutters, indulging you with a slow, gentle kiss. “I know what you need, baby. I’ve got you.”
You hum, eyes fluttering closed and Bucky goes back to kissing you like you’re something priceless. You’re still fucking yourself on his knee, the feeling spreading like a warm, rising tide through your body. Bucky hums, his now free hand slowly dragging under your shirt. Teasing up your side, under your breast, then pinching your nipple between two fingers and rolling it in tight, fast circles.
He swallows the cry that leaves your lips, flicking your nipple before soothing the hurt with his thumb.
“Easy,” he mutters. “Nice and easy. Let’s get you ready, huh?”
You nod, thinking back to that tent in Bucky’s pants. You’re going to need to be ready to take that. And whatever he has to do to get you there, you’re more than willing to let him.
Bucky pulls back up and slowly guides your t-shirt over your head, tossing it off to the side and helping you settle back into the mattress. A low groan rumbles through his chest as his eyes rake over your body, and your arms instinctively go up to cover yourself from the unrelenting, almost feral gaze.
He catches your wrist and pins it over your head, giving you a stern, knowing look.
“Don’t hide,” he scolds, his metal hand slowly trailing down your exposed body. “Most gorgeous fuckin’ girl I’ve ever seen, trying to hide her pretty little body from me.” He grabs your waist, squeezing the soft skin before massaging it, holding your gaze the whole time. “Been driving me made for years, baby. Thinking you were right there and I’d never get to have you like this.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Torture. Goddamn torture.”
Your mouth is hanging open, your breaths coming out in short helpless pants. You’re not even really sure what to do with yourself but lay there, and you’d feel worse about that if it didn’t seem to be exactly what Bucky wanted as well.
“Thought about just fuckin’- Living with my face here,” he palms at your breast, the cold of his metal hand a sharp contrast to the fire, brimming under every inch of your skin. “Marking those up until the whole world knew that you were mine. My needy little slut.”
You whimper, and Bucky’s lips twitch.
“Yeah, I know you like that,” he flicks your nipple, watching with dangerous attention as your body seizes up. “Always could smell you gettin’ wet when I’d tell you what to do. Drove me out of my mind, you got no idea.”
You think you’ve got some idea. His grip on your hands is tight like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together, and his every muscle is rippling with restraint. You let out a low, soft whine of his name, and Bucky makes that deep, hungry sound again.
“This pussy,” he mutters, dragging his hands back down your body, cupping your pussy and grinding the palm of his hand against your clit. “It’s mine, isn’t it, doll.”
“Ye- Yes,” you whisper. “It’s yours, James- Please.”
Bucky grins, hooking two metal fingers around the ruined fabric, knuckles bumping against your needy pussy, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Damn right it is.”
He rips your underwear off in one motion, and you don’t even get a second to adjust to the feeling before Bucky’s shoving his ring finger straight into your cunt, pressing his thumb down over your sensitive clit. You make an embarrassingly loud sound, almost bucking off the bed, but the metal hand is impossibly strong. He pushes you back down, crooking his finger deep inside of you, and laughs when your eyes roll back in your head.
“Come on, doll. Eyes on me,” he pumps his finger once, twice, the slaps your sensitive cunt before shoving his hand back in. “Eyes on me.”
You force your eyes to open back up, locking onto his as you try to adjust to the feeling of him inside you. It’s just one finger. One thick, massive, metal finger that you can feel straight through your core and to your toes. The cold makes every sensation starker. Bucky’s forced eye contact makes you feel raw and exposed, like a meal he’s about to savor.
“Good girl,” he coos, pulling that finger almost fully out, swirling his thumb around your clit, and pushing it back in.
“Buckyyyy-“ You moan, lashes fluttering as he bumps right against that gooey spot deep inside of you. “Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“I’m not teasin’,” he leans over you, his hand picking up the pace. “Keep those pretty eyes on me, baby. You can do it.”
You try. God you try. Bucky fucks his finger into you like a machine, reangling his hand so the metal palm is slapping against your clit, working you open more and more and more until you’re whimpering and unravelling beneath him. It’s so overwhelming, you’re almost forgetting to breathe. You strain against his hold on your hands, but it’s hopeless, and you just end up wiggling below him, tits bouncing in his face.
Bucky groans at the sight of you, his hips jerking and cock dragging against your sensitive inner thigh, but he doesn’t slow down or offer you another kiss. He just keeps you pinned beneath him, drawling out praise and mocking words, shoving in a second finger when the first starts to slip in and out too easy.
“Greedy fuckin’ pussy,” he rasps, eyes burning against yours. “Bet my cock is gonna slide right in, doll. Made to take me like the pretty slut you are.”
You moan again, every last bit of dignity slipping through your trapped fingers. The eye contact makes it too intense, and the second finger is bullying you open just right, offering a little extra pressure against your sensitive g-spot. Bucky’s eyes flash, when a tiny, hitched noise leaves your throat, and presses down harder.
“That’s it, isn’t it,” he mutters, watching every twitch of your face, every flutter of your wet lashes like some kind of incubus sex-hawk. “There’s the spot, baby. Feels so good, I know you want to cum.”
You whimper, nodding desperately. Bucky grinds his hard palm against your over-stimulated clit, and your think you’re going to explode.
“It’s alright, babydoll,” he coos. “Let go.”
Your orgasm snaps through you like a rocket, ripping every nerve of your body and making your vision go white. You thrash and scream as you pussy gushes and clenches, your eyes still unable to leave Bucky’s. His jaw is hanging open, his face lust-drunk and predatory, and it just makes your orgasm crest higher. You think he could shove his whole arm in you and you’d be able to take it, with how he’s unraveled.
If the size of his cock in his pants is any indication of what’s coming. That’s for far better than worse.
You’re trembling when you come down, tears streaming down your cheek and broken mewls escaping your lips. Bucky leans down slowly, kissing your cheek, then your closed eyes, then your open mouth.
“You’re doin’ so well, baby,” he murmurs, letting your wrist go so he can cup your jaw. “Gonna fuck you so good, my sweet girl.”
You make a pathetic, eager sound, and Bucky’s faint smile ghosts over your lips. He leans back up, his thumb dragging against a hickey he left on your neck, and his shoulders shake.
“No idea,” he mutters. “No fuckin’ clue what you do to me.”
He pulls a little further back, tugging down his sweats, and you squeak at the sight of him. You didn’t think dicks could actually look like that without steroids or surgery or something. Thick and veiny, a good amount of hair cropped around heavy balls, his thick, angry head twitching as he fists himself and drags his thumb over his slit.
You look up at him, almost drooling. “You- You’re-“
“Big?” He teases, and you try to scowl, but it’s more of a pout.
“Shut up,” you whine, and he laughs, crawling slowly over your limp body.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Bucky leans down, kissing you like you’re not both sex-addled, ruined wrecks of people. It’s the kiss you imagined when he would be a knight, and you’d be a princess, and he’d sweep you off your feet in your dreams. Slow and loving, more of an oath than an act of need. Trying to say things neither of you know how to articulate with words. You reach up, cradling Bucky’s face between your hands, and he lets out a shuddering breath, muttering your name.
“I’m not gonna be gentle,” he warns, and you smile against his lips.
“Yay.”
Bucky rolls his eyes, but kisses you again, holding onto that soft, honey-sweet moment. His cock rubs between the lips of your pussy, and your breath catches.
“You’re so big,” you whisper, and it’s not a joke anymore. He’s nudging against your entrance, and a sting is already building back up behind your eyes.
“I know,” Bucky mutters, kissing away your tears. “But you can take it, doll. Know you can.”
You nod, letting Bucky kiss you into the mattress. He’s holding you down with the weight of his hips, stopping you from squirming or crawling away as he nudges in the first inch.
“Fuuuuck,” he groans. “So tight, doll, shit-“
Another inch, and you’re struggling for air. The stretch burns in the best possible way, making your head spin and your mouth hang, agape and useless. Bucky kisses your open lips like he can’t help himself, and you can feel his control already slipping as he groans, pushing a little more inside.
His thumb fumbles to find your clit, rubbing tight circles, easing you further and further open. Bucky moans when he bottoms out, his whole body tensed as he tries to hold himself still, giving you time to adjust.
Your eyes cross, and your toes curl, and slowly the pain shifts into a warm, desperate pleasure.
“Bu- Bucky-“ You whisper, scratching at his back. “Move, please.”
He grunts, and pulls his hips fully out before driving them slowly back in. You moan, and he grabs your jaw, forcing his mouth back over yours.
“Feel so fuckin’ good,” he grunts against your lips, repeating the long, torturous motion. “Sweet fuckin’ doll, gonna milk this cock, aren’t you. Let me fuck you however I want.”
You mewl and nod, a molten puddle in Bucky’s arms. The sheets are long tossed to the ground, so you grab his bicep, blinking up at him with needy, pathetic doe eyes. Bucky groans, his pace picking up slightly.
“That’s right,” he grunts, finding an angle that makes him bully your g-spot, a rhythm that pushes broken moans out of your throat. “So sensitive, gorgeous when you cry for me, shit-“
Bucky groans, pressing down to kiss you, all bruising force and spit. You let him, unable to think outside of the consuming way he’s around you, the brutal split of his cock inside your abused pussy.
He’s fucking you so that the bed creaks, so that everything feels floaty and light and impossibly good. His abdomen presses against your clit and his dick hits every good spot inside of you, rearranging your guts and turning you into pure putty. It’s embarrassing, how quickly you’re getting to the edge again. Bucky notices, and doubles down, slamming his hips down just a little harder.
“Like that, baby?” He grunts, watching your slack, cockdrunk expression. “Like bein’ fucked like this? Wanna soak my cock, show me how fuckin’ good it feels?”
You nod, another wrecked noise escaping your throat. Bucky snakes his metal hand between your bodies, rubbing your clit in small, tight circles.
“Again, doll, cum on this dick,” he spanks your clit, then goes back to the circle. “Cum for me-“
You shatter with a cry of Bucky’s name, pussy clenching and fluttering, body arching off the mattress. Bucky groans and doubles over, pressing his face between your breasts and mouthing at them like an animal. Your hands shoot into his hair as you try to hold onto something, your orgasm just cresting higher and higher as Bucky keeps fucking into you. You can feel his cock pulsing inside of you, his shallow thrusts desperate and uncontrolled, his moans vibrating against your skin and making your whole body twitch.
“Bu- Bucky-“ You sob with pleasure, pressing his face further into your body. “Fuck- James- Oh my god-“
Your orgasm doesn’t seem to be settling. It just builds higher and higher as Bucky keeps fucking into you, desperate and rough. You rock beneath him, overstimulated and dazed, and his wraps his mouth around your nipple, sucking hard as his thrusts start to get jagged.
You pet his head with trembling fingers, gasping every word with a hoarse voice. “Come on, James, pleaseee-“
Bucky moans your name, and crashes back up to your lips as he slams home, and cums deep inside your cunt.
There’s so much of him. He kisses you with tongue and long moans, and you’re barely even able to return the affection as he empties himself into your warm cunt. You can feel him in your throat, in the tips of your fingers, almost bursting out of your tummy and seeping through your pussy lips. Bucky fucks you through his orgasm, slower and slower with every thrust, panting against your lips. You clench around him and he buries himself back in with a grunt, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you up into his lap.
You kiss his slowly, everything a little bit of a haze as you finally float back down from your long orgasm. Bucky kisses all over your face as the last of him spills inside of you, then presses his face against your neck, letting out a shaky breath.
His tongue flicks against another one of those bruises he left, and you shiver.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, and you hum, leaning your cheek against the side of his head.
“’S okay.”
Bucky sighs, leaning back to meet your hooded, starry eyes. You’ve never been so exhausted, but fuck, you don’t care. You’ve also never felt so close to someone. To Bucky. You never want to let go.
“That’s gonna hurt in the morning,” he mutters, and you’re not even sure which part he’s talking about, but it doesn’t matter, so you just shrug.
“Worth it.”
Bucky swallows, glancing down at your lips. Like he’s suddenly not allowed to just kiss you.
You lean forward for him, and he immediately melts over you. You smile into the kiss, curling into his chest, and he lets out a low, rough groan. You should probably get off the bed soon. Neither of you are going to be able to sleep in it now. But you really don’t care. If you could, you’d just stay here forever.
Bucky leans back, tracing his thumb over the corner of your mouth. He’s looking at you like you’re a dream. You hope he thinks you’re looking at him the same way.
“Might be a little late,” he rasps. “But can I get you dinner?”
You giggle, and nod. Bucky’s shoulders sag.
“Thank god,” he mutters, leaning back in for another kiss. “Got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this, doll. Really.”
You hum, and just kiss him back. You’ll show him that you know exactly how long later, because you’ve been waiting even longer. For now, you just let him kiss you. You’re going to have all the time in the world, to ruin other beds. You don’t want to waste a single second of his heat and ease in this one. Finally, in Bucky’s arms.
✦End note: it can't believe i've never done this trope before it's amazing i love it here✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
pairing: Nerd!Bucky x Roommate!Reader
wc: +10k
summary: After finding your roommate in a compromising situation, you volunteer to give him a hand… and a mouth, kickstarting the most tumultuous semester in your friendship with a sexual benefits deal; wisely, some rules were established. But would those rules be enough to keep you just friends?
a/n: Part of Midterms & Metal Arms A College AU Marathon. Beta read by @buckysdecaflove, @w1nter-fairy, and @kileyking.
warnings/tags: College/University AU, Nerd Bucky Barnes, Roommates to FWB to Lovers, no use of y/n, smut, secret crush, accidental voyeurism, Bucky calls reader Bunny, grinding, masturbation, use of sex toy, oral sex, sexual free use, breast fucking, thighs fucking, praise kink, eventual p in v, breeding kink, crossposted on ao3, english is not my first language.
The commute from the building where your last lecture was held to your off-campus department was 25 minutes on a regular day using your bike. In Bucky’s case, he took 15 minutes due to his way of driving his restored car.
You knew that.
Your roommate knew that.
That knowledge made it easier to predict when the other would arrive at the apartment. It helped to avoid awkward encounters, like the time he had found you making out and half naked, with your classmate on the couch. Or when you saw him butt-naked as he got out of the shower because he had forgotten his towel in his room.
The only flaw in this?
Yelena.
Yelena, your classmate and best friend, had started seeing a girl who lived near you. This meant that she could drive you home on her way to meet with her new fling.
The day that changed everything had been one of those days. Your lecture would be cut short, and Yelena had been texting Kate as soon as the professor had announced that the class would wrap up early. Leaving at that hour meant less traffic, and to your luck, every traffic light had been green.
“Is this our lucky day? Should we buy a lottery ticket?” Yelena exclaimed after the third green light.
Inside your building, your luck continued because Mrs. Park held open the elevator for you the moment you crossed the front door.
You arrived at your door 10 minutes before your class usually ended. You had just opened your mouth to let out your usual “Hey, Buck” to announce your arrival when you heard it.
A moan coming from down the hall.
You widened your eyes; your keys slipped from your grip, landing on the rug with a dull noise. You knelt to pick them up, eyes scanning the living room frantically.
You noticed Bucky’s books were scattered over the dining table. His reading glasses were there, forgotten by his economics book. A single can of soda was near it.
There was no sign of any other person inside the apartment.
Another moan.
You should have turned around and left, given him the privacy he needed, and come back later. But you didn't. You stood up, and with your keys in hand, you padded silently down the hallway to your room.
The door of his room was slightly open as you passed.
More whimpering, followed by a curse.
You should have ignored it, continued your path, and hid in your room. Instead, you froze, turning to the source of the noise.
Spread over his bed, Bucky was lying down over his covers; his sweatpants and boxers were rolled down to his knees, and his shirt was forgotten on the floor. His fist was gliding up and down his cock, neck exposed as he pushed his head back. His eyes were closed, mouth open, letting every whimper out freely.
Heat pooled in your stomach, your breath turned shallow and rapid as you watched him jerk off.
This was wrong.
You shouldn't be standing there, watching him, and much less getting worked up because of it.
He was your roommate. Your friend. Bucky wasn't even your type for fucks sake — he wasn't an athlete, with a chiseled body comparable to a Greek statue; he wasn't the most confident man out there either, smugly flirting with every skirt with legs.
Bucky was a textbook nerd. Always with his nose buried in a book, a cute stuttering mess, he triggered your cute aggression, not the I want to climb you like a tree and bounce on your cock type of aggression.
“Please, please —ngh,” He begged, tearing up.
You didn't know why you did it, but hearing his pleas broke your control. Carefully, you crept into his room until you were standing a few feet away from the foot of the bed.
In bed, his phone went off with an alarm he had set up before he had fallen into his lust. He reached his hand blindly, turning the alarm off, lost in whatever fantasy he had conjured behind his closed eyes.
You’ll be home in 10 minutes.
“Fuck, I need to — ah, please.”
“Do you need help?” You said softly, in the same tone you always used with him. Warm. Open. Sweet.
His eyes snapped open, finding you standing near him. Your name left his lips, neediness laced with each letter.
“I'm sorry, I shouldn't — You're here early, you were supposed to…” He stuttered, covering his dick with his hand and reaching behind him to take a cushion.
“I can help you.” Your tote bag, filled with books, landed on the rug next to your feet with a thud, and your keys followed. He froze. “You said you needed something.”
His throat bobbed.
“Bunny…”
He said your nickname, the one he had started using after he had met you at Yelena’s birthday party in your first semester. You had been wearing a last-minute costume — white bunny ears with a simple white short dress — because your original one had gotten ruined early that day. Bucky had been hiding out on the second floor, nursing a can of beer and hoping that his friends wouldn't find him after dragging him to the party already. Since he couldn't register your name over the loud music, he had called you Bunny the entire party. From there, it had stuck.
“Tell me, Bucky. What do you need?”
“I—” He shook his head.
You tutted. “House rules, remember? Hmm? Always be honest with each other. Tell me.”
“I need… I need to cum. So bad…”
“Thank you for telling me.” You placed a knee on the mattress between his legs, and slowly, you climbed the bed. “Now, let me help you.”
“Bunny.” He whimpered when you removed his hand from his crotch.
“Let me. That's what friends do, right? Help each other out. Always.” You said, tracing your fingers along his leg, getting higher and higher. “Can I?”
“Bunny…”
“Bucky.”
“Please.”
You smiled, and then moved your hand over his length; his cock twitched in respond of your touch, beads of pre cum leaked out of his reddish tip.
“Tell me if you want me to do anything different, okay?”
He nodded, but he was still tense.
“Hey, you can close your eyes and imagine I’m someone else; I don't mind. This is just to help you finish.”
Bucky took a deep breath and threw his head back, closing his eyes. You leaned in, taking his cock in your hands; you began peppering kisses on its tip. Bucky moaned in response.
You dragged your tongue along the vein on its underside, and then you guided it into your mouth.
Bucky cursed, digging his hands into the mattress.
You bobbed your head up and down, slowly taking him inch by inch until you could take most of him into your mouth comfortably.
Bucky was big, with a girth that made your pussy clench in wonder at how it would feel inside you, stretching you until you were a babbling mess.
“Shit, I’m close.”
You hummed with him still in your mouth, agreeing with him since you could feel him throbbing. His hips jerked up in search of the warmth of your mouth; you increased your movements, your hands giving attention to his balls and stroking the rest of his cock.
“Bunny, bunny, I’m…” He groaned, and for the first time, he reached his hand to tap your shoulder.
You removed your mouth with a pop, and kept stroking him as you said: “It’s okay, you can finish in my mouth.”
Before Bucky could reply, you took him into your mouth again and down your throat until your nose touched his pubic bone. Tears gathered in your eyes at the intrusion, but you didn't care; you kept bobbing your head until he spilled inside your mouth with your name on his lips.
You kept sucking him until you swallowed the last drop of his seed, and he was too overwhelmed after who knows how much time he had been working himself up. You took him out of your mouth, feeling him softening in your palm as his breath steadied.
Once you were on your feet, you knelt down to take your stuff up and took his shirt with your hand. When he opened his eyes, he saw you wiping the fabric of his shirt on your mouth, cleaning every remaining fluid from your face. Then you turned around and walked to the door.
“Bunny, wait!” He rushed to put his boxers and sweats back on.
You looked at him over your shoulder, “Yes?”
“You can't go.” You raised a brow.
“You needed to cum, and you did. I helped you out, didn't I?”
“Yes, you did. But, don't you want to… talk about it?”
Even if his skin was all flushed, his pupils still blown, and his clothes were poorly on him, he looked at you with pure worry.
You smiled fondly at him. “We are friends, Bucky. Nothing has to change.”
“You sure?”
“Positive, now… can I go?”
He exhaled in relief. “Yes, you can. Thank you, Bunny.”
“Any time.” You grabbed the door to close it. “It’s your turn to cook dinner, by the way.”
“Right! Uh, pasta? My mom’s recipe?”
“God, yes, please. I’ll take a shower in the meantime; see you in a bit.” You closed the door behind you after hearing his goodbye and then rushed to your room.
Luckily for you, your room had its own bathroom, away from the door that led to the hallway, which meant that while Bucky cooked dinner, he didn't hear you masturbating in your shower under the sound of the running water.
Even if you tried to push the memory into a box and forget it in the back of your mind, you couldn't avoid replaying the scene in his room, nor the way he had moaned your name as he came. And you definitely ignored the way you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from moaning his name as you fucked yourself with your fingers.
Once you were satisfied and clean, you left your room wearing your pajamas. During dinner, things were a little bit awkward, but it slowly got better as you fell into your familiar dynamic. He yapped about his next exam, and you ranted about your lecture that day. The conversation moved to the kitchen, as both cleaned before going back into your rooms.
You and Bucky just clicked together; you had done so since you met. Living together, even if it had been by pure luck — a month into your friendship, you had ranted that your landlord had raised your rent, and he had confessed he was looking for a place off campus; it had been a no-brainer to accept becoming roommates — had amped that. As the months and years progressed, you had gotten to a point where you understood each other and knew exactly what the other needed without the need for words.
He knew when you were stressed and needed silence, reassurance, or when you needed space. But he also knew when you were feeling homesick and needed a hug or a cuddle.
Two days after you gave him a blowjob, you learned that he also knew when you were needy and how to make you cum in record time.
You had been lying on the couch, reading a book on your e-reader after you had been stressing out over an exam. Bucky looked at you from his spot on the other end of the couch, where he had been playing a game on his phone.
“Everything okay there?” He asked, looking at you up and down.
You swallowed, shifting your legs again. “Yeah, why did you ask?”
“Bunny, house rules.” He rolled his eyes and put his phone on the coffee table.
“I'm not lying.” You scoffed.
“You are. You had been sitting there for the past five minutes, rubbing your legs together, and sighing like you're out of a romantic soap opera.” Bucky grinned. “Oh, my lovely Bunny, what are you reading? Is it one of those smutty books of yours?” he wiggled his eyebrows.
“Shut up.” You attempted to kick him with your leg, but he grabbed you by your ankle, stopping you from hitting him.
“You are.” His eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint. “Are you horny, Bunny?”
You shut up, locking eyes with him as he angled his body towards you.
“Do you need help with that?” He lowered his voice.
“With what?” You croaked, mouth dry.
“To get off. I can return the favor right now.” His fingers, that had been wrapped around your ankle, moved up, stroking your leg. “Besides, you know what happens when you orgasm. How the neurotransmitters that are released when you climax help you reduce your stress, sleep better, and help you relax — we share a wall, Bunny. I can hear you on the other side, still up in the middle of the night.” He called you out.
He continued moving his hand up your thigh until his fingertips grazed the hem of your shorts.
You didn't stop him.
“So, can I? You can imagine it's one of the characters of that book… You can keep reading it while I taste you.”
“You’re joking. Making fun of what I said and did that day.” You huffed and shifted your eyes away from him.
He shook his head. “It's just me. We're just friends, right? Helping each other out. I love helping you, you know that.”
You met his eyes again and then nodded, “Okay, make me cum.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” He joked and then positioned himself between your legs. “Go back to your book; you can even read it out loud. Guide me if you want to try something out.”
“Shut up.” You chuckled, and then returned your eyes to the screen.
Bucky grabbed the waistband of your shorts and pulled them down your thighs until they were dangling off your ankle. He leaned in and started kissing your now exposed skin until he was close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath and his nose bumping over your panties.
You kept reading, pressing your lips together to avoid making a sound. He kissed over your panties, and then he removed them. The first drag of his tongue made you open your mouth in a silent cry.
Bucky held you open; his hands were under your hip, in full control of the angle. You had been wet as you read your book, wondering if the main character in your book would be a whimpering mess like Bucky was as the female character rides him; now you were dripping, clenching around nothing, begging in your mind to be fucked on your couch.
No.
No.
It's the hormones talking. I'm just horny.
Having his dick inside you would be too much. If the line in your friendship had blurred, penetration would mean total erasure. But to be honest, it wasn't as if his dick wouldn't be doing something much different than what his tongue was doing right now.
Oh God, where had he learned to do that?
“Fuck, Bucky.” You groaned. Loudly. Throwing your head back.
Bucky removed his head from between your thighs to stare at you when he heard your e-reader hit the ground.
“Is something wrong? Want me to stop or change something?”
You looked at him as if he had grown another head out of his neck, and with your hands, you pushed back between your legs.
“Shut up. Keep doing that. Don't stop.” You panted, treading your fingers in his hair as your hips jerked against his mouth. He lapped his tongue over your sensitive clit, alternating with sucking it and shaking his head to add more depth to his attacks. “Oh fuck, mmm, yes, yes, Bucky, that's so good.”
He shifted, sinking his knees on the couch. Then he grabbed your legs and placed them over his shoulders; after that, he pulled your hips up, half-strengthening his back. He pressed your thighs together against his face, suffocating himself.
The new angle made you gasp; you braced yourself on the arm of the couch. You were now openly mewling. Your loud moans were barely overpowered by the obscene sound of his mouth on you.
You came not too long after that, panting and with your legs trembling over his shoulders. Before he let you down, he grazed his teeth with a playful bite and then kissed the spot.
Your breath was still ragged when you accepted his bottle of water that he had offered. You took a sip of water and then looked back at him.
“Why the fuck did Dot break up with you if you could do that?” You asked, stunned.
He had the decency of looking shy, scratching the back of his neck.
“She broke up with me because I wasn't very social, you know me; she wanted me out with her every single week to a party, and that drains me too much. I can only handle too much socialization.” He explained with a shrug.
“What an idiot, believe me, I’d have compromised my social life if my amazing boyfriend could make me cum as hard as you just made me do. And with only your tongue!” You exclaimed as you put back your underwear and shorts. You would have to run back to your room to take a shower and change in a minute because the stickiness between your legs would drive you crazy.
He took a thrown pillow and hit the side of your leg. “Shut up, Bunny!”
You snorted. “I’m serious. I already knew she had lost a great guy; this just adds more stupidity on her side.”
“Thank you, I suppose.” He blushed.
“Just take the compliment, Buck. It's house rules.” You returned the hit with the thrown pillow and ran to your room, squealing and dodging another hit from him.
The agreement was made that same week, officially getting added to the house rules. You would help him take the edge off, and he would help you, too. Easy. Efficient. Complete trust and free use in the apartment unless stated otherwise.
There was one catch, though: no penetration, no kissing. You were friends at the end of the day, and you didn't want to mess that up.
So you let him do everything else, except put his cock inside you.
He would fuck your tits after hitting a wall while doing an essay, eyes closed as he fought the urge to come on the spot at the sight of your glistening skin and your eyes looking up at him as you pushed your tits together. He had made the mistake of looking down the other day, and after batting your eyelashes to him in an oh-so-innocent way, you had put your tongue out just as he pushed in and took an experimental kitten lick over his tip. He had come in that moment, painting your face and tits with his seed. Laughing, you had continued stroking him until he was overstimulated.
One particular time that you had been stressing because your teammates were useless, you were ranting about it with him sitting next to you after you had finished eating dinner while watching a series.
“Do you wanna forget about it?” Bucky asked after you had finished ranting, and he had already tried to cheer you up, given you his advice, and even offered to help you with your project.
“Please.” You sighed.
“How do you need me?” He asked.
“Just stay still.” You said, climbing into his lap.
“I can do that.”
“And stay quiet.” You added, narrowing your eyes.
“Oh, I thought you liked it when I talk dirty. I felt you clench on my fingers when I talked like that and when I praised you.”
You slapped his chest. “Since when are you this smug? What did you do to my best friend?”
“Since you complimented my oral skills.” His grin widened.
You rolled your eyes.
“What? You had been trying since we met to boost my confidence; it's finally working.”He said, putting a strand of hair behind your ear. “Take the win, Bunny.”
“Fine, you can talk. Can I hump you now?”
“I’m all yours.”
You chuckled and braced your hands at each side of his head, grabbing the back of the couch.
You rolled your hips, feeling him getting hard under you.
“Fuck, Bunny, why do I feel this is helping me more than it's doing for you?”
“Believe me, it is helping.” You whimpered with eyes closed, leaning towards him. “So much.” Your voice cracked.
“You’re doing so well.” He praised.
“Thanks for the help, Bucky.” You huffed a laugh.
“I can help you even more, if you want.”
You straightened your back and stared down at him. “How?”
Bucky guided his hands and grabbed the hem of his your oversized shirt, taking it off and leaving you half naked, since your bra had been removed earlier that day.
“I can put my oral skills to use.” He cupped your breast and guided your nipple to his mouth, just brushing his lips against it. “I’ve been wanting to give them the attention they deserve since I noticed how… sensitive they are.”
With the tip of his tongue, he circled your nipple, keeping eye contact with you. You stared down at him, biting your lip to hide your smile, shaking your head slightly at his smug behavior.
You liked it.
Confidence suited him well.
He blew air over your wet skin. “Keep going, Bunny.”
You whined when he took your nipple into his mouth, sucking at it while playing with his tongue over it. You leaned into him and continued dry-humping him.
“Turn around.” He ordered after a few minutes.
“Huh?”
“You still have that frown on your face; you're still thinking about it. Let me help you.”
You sighed and then turned onto his lap, his hard cock snuggled under your ass.
“What now?”
He placed his hands on your waist and pulled you to him. “Lean back, Bunny.” You did so, until your back hit his chest, and your head could rest over his shoulder. “Now relax.” He kissed your naked shoulder.
He returned his attention to your breast, alternating to not leave any too long neglected. With his other hand, he traced lazy figures on your navel and, slowly, oh so painfully slowly, he guided his hand under your clothes.
Your hips jolted at the feeling of his fingers grazing your clit.
“Open your legs, let me touch you.” He mumbled in the shell of your ear, and you complied, spreading your legs over his, his knees under you, locking you in place. “That’s it, good Bunny.”
You whimpered, responding to each movement of his fingers with a roll of your hips, grinding on his cock. His ragged breath on your neck gave him away as to how worked up he was, so you decided to give him a hand. Literally.
You shifted forward to give enough space for your hand to sneak between your bodies, and began stroking him under his pants.
“Fuck, Bunny, this is about you.”
“I want you to feel good too.” You muttered.
He pushed two fingers inside you, matching each stroke you gave his cock with the pumping of his fingers. In. Out. In. Out. Each time you rubbed his tip, he curled his fingers, pressing them on your sweet spot.
“Oh, that feels good.” Your head lolled back, eyes fluttering shut as you got lost in the sensation.
“Yeah, bunny? That's good, you're doing so well.” He cooed.
Your free hand gripped the couch, as fireworks went off inside you; the lewd sound of his fingers inside you increased when you gushed around his fingers.
“That’s it, Bunny, let go.”
As you squirmed over his lap, your hold on his cock tightened; his hips jolted forward, fucking himself on your fist, and seconds later, he came.
Your breath was still uneven when you let out a soft chuckle, resting your head on his shoulder.
“You okay?” He asked, puzzled by your sudden laugh.
“Why was I even stressed about?”
He mirrored your chuckle. “I dunno.”
You turned, your nose slightly brushing his face. He did his best not to kiss you right there. To his surprise, you kissed his cheek.
“Thank you, Bucky.”
“The pleasure is mine, literally.”
You giggled and peeled yourself off him. You reached for the tissue box that you had placed on the coffee table since all this started, and cleaned your hands, as well as your inner thighs. When you were done, you passed the box to Bucky to clean himself.
“Shower and a movie in a few minutes?” You suggested, standing up and stretching, still topless.
“Of course.” He said, keeping his eyes down.
You narrowed your eyes at him, “Don't make it weird; you're acting as if you didn't have your mouth attached to my chest like 5 minutes ago.”
“If I look up, I’d want to do it again.”
You thought he was joking, so you slapped his arm playfully. “Of course, Buck, whatever you say.” Your shoulders were still shaking with laughter as you walked to your room, leaving him in the living room to contemplate if all of this had been a mistake.
It became a regular thing then.
You got better at it, reading each other and finding stolen moments to get each other off. Trouble, of course, appeared sooner rather than later — because obviously, none of you had told any of your friends.
Steve was the first to almost catch you, and it had been your fault. That day, on your way home, you had texted Bucky, asking him if he was home after a stressful day. You made the mistake of not reading his text, and when you got to your apartment, you had walked down the hallway straight to his room.
“I’m home,” you said, removing your jacket and throwing it to the floor. You began undoing the buttons of your shirt as you pushed his door open. “You won't believe the day I had. I’m gonna need you to— Steve! Hi!” You widened your eyes and quickly covered your already exposed bra when you found Steve sitting at Bucky’s desk.
Steve blushed and said your name, gesturing a hello. You thanked God that you hadn't entered his room without pants, as you two had begun to wander inside the apartment in your underwear with nothing more than an oversized shirt in your case or sweatpants and a shirt in his.
“Bucky didn't tell me you would be here.” You said under a fake smile.
Bucky got back into the room, finding you standing by the door.
“I guess you didn't get my text,” Bucky mumbled in equal shock to you.
“I did not.” You turned on your heels, giving your back to Steve. “I’ll be in my room.”
Bucky mouthed sorry to you, and you quickly scrambled out of the room. When you took out your phone, his text mocked at you, reading that Steve had come to the apartment by surprise since he needed some tutoring, and that he would be more than happy to help you out as soon as he walked out.
Another time, not as embarrassing as that one, had occurred on campus. You and Yelena were eating some ice cream that the student committee had been giving out when Bucky found you.
“Hi, Bunny.” He greeted you, standing right in front of you.
“Hi! Want some?” You offered your cone as you had done multiple times in the past. He nodded, but instead of taking the cone from your hands, he leaned in, covering your hand with his as he licked a strip of melted ice cream and then sucked some more, all while staring right at you.
“Mmm, my favorite.” The tip of his tongue peeked out of his lips, collecting any residue of the cold dessert, as he kept eye contact.
Fuck me.
You might as well have combusted in the spot; you were horny as fuck since you hadn't had any action since your period started, contrary to him, who had been on the receiving end of your blowjobs.
“I’ll be staying after class at the library. Text me what you want me to get to dinner, okay?”
You hummed, still staring at his mouth. He dared to smile.
“Good.” He finally turned to see Yelena, who had watched the whole exchange like a hawk. “Yelena.” He nodded at her. “Catch you later, Bunny, thank you for sharing.”
And then he was gone.
“The fuck was that?” Yelena exclaimed.
“I don't know what you're talking about.” You busied yourself back into finishing your ice cream, ignoring the way her eyes were burning the side of your head.
“Are you guys fucking in your apartment? Is that why we haven't done a sleepover recently?” Yelena accused, making you choke on your ice cream.
“What the fuck, Lena?” You coughed. “We haven't done any sleepovers because you have been sleeping at Kate’s since you started hooking up.”
“Hey, we sometimes stay at mine. And don't change the subject; you didn't answer.”
“We’re not. We’re roommates, and he's my best friend.”
“I’m your best friend too, but you don't look at me like that, do you?” She wiggled her eyebrows. “If that wasn't sexual tension, I don't know what it was.”
“Maybe you're projecting."
She slapped your arm. "Shut up. But you might be right; thankfully, my period is over, so..." she grinned, already thinking of her date night with Kate.
"Lucky girl."
"Going back to you and Bucky. Why the hell does he even keep calling you Bunny?" She scoffed. "It sounds so… sexual, you know?"
"I already told you, he has been calling me that since your birthday. He couldn't hear my name over the music, so he called me by my costume."
"I know that, but that was during the first semester, ages ago, before you two lived together. He knows your name by now."
"It's just a cute nickname. I like it." You shrugged, but you couldn't lie; the nickname had begun to sound more intimate the last couple of weeks, especially since each time he said it with a much more sultry voice than he did before, it took you back to not-so-innocent moments.
"Dot and every guy you had dated hated it, which reminds me — Do you want to go out on a double date with Kate and me? She has this friend that I'm sure is your type. Who knows, Bob might give you a hand and break your dry spell."
You scrunched your nose at her suggestion. Something about someone else touching you in a sexual context made you sick. "I'm fine, Lena. I'm good with my own hands and toys, thank you very much."
"Ugh, you're no fun." She groaned. "The offer is there. Bob is a great guy, but Bucky isn't a bad choice either, if you two decide to finally start dating."
You gave her a shoulder check and resumed your walk towards your next lecture.
If only she knew.
You two were just having fun, helping each other out. You reminded yourself frequently.
You made each other get the edge off… in the kitchen, in the dining room, in the living room, in the hallway, in his room, in the laundry room, in the hallway, in his car. While, after, and before studying or going to work.
His gaming sessions weren't an exception.
Usually, even before you started this, while he was playing video games in his room, you would find your way there and read on his bed or play one of your cozy games on your portable console. Sometimes you would grab popcorn and other snacks, sit next to him, and watch him play.
It stopped being innocent one time you were reading another smutty book that got you so worked up that you ended up touching yourself on his bed. Bucky had looked over his shoulder after you let out a whimper before covering your mouth. He muted himself and asked you to approach. Once you were next to him, he patted his thigh and asked you to sit facing his setup.
“Grind, Bunny. Make yourself feel good.” He muttered before he lowered his mic again and unmuted, going back to his game. You rolled your hips over his thigh, leaving a wet spot on his skin. You leaned on his desk and buried your head in your arms to muffle your cries.
Since both of his hands were occupied, he gave you his attention by kissing your shoulder from time to time. Whenever he was killed in-game and had to spectate his teammates, he took you by the hips and aided you in your movements — sometimes he would die on purpose early on the match so he could play with your clit with one hand and cover your mouth with the other.
When you were close to your climax, he muted his mic, and with his warm mouth in your ear, he praised you as you came, ignoring the trash talk from Sam and Steve about how shitty he was playing that day. In return for the favor, you had sunk to your knees under his desk and suck him off while the other match started, making him lose again and bark an excuse to his friends to disconnect, and then took you to his bed to make you sit on his face while you kept his cock deep in your throat.
The first night Bucky slept with you in your bed after this agreement started hadn't been planned. You had slept together before; naturally, after so much time knowing each other, you had taken naps on the living room couch, or in his bed if you fell asleep there, but your room had been the exception — until that night.
"Hey, are you still awake?" Bucky asked from the other side of your door.
"Come in." You replied with a yawn.
"Did I wake you up?" He peeked his head out, opening the door slightly.
"You didn't. What's up?"
He was standing by the door, visibly nervous.
"Bucky?"
"Can I lie down with you?" He sounded tired. You knew he hadn't been sleeping well, too stressed about his projects. He always pressured himself; you had called him out many times, but he had been raised this way, and old habits died hard.
"Of course you can."
He climbed into your bed and lay down under the covers behind you since you were on your side. His arms quickly wrapped around you, one tucked under your head and the other around your waist, pulling your back into his chest.
You stayed silent in that position, caressing his arm around you, feeling his warm breath on the back of your neck.
“They will still love you if you don't get straight A’s, you know?” His hold around you tightened.
“I'm not so sure about that.” He replied, his voice sounded so… small.
“Well, I do. Because I don't care if you get an A or a C. You're still you, and I love you for that.” You said. “You’re kind, gentle, and yeah, you're a little awkward, and sometimes you forget how to socialize properly—”
You smiled triumphantly when he chuckled.
“Shut up.”
“You are funny, smart, and the best human being that I know of — not because you are perfect, but because you get up every morning and just… try.”
“Bunny…”
“And if your parents don't see that, fuck them, seriously. You don't need to go back there during the break. You can stay here, or go with me to my hometown, or even better, we can both take that trip you always tell me about.”
You couldn't see him, but you felt him melting around you, embracing you close as his breath eased.
“I'm so lucky to have you as a friend.” He mumbles
“Of course you are. I'm amazing.” You chuckled.
“Yes, you are.” He kissed your shoulder over your pajama shirt. "I hope you know all those wonderful things also apply to you. In fact, let's add it to the house rules.”
“What do you suggest?”
“No more stressing over school; we are allowed to fail. How about that?”
You hummed, “I like that. Took us long enough, but it's a good rule now that it's our final year.”
“Let’s try to sleep, Bunny.” He said, closing his eyes.
“I'm trying, but a big nerd came into my room in the middle of the night and won't stop talking.”
“Shut up.” He kicked your leg.
You returned the kick. “You shut up.”
“Shh.”
Stillness lasted almost an hour; you both were already drifting in your sleep when you shifted your hips slightly, brushing against his front. You stayed like that until you fell asleep.
In his sleep, Bucky jerked his hips forward in a sloppy rhythm, which woke you up eventually. Your eyes adjusted to the dark of the room, unable to move since he had you trapped against him.
“Mmm, Bunny.” You heard him whine; his hips were thrusting against your ass, his cock hardening with each movement.
You blinked away sleep and turned over your shoulder; to your surprise, he was asleep, mouth slightly open and chest rising in a steady rhythm.
He moaned your name, and you wouldn't lie, having him basically humping you from behind and moaning in your ear was making your panties wet.
His hand, that had been resting heavily over the curve of your waist, moved down, resting lower, dangerously close to your pussy.
“Bucky, wake up.” You managed to say, biting back a whimper from your part. “Bucky.”
“Mmm?” He hummed, keeping his eyes closed.
“You’re…” You squeezed his arm, but he didn't let you finish. As soon as he regained consciousness, his throbbing cock called his attention; the need to cum ran hot all over his body.
He tensed when he realized what he had been doing.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry, Bunny.” His voice was thick with sleep. He moved his hips away from you, but yours followed. “Bunny?”
“Wait. Do you need help with that?” You whispered, wiggling your ass against him.
He choked a moan.
“Bunny…”
“I can help.”
“We said no penetration.” He sounded pained.
You bit your lip and then shifted, angling yourself so his cock was nuzzled right below your ass cheeks.
“You don't need to put it in. Just… use my thighs.” You offered.
He was speechless.
“Did you read that in one of those books?” He teased.
“Shut up. Do you want to try it or not?” You wiggled your ass again, making him jolt forward.
“Fuck, wait, don't we need lube or something?”
You looked over your shoulder. “Bottom drawer, behind you.” He looked at you. You rolled your eyes. “I use it with my sex toys, dumbass.”
He would definitely ask about it later, maybe even ask you to give him a demonstration.
Bucky peeled himself from you to reach the drawer. When he opened it, he saw some silky bags of different sizes, a bottle, and a small towel. His curiosity won over, and he took one of the smaller bags, as well as the bottle of lube and the towel.
You turned on your back when you heard the shuffling behind you; he had turned on the lamp on your bedside table.
“I told you to grab the lube.” You scolded him.
“Which one is this?” He held the silky bag high so you could see it.
Your eyes trailed from the bag to his eyes. “My vibrating bullet.”
You saw the devilish grin that appeared on his face. He could picture you perfectly, on your back in your bed late at night after he had fallen asleep next door, holding the vibrator under your panties, your mouth hanging open in a silent cry, brows knitted in the expression he had come to learn like the back of his hand.
His cock twitched.
“Can you use it while I fuck your thighs?” He asked, even if the warm soft light only lit one side of his face, you noticed his heavy-lidded dark eyes; the bright blue was only a slim ring around his blown pupils.
You sighed through your nose, but nodded. The idea sounded really, really good. You lifted your hand and gestured for him to give you the bag.
Bucky let out a happy noise and then proceeded to free his hard cock. He put some lube on his palm and then smeared it along his length. He positioned himself back into position and then slid his cock between your thighs.
You were looking down, watching as his wet tip peeked between your plush skin. You lowered your hand and teased his tip when it peeked out.
“Fuck, Bunny.” He groaned behind you, resting his forehead against your shoulder as he rolled his hips. “Use it, make yourself good, please.”
You complied, taking out the vibrator from the bag after he handed you the lube.
The moment the added stimulation registered in your body, your hips jolted back, meeting his thrust and making both of you moan in unison.
Bucky gripped your hips, keeping you steady as he fucked himself between your legs. With the angle you held your hips, the bottom side of the vibrator brushed his tip when he rutted in.
“Fuck, Bunny, you're taking me so well.”
You whimpered his name, turning your head slightly and kissing his arm that was still tucked under your head.
“Keep going, don't stop.” You encouraged him, tightening your hold around his cock by crossing your legs.
He cursed, digging his fingers into your hips.
“Oh God, I’m not gonna last.”
“It's okay, cum Bucky, cum for me.”
He came with a groan, his hips jerked in sloppy thrusts until every drop dripped between your thighs. With his hand, he turned your face, and keeping eye contact, you came undone, with hot pleasure ripping you apart and pulling you back together for his eyes only.
Mouth hanging open.
Lips trembling.
Brows knitted.
Bucky really wished he could've kissed you in that moment. Muffle your cries with his lips, drink up your moans, and your taste.
But he didn't.
He just stared at you in awe, and if he hadn't just come, he was sure he would've reached ecstasy the moment your eyes locked in his.
He held you in his arms until you came back into your body, and after a few minutes, he got up with the towel in his hand. He emerged from your bathroom after cleaning himself, with your towel now warm in his hand.
Bucky climbed the bed, and mumbling praises, he cleaned the residue of his spent and lube from between your thighs, then he removed your soaked panties, and cleaned the evidence of your arousal.
He discarded the towel, and after roaming in the drawer you pointed out, he took a new pair of panties and, to your surprise, he put them on you, leaving a kiss on your inner thigh when he was done.
Back in your bed, he took his place behind you and cuddled you, holding you in his arms as sleep took over.
Those nights repeated, especially once the semester got to that point where both of you lived and breathed projects and heavy assignments.
Sometimes he would find his way into your room, giving you an orgasm or two before falling asleep. Morning with him also meant waking up with his mouth on you, kissing down your body, or tongue deep in your pussy.
“I like to taste you first thing in the morning. Works better than caffeine.” He had said the first time you had woken up with him under the covers.
You returned the favor, of course, waking him up, stroking him, or with his cock deep in your throat.
The mornings in your room together led to a shower together — only when your shower routine allowed it — and then to the kitchen, where both worked on breakfast. It was easy, the domesticity of all; it made your heart gallop and stop at the same time.
You knew things had changed; god, they probably changed before this whole agreement, somewhere between doing groceries and movie nights with your roommate.
Of course, you weren't the only one who had noticed that change.
“Okay, spit it out, tell me what's going on?” Yelena asked, rolling the grocery cart.
Bucky’s birthday was the following day, and you had been working on his surprise party, which meant an express grocery visit to buy all the last-minute items.
“I don't know what you are talking about.” You muttered, taking several bags of chips and dumping them on top of the napkins.
“Oh, but you know. You had been glowing this past week, and I know you; I know when you're hiding something.”
“Lena, just drop it; nothing is going on.”
She hummed.
You thought she had, in fact, dropped it. She didn't.
“You know,” she said once everything was loaded in her car, and she got ready to drive out of the parking lot. “Jason asked about you.”
“Jason?”
“Tall guy, huge biceps, dreamy eyes. You hooked up with him during first year.” She detailed, keeping her eyes on the road.
Oh.
Jason.
The one Bucky had found you tongue deep in his throat.
That Jason.
“I remember.”
“Well, he is a friend of Kate. I met him at a reunion with her group of friends.”
“Sounds like you're finally going steady.”
“Stop deflecting.” She said, giving you side-eye. “He recognized me, asked about you, and I invited him to Bucky’s party, so you can reconnect.”
You widened your eyes. This was the last thing you needed.
“Yelena Belova.” You scolded.
“Wow, full government name.”
“Why the fuck did you invite him? He doesn't even know Bucky!”
“Kate also doesn't know him, and she's going.”
“That's different! She's your girlfriend.” You slapped her arm. “Uninvite him! I don't care! He's not coming.”
“Jesus, woman, I’m just trying to help you out! Exams had been stressful; maybe you need to fuck the stress out, you know.”
“Well, don't. I'm totally fine, I do not need more help.” The words spilled out of your mouth, blinded by the successful rage bait that your friend just did.
Yelena grinned.
“So you are getting help with that. I knew it. You looked extra chirpy these last months.” You widened your eyes in horror. “So who's the lucky guy?”
She glanced at you for a second, a quick read of your face, and then her jaw dropped.
“Oh, my God! Are you and Bucky finally together? Is this why I haven't been at your apartment? You don't want me to disrupt your love nest!”
You buried your face in your hands. “Shut up.”
She squealed.
“That’s not a no!”
“Lena, we are not together… we are just having fun.”
“You don't sound like you're having fun.” Her brows knitted with concern. “Babes, what’s the problem?”
“We are fuckbuddies. But I’m not sure if he wants more.”
“Have you asked him?”
“No. Well — I suggested some rules at the beginning; he agreed.”
“God, babes, for someone so smart, sometimes you do be an idiot.”
“Excuse me?”
“Haven’t you stopped to think that maybe he agreed and you put those rules, because both of you thought that was the only way the other would agree to be that close to actually being something real?”
You shook your head.
“Babes, that guy has been head over heels for you since that night you met. And you had been too!” You opened your mouth. “Don’t even try to deny it.”
You rolled your eyes and huffed a breath out of your nose. “I actually was about to agree with you.”
“That's a first. Continue.”
“I’m such an idiot, but how do I even start undoing it?”
Yelena parked her car right outside your building.
“Maybe start undoing all those rules of yours.” She shrugged.
And you took it literally.
Maybe it was a mistake, and you should have stopped to think about it more clearly, but you were desperate.
Yelena left after she helped you take all the groceries upstairs and hide everything out of Bucky’s sight — which, in retrospect, wasn't necessary since Bucky knew you always threw a party for him. The only surprise was the theme.
And this year, the last birthday being a college student, the theme was costumes.
Just like the day you met.
Bucky arrived at the apartment a few hours later, coming back from hanging out with Steve, who, as every birthday week of his, was tasked with keeping him busy and out of the apartment if needed.
“Bunny! I’m home!” Bucky exclaimed, peeling off his jacket.
“In my room!” You shouted without peeking out.
You heard him padding around the apartment, and just as you predicted, he opened your door seconds later.
“Bunny…” Bucky mumbled, flabbergasted.
You were standing just outside of your bathroom, resting with one hand extended towards the wall. You were wearing a white lacy set of lingerie, paired with an open silky translucent robe that framed your body. On top of your head, like a crown of a queen, were the same bunny ears that you had been wearing the night you met.
“Happy early birthday, Buck.” You said with a smirk.
“Angel…” He said, mouth dry.
“Wasn't I your Bunny?” You pouted.
“You look like an angel.” You chuckled, walking barefoot towards him. “I have died, and I’m in heaven.”
“Easy, you're not dead yet.” You stopped in front of him, standing on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek. His hands shot to hold your naked waist to keep you steady; he didn't remove them even when your heels touched the floor. “This ain't your birthday gift, though; this is a sneak peek at your party tomorrow. You have to pick a costume.”
His eyes widened. “You’ll be wearing this tomorrow?”
“The bunny ears. But this will be under the dress.” You winked at him.
And he whimpered.
He actually whimpered.
“That's torture. Do you know how hard it would be to keep my hands away from you, knowing that?”
Maybe you don't need to. You wanted to say.
“Someone will have to restrain me so I don't end up giving a show out there.” He added.
You laughed.
“Yeah, maybe you should keep that for the bedroom.”
“Or at least until we are alone.”
“Smart.”
“Is that why you're showing me now?” He asked, his hands pulling you closer to him, forcing you to look up to meet his eyes. “To taunt me.”
You nodded. “That, and because I wanted to try out something.”
“What?” He scanned your face, stopping for several seconds at your lips.
You took it as a green light.
You stood again on your tiptoes, resting your hands over his shoulder and the nape of his neck.
And then you kissed him.
He gasped in your mouth, but then he melted in the kiss, cupping your head to control the angle, deepening the kiss.
Heat spread all over your body, overheating you to the point you felt like you were on fire. Without leaving his lips, you removed your robe and then pulled him from his collar, guiding him to your bed until he was lying over you.
“Bunny… the rules.” He said, pulling himself away from your lips, a pained look on his face.
“Forget them.” You guided him back to you, and he surrendered.
Your hands traveled around his body, touching whenever they could reach, pulling at his clothes to remove them.
“I want to feel you.” You whimpered.
“Okay.” He nodded, kissing your neck. He removed his shirt; his jeans followed shortly after, landing near his shoes and socks.
“Boxers too.” You mumbled against the crook of his neck.
Kissing and nipping the tender skin and making him groan.
He lay naked over you, your legs parted and hugging his hips, pulling him close until he could feel the growing wetness in your panties. Bucky moaned in your mouth, as you bucked your hips; the friction over his erection made him see stars.
This was new.
You knew it. He knew it.
Even when he fucked your thighs, he was never that close to your pussy. And when you were in a similar position, there were always at least two layers of clothes between you.
His hips rutted against you, and then you guided your hand between your bodies, pulling your panties to the side.
He gave you a puzzled look.
“Are you sure?” He asked.
“More than anything. I want to feel you.”
He whimpered, and after a nod, he resumed his grinding. You mewled as his heavy cock glided between your folds, kissing your clit with each dive.
“More, I need more.” You moaned. “Please, Bucky, give it to me.”
Bucky sat on his heels, looking down at your squirming figure, but you followed him up, meeting his lips in a passionate kiss. He got distracted, lost in your lips, to the point that when you pulled apart to lie back down, your panties and bra were gone, your glistening pussy exposed, weeping to have him inside.
The groan that left him was borderline animalistic. Knelt before you, he grabbed his cock with his fist and began rocking his hips, the tip of his cock hitting your clit with more pressure and precision. You spread yourself open for him, with your hands hooked behind your knees and holding your legs up.
“Bucky, please.” You groaned.
“What do you need, Bunny?”
“You, please, inside.”
He whined, “Bunny, no…”
“Why not?” You cried out.
“The rules.” He said simply.
“Fuck the rules.” You groaned. “I want you, all of you. Please, Bucky.” You begged.
He stilled his hips, needing to focus and think with his brain and not his other head. Because he wanted to feel you, too, bury himself in your heat.
“What if you regret it?” He searched your eyes, his concern only confirming what you already knew.
“I won't.” You worked to steady your breath. “Because I’ve been wanting these since I met you. Especially once I realized how much I love you.”
He shifted, too lost in his mind to realize he had done it, making his cock nuzzle between your folds and kiss your clit. You swallowed your moan.
“You love me?” His blue eyes, obscured by his desire, were bright with unshed tears.
You nodded frantically, and a chuckle escaped you, letting go of the strain of your legs but keeping yourself open. “So much it made me scared to lose you and stop myself from saying it out loud.” You confessed.
“Bunny —” He looked at you with a bright smile. “You don't have any idea of how much I love you.”
“I think I might have.” You smiled. “And I’m pretty sure that anyone who has met both of us knows how much we love each other.”
“Do you think that me gifting you flowers, any chance that I had, was too on the nose?” He scrunched his nose, leaning in and placing a hand next to your head.
You laughed, throwing your head back, making the bunny ears — that until that moment were forgotten — shift, and dig into your skull. Bucky noticed the discomfort in your face and reached out to place the bunny ears back in place.
“Yeah, probably. But me throwing myself in your arms right after might have contributed.” You said, lost in the tender way he looked at you.
“So we are both idiots, keeping each other away from what makes us happy.”
“Pretty much.”
“What now?” He looked at you.
“Well, right now we can continue what we were doing.” You bucked your hips, feeling the delicious drag of his cock against you. “After that, we can talk more about it, but let me tell you, I’m tired of the rules, tired of being a dirty secret, tired of loving you in the shadows.”
“I agree.”
“Do you want to be—” You clamped your hand over his mouth.
“Don't you dare ask me to be your girlfriend when we are about to have sex.” You threatened, and then you removed your hand.
“Later then.” He smiled. “Where were we?” He knitted his brows, feigning ignorance.
“I don't know, where do you think we were?” You teased.
“I think, Bunny.” He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours with each word he said. “I was about to fuck you.” His smug smile was bright when he pulled back enough to see your reaction. “Am I right?”
“Mhm.”
“Tell me if you need me to stop or change anything.” He instructed, lining himself with your entrance.
“Wait.” You gasped when you felt his tip tease your opening. He stopped, pulling back away from you. “Slow, please… You are big.”
He nodded, and then he pushed inside. Your mouth gaped, feeling your walls fluttering around him to accommodate his girth inside you.
“More.” You whined after a few shallow thrusts with only his tip inside you.
He sank deeper, your slick adding to the intrusion. Your hand shot to grip his forearm next to your head.
“You’re taking me so well, Bunny.” He praised. “My pretty Bunny, so wet and tight for me. Breathe, baby, you can do it.”
You mewled, feeling him reach deeper until he was buried to the hilt.
“That's it, so good, such a good bunny.” His voice cracked, pleasure ripping down his spine after a few thrusts.
Your legs returned to the initial position. Spread open, legs up. You felt him reach deeper, each drag adding pressure to your sweet spot.
“Oh fuck, right there.” You whined.
His pace fastened, tightening the coil in your belly with each drill of his hips. He rocked your entire body, making your breasts jiggle with each movement that made your ass hit his thighs, to the point that if he hadn't been holding you in place, he would've already pushed you out of bed.
You were creaming around him, mixing with his precum, forming a ring of slick at the bottom of his cock. The wet clap of skin against skin was loud, mixing with your moans and cries.
“Oh, Bunny, you feel so good. You're gripping me so tight, you don't want to let go, don't you? You want me to stay right there, nuzzled inside you.”
“Yes, ah, yes!” You cried out, wrapping your legs around him with a leglock, heels pressing his butt.
“Bunny, baby, I need to pull out,” Bucky said, groaning.
“Cum inside me, please, breed me.”
“Oh, Bunny.” He whimpered, his self-control snapping like a twig. “Is this why you said no penetration before — mmm, because you knew how much you'll want my cum inside you.”
You nodded.
“Please, I need it.”
His pace grew more erratic; he leaned in, arms braced so he could piston harder. Your arms wrapped around him, nails digging in his skin.
He knew very well that you were on the pill since long before you met him; still, the fantasy of getting you pregnant, marking you as his for the world to see, was making him dizzy in pleasure.
You were babbling now, too cockdrunk to even speak without slurring words that weren't yes, please, Bucky, fill me.
“Such a needy, Bunny.” He taunted you. “Come for me, baby, let me feel you.”
He felt you coming around him first, then he saw your pretty face contorted with pleasure.
Mouth hanging open.
Lips trembling.
Brows knitted.
Your legs trembled as you came, gushing around his cock. Your back arched.
And finally, he achieved what he had only been dreaming of. He kissed you, swallowing your moans.
Your climax triggered his, milking him as he spilled his seed inside you, filling you to the brim. His hips jerked; shallow thrusts made to pump his cum inside you and make it stay there.
“That’s it, Bunny. Take every drop.” He groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” You slurred, still on the peak of your climax that had prolonged with the joy of being bred.
You came down slowly, falling back into his arms as he cooed praises. He stayed buried inside you, just shifting enough to make you moan, and making sure not a single drop was wasted.
“That was…”
“Intense.” Bucky completed.
“Very much. When can we repeat?” You joked, making him laugh over you.
“My bunny and her jokes, I swear.” He kissed your lips. “I love you, baby.”
“I love you more.” You giggled when he kept peppering kisses all over your face and neck.
He pulled back slightly so he could see your whole face. “Are you okay?” he asked, straightening the bunny ears again.
“Never have been better, but I think my legs are cramped now.”
“Shit, Bunny!”
Bucky quickly straightened his back, bringing you up with him until you were sitting in his lap; the shift made some cum drip around his cock and down to the sheets.
“Better?” He kissed your shoulder, and as you got comfortable with your arms around him, he placed one hand on the curve of your ass, and the other caressed down your spine with lazy strokes.
You nodded, feeling sleepy and satisfied.
“Happy early birthday, Bucky.” You mumbled, reciprocating the caresses on his broad back.
“Thank you, Bunny. Best birthday present.” You nuzzled into his neck. “We are gonna have to explain a lot tomorrow.”
You considered lying, but you knew it would eventually come out.
“Yelena already knows.” You confessed. “She rage-baited me today until I spilled it out. I didn't tell her all the details — but she inferred we were sleeping together. She also helped me see how stupid I was not to tell you how I feel.”
He hummed.
“Why do you look so calm about it?” You narrowed your eyes at him, meeting his eyes and watching him blush. “Barnes?”
“Sam and Steve also know, superficially, nothing in detail. They've been nudging me to confess how much I love you for the past year, but I didn't want to risk our friendship.”
“Oh God, I can't believe our brain cells canceled each other.” You whined, mortified.
“If it helps, you're way smarter than I am; you at least made us progress — I was about to take my feelings to my grave.”
You slapped his arm. “Dumbass.”
He laughed.
“Ready to move?” You nodded against his shoulder. “What do you think about a bubble bath, soaking there until we look like raisins, and then we watch that movie you told me last time? I bought that ice cream you love.”
“Fuck me, you know me so well.”
“Of course I do, I’m your best friend.” He kissed your temple. “And your future boyfriend.”
“Yes, you are.” You smiled at him, and before he helped you stand up, you kissed him.
You were getting addicted to his kisses, you realized, which in part was great because you had so much time to make up for that you would be surprised if you ever were more than a few minutes without feeling his lips on you.
Time for new house rules.
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if you liked it, feel free to leave a like, rb, a comment, or an ask! I'd love to read your thoughts!
Heyy so, I just got home from the hospital after getting appendicitis and I was wondering (if you’re comfortable with this of course) if it would be okay to request for a bucky fanfic of him taking care of his girlfriend/wife after she gets diagnosed/treated for appendicitis? It’s just that it sucks right now since I can barely move without help and I find a lot of comfort in Bucky. (I’ve never sent a request before, sorry if it’s phrased a bit weird 😅)
Time to Care.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes × F! Reader.
Word count: +2.3k words.
Summary: Determined not to leave your side while you recover from your appendicitis, Bucky transforms his apartment into a haven filled with care, small gestures of affection, and shared moments—where even the mischievous Alpine finds a way to demand attention.
Tags: Established relationship: couple, fluff, pet names, reader with appendicitis, mentions of pain and crying, medical inaccuracies, mentions of surgery, post-operative care, Bucky being overprotective, Bucky being caring, Alpine!, no y/n. No beta reader. My native language is not English, so there may be possible mistakes.
Note: Hi @feynightlight ! I hope you're feeling better and that you make a speedy recovery ❤️ I have to say that your request really excited me because it's the first one I've received. Sorry for the delay, but I finally finished the fanfic and I hope you enjoy it.
Masterlist.
Bucky had never needed much sleep, but ever since you left the hospital, he seemed to have completely forgotten about resting.
The appendicitis had been such a sudden emergency that he still remembered the moment he woke up in the middle of the night, feeling you move over and over again and hearing soft moans. You were doubled over in pain, your hands pressed against your abdomen as you squeezed your eyes shut tightly to try to keep the tears from streaming down your cheeks.
You insisted that dinner must have just sat heavy in your stomach and that a pill should be enough, but Bucky wouldn’t accept that it could be enough, since his mind was racing through various scenarios that wouldn’t let him rest.
Without your permission, he picked you up in his arms to take you to the hospital.
The hours he spent sitting in the waiting room, with his hands clasped and his gaze fixed on the operating room doors, had seemed endless to him. No matter how many dangerous moments he’d lived through, none had caused him such anxiety, since all he could do was wait for the experts to treat you.
That’s why, once the doctors confirmed that the surgery had been a success and allowed you to return to the apartment, Bucky decided that during your recovery, you wouldn’t have to worry about a single thing.
“Don’t get up.”
That was the phrase he repeated most often.
It didn’t matter if you just wanted to reach for a glass of water or the remote control on the nightstand. Before you even stretched out your arm, he was already on his feet to grab whatever you wanted.
“Buck, I can do it myself…” you said with a playful smile.
“I know, sweetheart,” he replied with that calmness that masked immense concern. “But you need to get better.”
Bucky had prepared the couch with almost obsessive care so you could rest when you got tired of staying in bed. He’d arranged several pillows to support your back and sides, a soft blanket folded over the backrest, the remote control, the book you’d started reading the week before, and—inexplicably—even the little bell Alpine rang every time she wanted someone to fill her food bowl.
With one hand around your waist and the other holding yours, he helped you walk the few steps to the living room.
“Slowly…” he murmured.
His movements were so slow and careful that you barely noticed the moment he let you settle onto the sofa. He placed a pillow behind your back, another under your arm, and yet another beneath your legs, watching your face the whole time, alert to the slightest sign of pain or discomfort.
Only when he saw that you were breathing normally did he allow the tension to ease slightly from his shoulders.
You let out a sigh as you settled back, and then your eyes drifted toward the coffee table.
You frowned slightly.
“Seriously, honey? … The bell?”
You picked it up between your fingers and rang the little bell.
The tinkling had barely faded when Bucky replied with complete nonchalance.
“If you need anything, I’ll be able to hear you from the kitchen.”
You couldn’t help but laugh.
The vibration sent a slight twinge of discomfort through your abdomen, forcing you to place a hand over the area where you’d had surgery as you tried to catch your breath.
“Don’t make me laugh,” you said in a slightly plaintive tone.
He took a step toward you immediately.
“Did you hurt yourself? Let me check the wound.”
You shook your head with a smile on your lips and then raised the bell again.
“Do you think I’m a queen?”
As if she had perfectly understood the conversation, Alpine appeared from some corner of the apartment.
The white cat walked into the living room with her tail held high, swishing it with the elegance of someone convinced she ruled the place. Upon hearing the word “queen,” she pricked up her ears and let out a soft meow, accustomed to you calling her “Queen Alpine” every time she demanded attention… Although, honestly, she was more of a tyrant.
With a nimble leap, she landed on the coffee table.
Bucky let out a little snort of laughter as he scratched the back of his neck, aware of how ridiculous the whole thing must look.
“I just want to make sure you don’t exert yourself, darling."
Alpine, completely oblivious to the conversation, stretched one of her paws toward the bell.
Ding… Ding… Ding…
She rang it several times in a row while meowing and looking at Bucky.
You pointed at the cat with a smile.
“I think Queen Alpine is starving.”
Bucky let out a short sigh that was half worry and half amusement.
“Ring the bell if you need anything,” he said before kissing your forehead and heading to the kitchen.
☆
While he was making lunch, you’d put on a movie to take your mind off things.
From the living room, you could hear the rhythmic sound of the knife hitting the cutting board as he chopped vegetables with the precision that only Bucky seemed to possess. Then came the gentle bubbling of the pots and, every now and then, the murmur of his voice as he quietly went over the instructions the doctor had given them. It was as if he were studying for an exam on which the entire world depended.
Bucky had always enjoyed cooking for you, surprising you with elaborate dinners after long days at work, but since the operation he seemed to have become an even more meticulous chef. He double-checked every ingredient, verified the portions, and followed the doctor’s recommendations almost to the letter, afraid of making even the slightest mistake.
You had barely started a new movie when Bucky returned with a tray in his hands.
“Time to eat,” he announced as he set the tray on the table.
He had prepared chicken broth with rice, vegetables cut into small cubes, and shredded chicken. Beside it sat a glass of water, your medications, and a couple of perfectly folded napkins.
You tried to sit up on your own, but you couldn’t quite manage it. Bucky’s hands gently wrapped your arms around his neck to help you up, guiding you slowly until you were sitting upright without straining your abdomen at all.
“Buck…” you whispered with a mix of tenderness and resignation. “I’m pretty sure I could’ve done that on my own.”
You slowly untangled the arms he’d placed around you.
“I just hope you’re not planning on feeding me by hand,” you murmured once he turned his back to you to pick up the plate of food.
Bucky remained silent as he turned on his heels and slowly looked down at the spoon he was already holding in one hand, filled with broth and a little rice.
You’d discovered it by accident.
You would have laughed if only your abdomen weren’t so tender from the surgery, so you let a broad smile spread across your face.
“Come on, Bucky,” you said as you held out your arms toward him. “I can feed myself.”
For a few seconds, he looked at you with a furrowed brow and that slight pout he made whenever something didn’t sit right with him, but finally he let out a small sigh of defeat as he carefully handed you the plate.
“Thanks,” you hummed happily.
You picked up the spoon, but before taking a sip of the soup, you looked up at him.
“Eat with me, okay?”
Bucky didn’t hesitate to nod.
And like the obedient boyfriend he was when it came to you, he went back to the kitchen to serve himself a bowl of soup. He returned a few moments later carrying a dining room chair under his arm and sat down next to you.
He refused to sit on the couch, since it had to be all yours for your rest.
Not even five minutes had passed when Alpine appeared, sitting on the floor next to your legs.
Alpine remained completely still, her tail carefully curled around her front paws. Her huge blue eyes darted from Bucky’s bowl to yours with almost admirable patience, as if she were convinced that, sooner or later, one of you would make the mistake of dropping a piece of chicken.
You lowered your spoon slowly.
“Don’t look at me like that…”
The cat responded with a soft meow.
“She’s putting on an act,” Bucky remarked before taking another spoonful of soup into his mouth. “She ate less than an hour ago.”
Alpine meowed again, this time in a slightly more plaintive tone.
“Did you hear that?” you smiled. “She says that’s slander.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow.
“What she’s saying is that she wants chicken.”
The cat, as if to prove him right, lifted a paw and gently rested it on your knee.
“No, miss. The sergeant says you’ve already eaten.”
Alpine withdrew her paw with obvious disappointment and slowly turned her head toward Bucky, but he remained impassive.
“Don’t even look at me.”
Another meow.
“No.”
One more.
“Alpine…”
The cat narrowed her eyes.
“I’m not going to negotiate with you.”
You watched the scene with a smile that hadn’t come so naturally in days. It was strange how an argument with a cat could make the apartment feel light again after the scare you’d both just been through.
Bucky finally got up from his chair and set his plate on the tray.
“I’ll be right back.”
He disappeared into the kitchen for a few seconds and returned with a small bag of cat treats.
Alpine sprang to her feet immediately, meowing even louder around him.
“Oh, right…” you murmured, amused. “Soup without salt for me, and treats for her.”
“She didn’t just come out of surgery,” he replied matter-of-factly.
“I’m recovering; I should get treats too,” you complained, feigning sadness.
Bucky let out a quiet laugh as he placed a couple of treats on the floor for the cat to eat. Then he pretended to think about it for a few seconds.
He walked over to where you were sitting and, without warning, leaned in to plant a slow kiss on your forehead, then another on your nose, and one more at the corner of your lips.
“There’s your treat,” he murmured, giving your chin an affectionate stroke.
You felt the heat rise to your cheeks and gently bit your lower lip, trying to suppress the silly smile forming on your lips.
“Is that all? No more prizes?” you said with feigned innocence.
“Just that, sweetheart. You’re greedy—you’re going to want more,” he replied with a teasing smile.
Your lips parted dramatically as you took a breath, and then your cheeks flushed a little more. You gave him a gentle, playful punch in the stomach that made him laugh.
“You’d better take my plate before you force a convalescing girl to give you what you deserve,” you joked as you handed him your plate.
He took the plate right away and noticed you’d barely eaten half the soup. That pang of concern and overprotectiveness surfaced again.
“Are you feeling sick? Do you want to go to the hospital?” he asked hurriedly.
You slowly shook your head and raised a hand to give his forearm an affectionate squeeze.
“I’m fine, honey. I feel full,” you replied, trying to reassure him.
He didn’t press the issue. He knew your appetite wasn’t what it used to be and that it might take a few days for it to fully return.
He cleared away the plate, took the dose of pills you needed from the bottle, and handed them to you along with a glass of water.
You took your pills while he rearranged the pillows.
“Are you comfortable?”
“I am, Buck.”
“Don’t you need another pillow?”
You looked around, unable to believe he was offering you another pillow when you were practically surrounded by every pillow in the apartment.
“If you keep piling on pillows, I’m going to disappear among them.”
He looked at the little fort of cushions he’d built around you and let out a soft chuckle.
“...I might have gone a little overboard,” he murmured, embarrassed.
Alpine had already claimed his chair, so he ended up sitting on the floor, right next to your legs.
He let his head rest on your thighs, being just as careful as he had been ever since they returned from the hospital. You ran your fingers through his hair, gently massaging his scalp.
Bucky finally allowed himself to let his guard down as he sighed and let you show him affection.
“Sorry if I’m being too… intense,” he said, his voice sincere and a little embarrassed. “All of this happened so suddenly, and it was awful not being able to do anything while you were in the operating room.”
Your fingers froze on his hair as you listened to him.
“Bucky…” you whispered.
Before you could say anything, his hand gently squeezed your calf as he pressed his lips against your knee.
“I still can’t believe you wouldn’t let me feed you. Maybe that means you’re getting better.”
You let out a little amused snort before lightly ruffling his dark hair.
“I have to admit that once I’m recovered, I’m going to miss being taken care of so devotedly by you.”
A crooked smile appeared on his face as he settled onto his knees to be at the level of your face.
“Then I’ll find excuses to spoil you,” she murmured as she cradled your face in her hands. “Like this…” she murmured once more before giving you a soft kiss on your cheek. “And like this…” She gave you a soft, chaste kiss on your lips.
Ding… Ding…
They both had to break that sweet kiss to look toward the bell, which Alpine had rung again.
Bucky let out a weary laugh.
“She’s definitely a very untimely cat.”
“Don’t blame her,” you said, stroking his cheek. “She’s just taking advantage of the fact that the handsome nurse of the house doesn’t know how to say no.”
“It takes very little for either of you to manipulate me…”
Alpine responded with a satisfied purr, as if that statement were the greatest compliment she’d ever received.
Bucky/Reader, Gen Audiences, 15k in 4 chapters. Post-CA:CW, canon divergence where Bucky is an Avenger in the Tower, amnesia!fic. Please see AO3 for full tags.
Summary:
You slowly start easing yourself into the life you don't remember living. At least the sofa and the cat are the same.
And maybe you'll stop being afraid of this man who calls himself your husband.
Surely there aren't any more surprises, right?
I mean, what kind of author would give you two cliffhangers in a row, right? Obviously it'll all be fine on AO3.
Warnings: mentions of a breakup, mafia business, mafia au, kind of kidnapping, possessive/protective Bucky
The leather seats felt soft and smelled like home.
You weren't sure how you ended up in the backseat of your ex-boyfriend’s car.
He casually followed you to the restaurant you wanted to dine at. It would’ve been the first date after your breakup with the secret mafia boss.
“Uh—is this a mafia thing?” You asked, glancing at Bucky, who was busy on his phone. He was ordering your favorite food, wanting it to arrive before you did. “I was about to have a date.”
“I was worried about your safety,” he replied after ending the call. “That’s why you are here with me now. Jake didn’t have the time to check on your date’s background. It’s still my job to keep you safe. I don’t care if you broke up with me or not.”
“Hmm…is that a hostage situation?” You wondered while watching Bucky put his phone away. “Bucky, did you kidnap me?”
“You willingly got inside my car. I wouldn’t call this kidnapping,” he said, a smirk coloring his features.
“You said, 'Get in my car,” you defended your decision to enter Bucky’s car. It was an old habit to follow his instructions. Old habits die hard, right? “I only did as you said.” You pursed your lips. “Did you trick me?”
He laughed. “I didn’t think picking my woman up was considered a crime nowadays."
“You did not pick me up, Bucky!” His possessive behavior was one of the reasons you two broke up. “You came to the restaurant, stopped me from getting inside, and told me to get inside your car.”
“Semantics, Y/N. I came here to make sure you are safe and sound,” Bucky acted like a caring boyfriend, not a kidnapper. The problem was that you broke up almost a year ago.
His line of business, his possessiveness over you, and the constant threats from his enemies were too much for you.
He tried to keep you safe but got hurt more than once doing so. You didn’t want Bucky to get killed while protecting you. The only way out was for you to break his heart.
Bucky didn’t take the breakup lightly. He was lurking around every corner, always popping up out of nowhere for weeks until you told him it’s better this way.
You didn’t know he was always there, protecting you from afar. Bucky was following you that night, wanting to make sure you were safe. He didn’t expect you to go on a date with some random guy you met at the grocery store.
Bucky swore to let you go, but he couldn’t watch you date a douchebag, calling you "sugar tits" on the phone. Bucky knew you hated it, and he hated it even more.
No man was allowed to call you anything but a goddess in Bucky’s opinion. Or doll, his favorite pet name for you.
“That guy was no good, doll,” he said with so much confidence you knew that Bucky had someone check your date’s background. “This man wanted to get in your pants.”
He made a face. Only thinking about another man touching you makes Bucky’s blood boil. “I had it handled. Bucky, you can’t keep on doing this.”
“He was a douche,” Bucky insisted, not giving in. “You know that. No man should call a woman he barely knows sugar tits. No. Scratch that. A man should never call her that.”
“What if she likes it?” You leaned closer to look Bucky in the eyes. “You know, some women like pet names.”
“Pet names. Not insults.” Bucky gently cupped your cheek, earning a whine. “I’d find out what a woman likes and give it to her. This man wanted to get laid.”
“James,” you said his name to get his full attention. “What are we doing here? We agreed on never seeing each other again, didn’t we?”
“You said that. I never agreed.” Bucky replied, his eyes glued to the necklace dangling from your neck. The one he gave to you. “You’re still wearing it. This means something. You still love me.”
“Love was never the problem, Buck,” you softly said, taking his hand, squeezing it. “You would’ve got yourself killed for me one day. I couldn’t bear watching you die for me.”
“Then, I won’t die,” he said. “I swear you’ll watch my ass become wrinkly before I die. We are going to grow old together, have an awful lot of kids, and have naughty sex…lots of sex.”
“If you lie, I’ll take you down before your enemies get the chance,” you said, cupping his face to press a soft kiss on his lips. “That’s a promise.”
Warnings: fluff and angst (about the same level as the first and second part)
Summary: The bubble around you and Bucky seems too good to be true, but you’re going to live in it as much as you can before reality crashes down around you. King Elric and Queen Erissa have arrived on Earth to search for you themselves, and they won’t stop until they either find you or Bucky. When you realize that Bucky’s life is in danger, you have a choice to make: either continue to run with him, in debt to a goblin, or return to the one place that was slowly killing you to spare Bucky’s life.
Part One: To Be or Not To Be
Part Two: The Hunt is On
Square Filled: Galaxy for 2020 @buckybarnesbingo
Author’s Note: yes, there will be a fourth part. not sure if there will be a fifth. any and all comments are greatly appreciated! <3
x
Bucky stares at the ceiling in thought. He’s alone in your bed because he doesn’t want to get up just yet. The light shines in through the sheer curtains, casting an almost iridescent glow on the walls.
For weeks, you two have been stuck inside of this bubble you’ve created. You don’t leave your property unless it’s to go to town to grab things Bucky might need. Everything you need is inside your little greenhouse that is beautifully thriving. You don’t have to hide your true self because Bucky loves seeing you in it. He loves the way your fae form looks.
Bucky gets out of bed and walks to the window, pushing aside the sheer curtains. He can see you move about in the greenhouse, and he smiles.
You walk around the greenhouse, picking things you want for dinner tonight. You and Bucky have very different tastes, but you make it work. You’ve been teaching him how to cook your meals just as he’s been teaching you how to cook his.
For the plants that need a little extra love, you use your magic to bring life back into them. You haven’t needed Shadowbane’s help in getting more seeds for you since you asked for so much last time, but you know you’ll need to restock soon. It sickens you to keep asking for his help, but it’s the small price to pay to stay hidden from your family.
The door to the greenhouse opens, and your wings flutter happily at his presence. He walks over to you and pulls you into his arms. It’s been a few weeks, but your wings and body already know Bucky’s touch.
“How are the plants?” he mumbles against your hair.
“Lively. I’m just gathering ingredients for dinner tonight.”
“Am I able to eat any of this stuff?”
“No. It’s poison to you, just like your food is poison for me. I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“I’ll trust you on that,” he chuckles.
With the ingredients in your basket, you and Bucky return to the cottage. It’s morning, so you put the ingredients in the fridge for later. Fae food only has a viable window of about ten hours to be considered fresh. It’s why most Fae have gardens. If not picked, food can last months attached to the stem.
As soon as you close the fridge, Bucky pushes you against it and kisses you. You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him back. He slides his hands down your curves, and he grips your thighs. You jump into his arms without breaking the kiss, and he walks back to the bedroom, eager for his breakfast.
You’re truly happy here, and you hope nothing ruins this.
King Elric and Queen Erissa have traveled across the galaxy and arrive on Earth, in Sokovia, with half a dozen trusted guards. King Elric knows he has to handle this himself instead of having to rely on others. If you want something done right, then you have to do it yourself. That’s what he always told you, his beautiful daughter.
Not only is he pissed that you ran, but he’s pissed that you faked your death to stay gone. Why would you do that? He has given you everything you need in order to succeed, and he has shown you nothing but love and respect.
If what Thor told him is true, then you’re somewhere in Sokovia, and he’s not going to stop until he finds you.
King Elric knew Earth was messy, but he never realized just how so. He walks through the broken streets and dilapidated buildings, looking at everything with disdain.
“How do humans do this? This place is disgusting,” King Elric says with a shudder.
“Not everywhere on Earth is like this, darling,” Queen Erissa says. “Though I’m not sure why Y/N decided to choose this place to live in.”
“I bet that Bucky forced her to.” Elric, once he heard about Bucky through Thor, hated him. “I bet he’s the reason she’s gone.”
“How would he have come to Álfheimr? Humans aren’t advanced enough to leave this planet, much less come to ours.”
“I don’t know, but I bet he did. Rizlar.” A guard steps forward, and the king looks at him. “Survey the area. Find any trace of my daughter. Report back in one hour with your findings.”
“Yes, My King.”
Since two guards need to stay with the king and queen, the rest of them leave to do what he says. The King and Queen will do their own hunt, but at least the guards can get more done with the locals. Knowing this planet is aware of the existence of alien life, King Elric knows he can go to Sokovia leaders and ask for their help.
The only way he’s leaving Earth is with you in tow.
Kig Elric and Queen Erissa, after having spoken to the Sokovian government, wait for Rizlar and the other guards to come back. Exactly one hour later, they do.
“My King, we found something. Most of the locals did not recognize Princess Y/N, but one of them did. There is a cottage on the outskirts of this town that most of the locals tend to stay away from. Princess Y/N must have been using glamour whenever she comes to town, but she doesn’t when she’s home. We tested the area and found traces of her magic there.”
“Let’s go,” King Elric declares.
The King and Queen, with guards flanking either side of them, storm over to the cottage. True to Rizlar’s word, the cottage is there, and a greenhouse stands proudly behind it. A few horses graze the area, but King Elric pays them no mind.
King Elric doesn’t knock on the door; he fucking kicks it in. The cottage is small, and even King Elric can see that no one is here. That doesn’t mean anyone hasn’t been here. There is a pot of food on the stove that is still warm, and half-eaten plates of food on the table.
“Elric, look.” Queen Erissa points to the food on the table. “Fae food. Our baby was just here.”
“Rizlar, spread out. Find Y/N.”
“Yes, My King.” He looks at the other guards. “Let’s go!”
They do a sweep of the entire place, but there are no signs of you or Bucky. Even the greenhouse is empty. You were here, but you’re not anymore.
“I don’t understand. Why would she run from us?” Queen Erissa sighs.
King Elric knows Bucky had something to do with this. He feels it in his bones. “Don’t worry, my love. She’ll be back.”
“How do you know?”
“She left everything behind, including her food. You know she can’t survive without it, so she’ll have no choice but to come back.”
“I do hope you’re right.”
“Rizlar, we will be staying here in case she comes back, but take your men and scour the town. She was just here. She could not have gone far, even with magic.”
“Yes, My King.”
King Elric sits down at the table and looks at the food in disdain. The longer you are gone, the angrier he gets. Not angry at you, of course, but at Bucky. To King Elric, Bucky is the bad guy. To King Elric, Bucky will pay for his crimes against Álfheimr.
The second you got wind of your parents being in Sokovia, you and Bucky didn’t waste any time. You two fled without anything but the clothes on your backs. The food was still cooking on the stove when you had to run.
You don’t know what to do now. You can’t go back to Álfheimr. You can’t go back to Sokovia. You don’t know where you can go that your father won’t find you. Right now, you’ve found a motel in a seedy part of town. This place screams danger, so you’re hoping your father won't think to look here for you.
“It’s going to be okay,” Bucky says. “He won’t find you.”
You’re using a large amount of magic to hide yourself from their scanners, and it’s taking a lot out of you. Not to mention the glamour you’re using to conceal your true form.
“I hope he doesn’t,” you whisper.
You grip the curtain and pull it shut, only keeping it open enough to peer out of it. You hate this. You are used to running. It’s not fair to you to ask Bucky to put his life on hold to run with you. You close the curtain with a sigh, unsure of what to do now.
Rizlar and the other guards haven’t found you, probably because of the magic you’re using to hide yourself. King Elric doesn’t want to sit around and wait for you to come back to the cottage, but he also doesn’t want to leave Sokovia because he knows you’re still here.
You don’t have magic to teleport, and you can’t fly fast enough, so you have to be close if he saw that meal on the stove.
King Elric knows he can’t do this alone, so he decides to recruit the very people who failed at finding you the first time.
The Avengers.
It’s not very hard to get in touch with the Avengers since the whole world knows how to do it. Natasha is in the room when Tony gets the call. She pretends not to be involved when she’s listening to every single word King Elric is saying.
“You found her once, you can do it again, can you not?”
“Your Majesty, it’s a lot harder than you would think to find someone like Y/N.”
“Do what you did last time.”
“Sir, it’s not that easy. If she’s not using magic, then we can’t track her,” Steve says.
King Elric looks down in thought, then he nods. “Then track that man. Bucky.” Natasha’s head snaps up when she hears his name. “He stole my daughter, and if you can’t track her, then you can track him.”
“Bucky isn’t a bad person.”
King Elric’s features harden over video chat. “He stole my daughter and refuses to give her up. I’ll decide if he’s good or not. Find him, and you’ll find my daughter.”
“Okay, we’ll be in contact,” Steve says.
King Elric signs off, and the Avengers immediately start debating on what to do. Natasha stands and slips from the room unnoticed with her phone in her hand. She hurriedly dials Bucky’s number, and he answers on the second ring.
“I know, Nat,” he sighs.
“No, you don’t.”
“I know he’s looking for her. We ran before he could find her. They found her cottage.”
“Listen, I think you should bring her back to her parents.”
“What?” Bucky is shocked she would even suggest that. “Weren't you the one who helped me find her? Why would I do that?”
“He told us to track you since they can’t track her. He thinks you stole her. He’s painting you as the enemy.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“This is different, Buck, and you know it. You need to bring her back to her parents before they find you and kill you.”
“No, I’m not going to do that. Thanks for the warning. I gotta go.” Bucky hangs up before Nat can say anything else. You walk out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around your body, hair wet. “We gotta go.”
“Now?”
“Yeah. Your dad wants to track me since he can’t track you. I’m very good at hiding, but I’m not that good. Come on.”
As you get dressed, you think of what you can do to stay hidden. There is only one guy who can make you truly disappear, even though you hate the idea of getting his help. This is going to be different than smuggling in some food from Álfheimr.
Bucky is less than thrilled to involve someone he doesn’t know, but he trusts you wholeheartedly. If you say this man is the only way to stay hidden, then he’s the only way.
You wait until long after the sun has gone down before seeking Shadowbane. You’re in an alley with Bucky, pacing nervously.
“If this guy makes you so nervous, why are we seeking his help?”
“Because he’s just that good.”
“I don’t like this.”
“What other choice do we have, Bucky? He’s the only one shady enough to help. We’ll be fine.”
“Princess Y/N.” You and Bucky turn to the deep drawl in the shadows. “What a pleasant surprise.”
He steps out from the shadows, and your breath hitches. He’s just as handsome as before. He keeps his jawline free of any hair, and his green eyes are so bright that they’re mesmerizing. His teeth are so white, they’re striking. It’s all part of his charm. He chose this human form because it reflects the monster inside of him.
He smooths the jacket of his three-piece suit and stands tall, even taller than Bucky.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“You know what I want. You know my parents are here.”
“Of course,” he shrugs. “I felt them the second they set foot on Earth.”
“I need your help, Shadowbane. You know they’re after me, but now they’re after Bucky.”
“Can you do it?” Bucky asks.
Shadowbane laughs. “Don’t insult me, boy.”
“Shadowbane, stop,” you sigh. “Can you help us?”
“Of course, I can.”
“Good, I have a vial—”
“Your blood won’t be enough for payment this time.”
This is what you were afraid of. You were hoping he’d take your blood, but he wants something more, and you’re scared to ask what.
“What do you want?” Bucky asks for you.
Shadowbane doesn’t take his eyes off you when he says, “A wish.”
All the blood drains from your face, and if your wings were showing, the tips would turn stormy black. This is bad. This is really, really bad. Shadowbane smirks at seeing the fear on your face. This is what he feeds off of. He might help you smuggle in supplies, but he is in no way a good guy.
“No,” you whisper.
“Yes.”
“What does that mean, a wish?” Bucky asks.
“I can’t do that, Shadowbane. You know I can’t.”
“You very well can, Princess. It’s only a matter of whether you want to, that’s the issue.”
“What does a wish mean?” Bucky asks you.
“No,” you say to Shadowbane. “I won’t do it.”
“Then this conversation is done.” He steps away once and looks at you. “Should you change your mind, you know how to find me.”
In the next second, he is gone, and you nearly crumble to the ground. Bucky catches you and pulls you into the shadows to stay hidden from view.
“Y/N, talk to me. What does a wish mean?”
“It’s Fae law that if we promise a wish, we have to grant it. No matter what.”
“It’s just a wish. I think it’s worth it to stay hidden, don’t you?”
“You don’t understand, Bucky. You don’t know how vile Shadowbane is. If I promise him a wish, I have to grant it. You might see him as this man, but back home, he is a goblin who is sneaky and manipulative. I have no one else to turn to, so I have to use him to get my supplies, but a wish is too much to ask for.” You look down with tears in your eyes. “Maybe I should just go back home. It’ll be easier for everyone.”
“No. Not happening.” You should have known Bucky wouldn’t go for that. He cups your jaw and lifts your face so you have no choice but to stare at him. “We have other options, okay? You’re not the only one who knows people in high places. Let me make some calls, okay? I’ll figure it out.”
You and Bucky head back to the motel so he can figure out the next steps, but your head is still stuck on the heaviness of the situation. Your father will stop at nothing to find you now that he’s on Earth. You have no means of leaving this planet without the help of Shadowbane. You have no means of using your magic because then you’ll be caught. You can’t grant Shadowbane a wish because he truly is wicked.
If your father finds Bucky, he will surely kill him. From what you gather, your father thinks Bucky is the one who kidnapped you. That means Bucky’s life is in danger. You’re not sure if this is love, but you care for him too much to let him die for you.
You’re the Princess of Álfheimr, and your time to play pretend is long over. It’s time to face reality and step out of the bubble you’ve crafted so expertly.
That night, once Bucky has fallen asleep, you pack what little things you were able to take. You write a pathetic note on the motel pad before slipping from the room. You hate doing this to him, but you’d never forgive yourself if he died because of you.
You head back to your little cottage in Sokovia. Your parents are in deep conversation with Rizlar and the other guards about what to do when you walk inside.
“I don’t trust that these humans will do what they say they’re going to do, and I don’t trust that my daughter is just going to come willingly. Bucky must have his claws in deep, and I want him brought to me alive. He will face punishment of the highest order.”
“Don’t hurt him, Daddy.”
Everyone turns toward you, and your father storms over to you. “Where is he? Where is Bucky?”
“No, please, Daddy. Don’t hurt him. He isn’t to blame for this,” you beg.
“Why shouldn’t I blame him? Not only did you flee from Álfheimr, but Bucky kidnapped you and fled here. Of all places, why here?”
“Daddy, it wasn’t him. It was all me. Please don’t hurt him. I’m here. I’ll go back home. Just please leave him alone.”
“Elric,” your mom says as she walks up to you. “Leave the boy alone.”
“Erissa—”
“All we wanted was our daughter home, yes? She’s coming home now, and she looks unharmed. We have no business here anymore.”
“Please, Daddy. Leave him alone. I’ll go back home.”
Your father clenches his jaw, but he relents. He can’t ever say no to his Queen. “As you wish. Rizlar, prepare the journey back home.”
“Yes, My King.”
You hate to leave Bucky behind, but you’re doing this to save his life.
Bucky knows something is wrong the second he wakes up. You’re not next to him, all your things are gone, and there is a little white note on the pillow of the unmade bed.
My darling,
I am so sorry that this is the first thing you’re waking up to. I really did try to figure out a way out of this. I’ve neglected my responsibilities for too long, and I realize there is only one thing to do here. I have to go home. You’ll be safe. No one will be coming after you anymore. Please know that I will always care about you, and I’m doing this for you.
I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me. I will never forget you.
Y/N
Bucky has to read the note three times before his brain processes the words. He grabs the lamp with his metal arm and throws it against the wall in anger. Fuck! This shouldn’t have happened. He was going to get you two out of this with or without Shadowbane’s help.
He understands why you did this, but this isn’t the end of you and him.
He once promised you that if he found you once, he could do it again, and he’s going to keep doing it until you’re his for good.
He will find his way back to you, no matter what.
x
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Summary : Of course, out of everyone in the universe, you had to fall in love with a soldier from Brooklyn.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Guardian of The Galaxy! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Will they, won’t they trope, one night stand to lovers, fluff, angst-ish with a happy ending! grief/mourning, sexual content (including semi public sex, no anatomical detail as per usual). Childhood abuse/neglect, trauma dumping with Bucky, Reader is a humanoid alien described to have non-specific markings on her skin. Reader is described to have two hearts but looks like a human female otherwise. Reader is the daughter of Ego (half siblings to Star Lord and Mantis). Described the plot of GOTG vol 2, Infinity war, Endgame, GOTG vol 3, and a little bit of lead up Thunderbolts. Earth is referred to as Terra. Food. (Let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 13.7k
Note : This has been in the works for like, 6 months now, and I’m finally happy with how it turned out! The title is taken and inspired by “Let Me Down Easy” by Gang of Youths. Enjoy!
You told Peter Quill you would never live on Terra when you were thirteen years old.
You were sitting cross-legged on the floor of a Ravager ship with grease streaked on your cheek and a stolen ration bar in your hand. You had the confidence of a little girl who had never once seen Earth and had already decided it was not fun at all.
“You said your planet still uses wheels,” you said, horrified.
Peter looked up from where he was painting a blue stripe on one of Yondu’s old shoes because he thought it looked cool. “Wheels are useful,” he shrugged.
“They are primitive.”
“Cars are cool.”
“Cars are slow.”
“They have music.”
That, unfortunately, made you stop dead in your tracks, because Terra did have good music. Peter made sure everyone knew that. He had his cassette player and he treated it like the planet lived inside that little plastic box and those stupid orange headphones.
Still, you lifted your chin. “Fine,” you rolled your eyes. “One point for Terra. I’m still never moving there.”
Peter threw a bolt at you. You caught it without looking.
From the doorway, Yondu laughed,“Both of you kids are idiots.”
You grinned. Peter grinned. Yondu scoffed and pretended he didn’t love either of you.
Back then, you and Peter were just Ravager kids. You grew up with rooms under engine bays, learning how to steal and squeeze into tight spaces before you learned how to talk about feelings.
You called Peter your brother as a joke. He called you his sister, too, when he was annoyed with you, which was often. Mostly because you stole his snacks, rewired his blasters, and told alien girls he cried during Footloose (the girls would be so confused and ask what is a loose foot?).
Neither of you knew, until years later, that the joke turned out to be true.
Why would you even think that? You looked so different.
By the time you learned you were both children of Ego, everything was already falling apart. You and Peter both stood there with celestial light in your veins and heartbreak deep in your stomach.
Ego looked at you and Peter like you were not his children at all. To him you were not people, not family. You were not kids Yondu had fed, clothed, shouted at, protected, and raised in his own terrible way.
You and Peter were… batteries.
And then Yondu died.
What were you supposed to do then? How were you supposed to process the fact that your father was a monster and your daddy was fucking dead?
That grief changed you. It changed Peter, too.
For a while, neither of you joked about anything.
Yondu’s parenting hadn’t always been… healthy. He had been mean, loud, unfair. He pitted you and Peter against each other because he said it “builds character”. He taught you to steal, lie, shoot, and run,
But he had also taken you in. He tried his best and loved you, even if he never knew how to show it properly.
The Guardians became your family after that, making space for you the way that they made space for Peter.
And it didn’t take long for you to realise why your brother was so fond of them : no one really knew how to leave each other alone.
Rocket complained about everyone while making sure everyone had weapons that worked. Groot wrapped little branches around your wrist when he thought you were upset. Drax gave you advice that was almost always terrible and occasionally devastatingly profound. Gamora understood what it meant to be made by a monster, and yet still wanted to be better. Mantis, newcomer to the group, too, touched your hand one night and whispered that your sadness felt like a dying star.
The Guardians didn’t fix that grief, they could not. They filled that hollow emptiness with arguments over music, bad plans, worse jokes, emergency repairs, and shared meals.
You had been a Ravager first, but with this rag tag band of freaks, you became more than Ego’s child, more than Yondu’s ward. You were a Guardian of the Galaxy, with all the terrible decisions and accidental tenderness that came with it.
For a while, that was enough. What more could you ask for? Your family was insane and the galaxy kept trying to kill you in increasingly creative ways, which honestly felt normal enough. You had missions and people to annoy. You had Peter to bully whenever he got too sentimental about Terra. You had a place to stand. You had a reason to stay.
Then came Thanos, and Titan.
Titan was dead in a way that made your skin crawl. It was huge and orange and silent, a ruined sky stretching above you like the planet itself had given up long before you arrived.
The fight came back to you later in flashes, though your brain still struggled to fill in the full picture: You remembered Tony Stark bleeding into the ground and Stephen Strange looking at everything like he already knew the ending. You remembered Mantis holding on to the Mad Titan’s sleep with everything she had, small but braver than almost anyone gave her credit for. Peter Parker, an arachnid boy to the best of your understanding, had been fighting for his life. You remembered throwing yourself at him, blades in hand, the remnants of power burning beneath your skin. You hated the way it reminded you of Ego. You hated the way it made you feel like his daughter. But in that moment, with your chosen family around you and that monster in front of you, you used it anyway.
You were a guardian; and guardians didn’t have to be healed to fight for each other. You didn’t have to be whole.
But it was not enough.
The plan almost worked, which just made it worse. For one breathless second, it felt like you might actually pull it off. Mantis had him under and the gauntlet was right there. Everyone was moving, shouting, straining, almost winning.
Then Peter found out about Gamora, and grief did what grief always did in your family: it broke.
You couldn’t even blame him, really. Later, maybe, people would.
Maybe they would say he ruined everything. Maybe they would say he should have held it together.
But you knew Peter. You knew that kind of loss. If someone had stood in front of you mentioning Yondu’s death like it was necessary, you weren’t sure you would have been any smarter, any less reckless.
Neither you nor Peter had ever learned how to grieve quietly.
Then Thanos was gone, and you never knew silence would get worse than the fight.
At first, you thought the dust on your hand was from the planet. Titan was full of it, after all. But then your fingers started to break apart, coming undone, and grey at the edges, scattering into the air before your mind could make sense of it.
You stared at your own hand, as if you looked hard enough, you could force it to stay.
Peter saw it happen.
One second he was Star-Lord, heartbroken and still trying to understand what he had done, and then he was just Peter. Your brother, the boy from the Ravager ship, the idiot who used to throw bolts at you.
“Hey,” he said, and there was panic in it immediately. “No. No, no, no—”
You tried to reach for him, but your arm started disappearing halfway there.
That was when the fear finally hit you like a child reaching for light in the dark. You looked past Peter and saw Mantis fading too, eyes wide and wet, her hand stretching toward you even as her own body betrayed her. Drax was already gone. The battlefield was emptying itself one person at a time, and all you could think was that your family was scattered across the galaxy and you had not said goodbye to any of them.
You had spent your life acting like leaving was easy because Ravagers left. Guardians left. People like you learned how to walk away before anyone could see what it cost. But this was not leaving. This was being taken. This was the universe reaching into your chest and ripping you out before you could choose a final word, a final joke, a final insult about Terra just to make Peter laugh.
Peter lunged for you, hand outstretched, desperate to catch what was left, but he… started disappearing, too.
Then you were both dust.
—
And then, five years later, you woke up in what felt like the middle of the end of the universe.
One second, you were dust on Titan. The next, you were gasping air back into your lungs, stumbling through a portal with Peter shouting and Mantis grabbing your arm like she needed to make sure you were real. There was no time to understand or ask what had happened, where you had been, or why everyone looked like they had spent years grieving you.
There was only Thanos standing across the battlefield like the galaxy had not already suffered enough because of him.
So you fought him again, and this time, you won.
Earth, as it turned out, was not boring.
Earth was loud and muddy and actively on fire, which was frankly more personality than you had expected from Peter’s stupid little wheel planet. Earth had witches throwing red light from their hands, sorcerers opening glowing doorways in the air, flying men in metal suits, a giant green Terran who looked like someone had inflated a nerd with steroids, and at least one god with an axe. There were soldiers with wings, tiny insect people, archers with no self-preservation, and a man dressed like a flag who kept throwing a shield like he had never heard of blasters.
Earth also had Bucky Barnes.
Rocket introduced you to him two days after the battle, when everyone was still sleep-deprived and trying to figure out what the fuck had happened in the five missing years. The Avengers had put the Guardians in a motel, which was… an interesting choice. The bed was too soft, the ceiling was too low, and everything on Terra smelled like detergent and old carpet. You were sitting on the floor because it felt less ridiculous than the springed-cot thing they called a mattress when Rocket kicked the door open without knocking.
Rocket had been introducing “Terran freaks” to you, which mostly involved dragging various Avengers to the motel and describing them in the least respectful way possible. He had spent five years coming back and forth from Earth, apparently, which meant he met most of the important ones. And those he hadn’t met yet, he already knew about through stories.
“This is Green Monster Man,” Rocket said yesterday, showing Banner around to the guardians.
“That’s Bug Guy,” Rocket said this morning, taking Scott Lang on a tour of the motel, showing him off like a show-and-tell presentation.
Of course, this time, he had a new guy to show around.
“Hey,” he said, jerking one thumb over his shoulder. “This is Metal Arm Man.”
You looked up.
And fuck.
Metal Arm Man was beautiful, in the way some Terrans seemed to admire. He was not shiny, like a Sovereign. In fact, he was quite the opposite. He looked like a man who had crawled out of several consecutive wars. He had tired blue eyes, dark brown hair tucked behind his ears, a jawline carved by old gods, and a black-and-gold metal arm— so it made sense why Rocket had taken a liking to him. Or. y’know. His metal appendages.
He stared at you too, and there was nothing polite about it. His eyes moved over the faint shimmer under your skin and the Ravager leathers you had refused to trade for Earth clothes. He looked at the bruise healing along your collarbone, and the knife strapped to your thigh.
Rocket looked between the two of you and made a gagging sound. “What the hell are you two doing?”
The man cleared his throat, like he had remembered manners halfway through staring at you. “My name’s Bucky.”
You blinked. “Bucky?”
His mouth twitched. “Yeah.”
You stared at him for another second, genuinely trying to decide whether Terra was playing some kind of joke on you. “Is that even a real name?”
From somewhere in the hallway, Peter shouted, “Don’t make fun of Terran names! You’re embarrassing me!”
You ignored your brother. Bucky, to his credit, didn't look offended. If anything, he looked amused, which only made him more annoyingly attractive.
“It’s um...” He scratched the back of his head with a human arm. “It’s short for James Buchanan Barnes,” he said, as if that made it any better.
You frowned. Why are earth names so unnecessarily long and complicated? “That’s worse.”
Peter, who apparently had still been listening in, made a noise from the hallway. “Can you be normal for literally one minute?”
“No,” you and Rocket said at the same time.
Bucky actually smiled then.
And you, who had spent most of your life insisting Terra was primitive, boring, and overrated, had the unfortunate thought that maybe you had been wrong.
—
You ended up on the motel roof that night because Earth rooms were suffocating.
It wasn’t exactly difficult. Terran buildings were hilariously easy to escape from. All it took was one window, one rusted ladder, a short jump, and you were on the roof with your back against a humming vent and your knees drawn up to your chest, looking out over a planet you still didn’t understand.
Earth was strange at night. The fire and smoke from the battlefield were gone from here, replaced by yellow streetlights, blinking towers, the rush of wheeled vehicles dragging themselves along roads like they had nowhere better to be. The sky was weird. There was too much light from the city and not enough stars visible. You could barely see anything past the haze, and for someone who had grown up under infinite darkness in a space pirate ship, that felt almost cruel.
Your fingers moved absently over your arm.
The markings there were faint tonight, but still visible. Thin lines of soft, light trailing from your wrist toward your elbow, glowing under the skin like someone had hidden stardust in your veins. Proof, if you needed it, that you were not human. These were markings of your mother’s species, but it didn’t really matter, did it? Your mother’s planet was a dead one. You had no true home.
Behind you, the roof access door creaked.
You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. “You’re still here, Metal Arm Man?”
You heard a pause, then a huff that might have been a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Still here.”
Bucky Barnes stepped onto the roof like he was trying not to startle a wild animal. He was wearing the same thing he was earlier: dark shirt, dark jacket, dark boots. The metal arm reflected the weak rooftop light as he walked closer, black and gold lines shifting with him.
He stopped a few feet away, giving you space.
“Your brother cornered me downstairs,” he said.
You finally looked over at him. “Pete?”
“Yeah,” he shrugged. “He wanted to talk to me about Captain America collectible trading cards.”
You blinked. “About what?”
“That was pretty much my response.”
You tried to picture Peter, still freshly returned from being dust in his home planet, cornering this beautiful and haunted-looking Terran soldier in a motel hallway to discuss little paper images of a man in a flag suit. You had no idea what trading cards were. You had no idea why Captain America needed collecting. You had no idea why Peter was like this, except that unfortunately you knew exactly why Peter was like this.
“He’s very embarrassing,” you said.
Bucky’s mouth twitched up. “He seemed excited.”
“He gets like that when Terra is involved. The planet does something to his brain.”
“Pretty sure he was asking if I knew how much the 1944 set was worth.”
You stared at him. “Do you?”
“No.” This time, he did laugh. It was a startled sound that seemed to slip out of him before he could stop it. The sound suited him too much. It made him look younger for half a second, less broken from war and more like someone who might have once been very good at smiling.
He walked closer after that, though still not too close. “Mind if I sit?”
You looked back out over the city. “It is your planet.”
“Not sure that means much.”
“No?”
“No.” You could hear him being flat and careful. There was something he wasn’t really saying.
So you shrugged, and Bucky sat beside you with a polite amount of space between your shoulder and his. For a while, neither of you spoke. Somewhere in the building, you could hear Drax laughing. And in a nearby home, you could hear a young voice crying quietly enough that they probably thought nobody could hear. But you could, your hearing was better than human hearing.
You did not feel better than human that night, though. You… felt tired.
Bucky’s eyes moved to your arm. You thought he was looking at your species marking. But then he asked, “does it hurt?” and you knew he was talking about something much more… sensitive.
You glanced down at your arm, turning it over to show the deep scarring line that never quite healed from your battle with Ego. “No. Not usually.”
“What is it?”
You flexed your fingers, watching the light shift faintly beneath your skin. “Proof that my planet-sized narcissist father tried to kill me.”
Bucky turned his head toward you.
You smiled without humour. “My biological father is a living planet. He made many children across the galaxy because he wanted to use us as batteries for his expansion plan.”
Bucky stared at you for a second, then looked out over the city again. “That’s a lot.”
“Yeah,” you leaned back, “I have been told my childhood is not a good first-date topic.”
His mouth twitched again, but it was kinder this time. “This a first date?”
You looked at him, and the rooftop seemed to tilt slightly. “I don’t know. Is sitting on a roof after a universe-ending battle a date on Terra?”
“Usually no.”
“Usually?”
“I’m old. Dating got weird while I was gone.”
While I was gone.
Huh. Another little door with some probably horrible backstory behind it. You wondered how many of those he had
So you pushed your door open first.
You just started talking because the city sounded too alive after all that death, and because Bucky Barnes gave you the kind of comfort that made people say things they didn’t mean to say yet.
You told him about Ego first, because that was the biggest part of the story on paper. But he was not the part that hurt the most.
You told him how mother’s home planet had already been dying when Yondu found you. The sky had been the wrong colour for so long that you thought all skies looked sick. You remembered your mother’s hands, or maybe you had invented that memory. You remembered being small, hungry, angry, and too tired to cry properly.
Then Yondu came. He got you out because that was what he did.
Bucky listened without interrupting. He didn’t rush to relate, though you suspected he might’ve been able to. He sat there beside you on the motel roof, one knee bent, metal arm resting still against it, and let the words come out.
You looked down at your hands.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky said eventually.
People said that a lot, and you usually hated it. But from him, it didn’t sound empty. Maybe, it was because his voice already carried so much sorrow that it knew how to make room for yours.
You swallowed. “The funny thing is, Yondu threatened to eat Peter and me so many times. But at least he was there. I might have Ego’s blood, but Yondu gave me a home.”
Bucky sighed. “Blood doesn’t mean much by itself.”
You looked at him.
His eyes were fixed on the city, but he was not really seeing it anymore. The streetlights reflected faintly in his face, illuminating the tired slope of his mouth and the shadows beneath his eyes. “I had a family once. Parents, a sister, everything.”
And just like that, Bucky pushed his door open too.
Maybe it was easier to trauma dump to a pretty alien girl who he’s pretty certain he won’t see again.
He told you about war, handing you broken parts of himself and trusting you not to cut yourself on them. He told you about leaving home, about falling, about waking up in the hands of monsters. He told you enough that your stomach turned cold.
You had known there was something wrong in him. It made more sense now that you knew they had taken a living thing apart and put it back together with instructions missing.
You looked at his arm again, even though that wasn’t the arm. Then, you looked at his face. “Oh,” you said, after he told you about HYDRA. “They made you a weapon.”
Anger rose in your stomach, a real, hot, familiar anger. It was the kind of anger you had learned from Ravagers. It was actionable. It was pure and feral.
“Are they dead?” you asked.
That made him look at you.
You blinked. “What? It’s a reasonable question.”
Bucky studied your face, and he looked almost amused behind the exhaustion of his eyes. “Most of them.”
“Most is not all.”
“No,” he said. “It’s not.”
“Do you want help?”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I am very good at killing people,” you added, because honesty, that seemed polite.
Bucky stared at you for half a second, then laughed again, this time with more breath in it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
You smiled despite yourself, then looked away before it got too real. You had known him for less than a day, properly, and the rooftop felt smaller than it should. His shoulder was not touching yours, but you were aware of the space between you.
Bucky seemed aware of it too.
“So,” he said after a while, voice lighter in a way that felt deliberate, “do aliens have one-night stands?”
You turned to him slowly. “Do we have what?”
“One-night stands.”
You stared.
He seemed to realise he had lost you and shifted slightly, almost embarrassed. “I uh… Casual sex. You know… two people spending a night together because they want to.”
“Oh.” You considered that. “Yes. Obviously.”
He exhaled a laugh. “Obviously?”
“You thought Terrans invented casual sex?”
“No.”
“That would be a very Terran thing to think.”
His smile lingered, and so did yours.
The air changed then, and it had been changing for a while, probably from the moment Rocket shoved him into your orbit and called him Metal Arm Man like he was doing you both a favour. But now there were no Guardians yelling in the lobby, no brother to embarrass you with trading cards. Just the two of you on a motel roof, talking your asses off about monsters who called themselves fathers and creators, grief, and sex like any of it belonged in the same conversation.
Maybe it did.
Maybe this was what survivors did. Maybe they took the worst things that had ever happened to them, laid them down between each other, and then reached for each other anyway.
“So,” you said, because you were suddenly very aware of your own two heartbeats, “is this you asking?”
His eyes flicked back to yours. “Maybe.”
“Maybe is a coward’s answer.”
That did something to him. You saw it in the slight shift of his jaw, the way his gaze darkened, the way his human hand curled loosely against his knee. Still, when he spoke, his voice was careful.
“I’m asking,” he said. “But only if you want that.”
You didn’t answer immediately, though not for being unsure. You were very, annoyingly sure, actually. You wanted him in a way that felt too quick and too simple after a lifetime of things being complicated. You wanted his mouth and his hands and the sadness in his eyes. You wanted to forget the battlefield for a few hours. You wanted to feel alive in a way that didn’t involve fighting for it, for once.
You leaned closer anyway.
“On my planet,” you said, “we do not call it a one-night stand.”
“No?”
“No,” you shook your head with a chuckle. “Mostly because I don’t have a planet. But if I did, I would call it a very reasonable use of a night.”
Bucky’s smile was small and devastating. “That so?”
“Yes.”
You were close enough now to see the tiny flecks of grey in his blue eyes and the faint scar near his mouth. Yet, he held himself like he was giving you every chance to change your mind.
You didn’t.
Instead, you touched the metal fingers resting beside him. The vibranium was cool under your hand.
“I want that,” you said. Then, because you had never been good at masking kindness, you added, “And I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
Bucky’s face changed, but not with pity, thank the stars. You would have left immediately if it had been pity.
Instead, it was recognition.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me neither.”
When he kissed you, it was careful for all of two seconds.
His mouth pressed yours once, soft and hesitant. His human hand hovered near your waist before settling there, warm through your shirt. His metal hand stayed braced against the rooftop beside you, like he was holding himself back from touching too much too soon.
It was infuriatingly sweet.
So you fixed it.
You leaned into him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, and kissed him back harder.
Bucky made a small sound against your mouth, and his hand tightened at your waist. His mouth opened under yours, and the kiss turned deeper, messier.
You had kissed people before. You had kissed in back rooms of spaceports, against ship walls, in the dark corners of bars where nobody cared about names. You knew what casual was.
This did not feel like that.
Bucky kissed you like he was trying to remember how, and somehow that made it worse. When your fingers slid up into his hair, he exhaled against you.
He was a little rough at the edges. He was careful, then hungry, then careful again when you shifted closer and his metal hand finally moved to your hip.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead nearly touching his.
Bucky’s eyes opened slowly. His pupils were dark, his mouth swollen.
“Sorry,” he said, voice rough. “I’m a little rusty.”
You blinked at him. Then you looked very deliberately at his metal arm.
“You don’t have rust.”
For a second, he just stared at you. Then he laughed. “No, I don’t.”
You traced your fingers down the front of his shirt, feeling his breathing change beneath your touch. “You don’t need to apologise.”
His eyes dropped to your hand.
It should not have been so attractive, how kind he was. So you kissed him again.
By the time the two of you made it back inside, laughing under your breath, Bucky nearly knocked his shoulder against the frame trying not to let go of you.
It was still supposed to be simple. That was what you told yourself when he kissed you against the wall. That was what you told yourself when your hands found the edge of his shirt and pulled it over your head. That was what you told yourself when he paused, forehead against yours, and asked again if you were sure.
You were.
So for a few stolen hours, neither of you had to be a weapon.
You just made each other feel good.
—
In the morning, someone knocked on your door.
It was a determined knock, followed by a pause, followed by another knock that was weirdly polite.
You opened your eyes slowly.
For a second, you had no idea where you were. The light coming through the curtains was thin and grey and Terran. Then you became aware of the warm body behind you, the weight of an arm across your waist, the steady rise and fall of Bucky Barnes breathing against the back of your neck.
Oh.
Right.
The knocking came again.
Beside you, Bucky stirred awake. His arm tightened around you for half a second before he seemed to remember where he was, who you were, and what had happened the night before.
“I am Groot?” came a muffled voice from the hallway.
You closed your eyes.
Bucky’s voice was sleep-rough when he whispered, “Is that…?”
“Yes,” you whispered back. “That’s Groot.”
“He okay?”
“He’s asking about breakfast.”
“I am Groot,” Groot said again, more insistently this time.
You dragged a hand over your face. “What the hell is an IHOP?”
Bucky blinked, then made the mistake of laughing.
It wasn’t particularly loud, but you felt it against your shoulder and immediately wanted to do several stupid things, including staying exactly where you were and never opening the door. Unfortunately, Groot knocked again, and then someone in the room next to yours opened their door.
“I am going to kill both of you” Nebula called to you from the hallway.
You sat up so fast Bucky almost got elbowed in the chin.
Oh, shit.
Bucky sat up beside you with his hair a mess, eyes wide, mouth pressed tightly together like he was trying very hard not to laugh and make this worse.
You put a shirt and trousers on, panicking, making bucky put his boxers on, too.
Nebula continued, voice flat and merciless. “Some of us were trying to sleep. Some of us didn’t need to hear whatever Terran mating ritual you were performing in there all night!”
Your entire body went hot.
“You heard?” you opened the door to peek outside to see a crowd of guardians already converging there. You weren’t opening the door fully yet. Obviously. Bucky was still trying to find his shirt.
Nebula scoffed, “It was impossible not to.”
From the hallway, Rocket’s voice cut in. “I just put a pillow over my head.”
You dropped your face into your hands.
Bucky’s hand touched your back as he made his way to look for his socks, still shirtless.
“I still don’t know what IHOP is,” said Mantis, because apparently, she was there too.
“A breakfast place,” Bucky said, loud enough for everyone to hear. To be fair, Bucky had never really been there either. It was only a thing after the war, so all the knowledge he had about chain restaurants came secondhand from Sam’s stories and Shuri’s travels.
Drax, answer loudly from the hallway. “Why is it called that?”
“It stands for International House of Pancakes,” Bucky shouted back, looping his belt through. You stared at him, and he looked almost apologetic.
Before Bucky could answer, there was another voice in the hallway.
Peter.
“Why is everyone standing outside—” His voice cut off into a silence, which meant Peter Quill had looked through the half-open door, seen Bucky Barnes half-dressed, and experienced several emotions at once, most notably disgust and awe, which you were unaware could coexist .
Then he shouted, “YOU HAD SEX WITH A HOWLING COMMANDO?”
You froze. Bucky froze.
You stared at Peter through the gap in the door, genuinely exhausted. “I have no idea what that means.”
Peter looked like he hated that he knew something about his sister’s sex life, but was amazed you bagged a historical figure he learned about in school. “It means he’s a war hero!”
Bucky, looking increasingly like he regretted being alive, said, “Quill—”
Peter opened the door a little wider. “No, no, no, no, I’m not judging. Sir, I respect you very much.”
“Oh my god,” you said.
“Don’t call him sir,” Nebula said from somewhere out of sight.
Peter ignored both of you, because Peter had never once let good advice stop him. “Bucky, sir, would you like to join us at IHOP?”
You turned to him in alarm. “No.”
Bucky looked between you and the doorway.
“No, please,” you said, smoothing your stupid borrowed human shirt that said I ❤️ New York. “Bucky. Just go.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
You immediately realised how that sounded a bit aggressive and winced. “Not like that. I mean— before they make this worse. Before Peter starts asking you questions about ancient Terran history or Rocket asks if your arm has detachable components.”
“I was building up to it,” Rocket said, looking a bit pissed.
Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. You could see the smile fighting its way onto his mouth despite everything, still unfairly attractive. He finally found his shirt under the bed, while you looked very hard at the wall and pretended you were not noticing the way his back moved.
Bucky pulled his shirt on, then his jacket, then paused by the bed.
Rocket was still muttering about pancakes, Groot was making curious little noises, and Peter was whispering something that sounded like “World War Two Legend” under his breath. But inside the room, between you and Bucky, there was a pocket of silence.
“I’ll see you around?” you said.
“I hope so.” Then he smiled like he wanted to say something else, but then Peter coughed very loudly in the hallway, and the moment snapped. Bucky gave you one last look, then stepped out into the corridor, where Peter immediately straightened.
“Big fan,” Peter said.
“Pete!” you groaned.
Bucky, because he was apparently kind even under extreme psychological pressure, just nodded. “Thanks.”
Just like that, he left with a kiss on your temple.
Peter spent the entire walk there explaining World War Two to you.
Rocket and Drax collectively ordered too much food. Nebula threatened three different utensils. Groot liked the syrup so much he tried to drink it straight from the little container. Mantis, still not fully adjusted to Earth mornings, asked if your “night of physical bonding” had helped with your sadness, which made you put your head down on the table while Peter choked on his coffee.
By the time you got back to the motel, you saw a small Terran phone on the nightstand that you hadn’t noticed when you left.
It had one number saved: Bucky.
—
You were supposed to leave Earth after a week.
It had been the initial plan. It was only supposed to be one extra week on Peter’s weird little wheel planet, just long enough for Rocket to patch the Benatar, insult several Earth scientists, establish reliable interstellar communication, and call NASA a hobby club with delusions of grandeur.
Unfortunately, the Benatar was more fucked than anyone wanted to admit.
Earth, being a backwater planet with no shortage of paperwork, five years of stagnation, and parts that apparently could not just be stolen without “causing an international incident,” made repairs painfully slow. Rocket had to source pieces from Stark warehouses, Wakandan labs, old S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra storage, and one aerospace facility where he bit a man for calling him a raccoon.
So one week became five months.
And of course, you had to pass the time somehow.
Bucky Barnes was a very, very good way to pass the time.
The phone came in handy, because every time you weren’t helping a guardian with an annoyingly administrative task, you were lonely. So, you would call him.
It might not have been a one night stand anymore, but it was still casual.
It was so casual you fucked him every time the two of you were alone for more than seven minutes. You did it in his temporary apartment, your motel room, the roof, his kitchen, the backseat of a borrowed car, after he made the mistake of telling you the windows were tinted.
Huh. Maybe this contraption on wheels wasn't as useless as you thought it was.
Bucky had survived many things, including war and brainwashing, but apparently nothing had prepared him for you, wearing Ravager leathers deciding she wanted him immediately and treating Terran public decency like a loose suggestion.
There was the bar incident, which he still could not talk about without going pink in the ears. See, Bucky Barnes had not expected to be getting a blowjob from an alien girl in a cubicle of a newly reopened dive bar bathroom.
But there he was.
Things happened.
There was also the alley behind a Brooklyn diner, where his metal hand ended up in your folds, and you learned, very quickly, that Terran technology was not always primitive.
There was the temporary compound supply closet, where you had gone in looking for a power converter and came out with your hair ruined and knees weak, and Bucky looking like he had seen god in a storage room full of printer paper. There was the motel laundry room at three in the morning, where the machines rattled so loudly that you thought no one could hear you, until Drax walked past the next day and told you he sincerely wished his “pounding” would produce “strong children.”
You looked like you wanted the planet to split open and swallow you whole.
It was filthy and stupid. It was fun. It was definitely casual.
That was what you kept saying, anyway.
Calling it casual meant it didn’t matter that his metal arm felt good. Casual meant it did not matter that his human hand felt just as good. Casual meant it didn’t matter that he figured out exactly when you wanted him to be gentle and when you very much didn’t, that he could make you forget every insulting thing you had ever said about Earth with his mouth on your neck and that Brooklyn rasp in your ear.
Casual meant you could leave when you had to.
Bucky made that harder by being annoyingly charming outside of bed. He introduced you to human food like pizza, bagels, and pancakes. He taught you how to tell real New York pizza from the “modern stuff,” even when you were still struggling to eat the flimsy-foldable bread thing in the first place.
“You like it,” he said, watching you steal a pepperoni from his box.
You shrugged, but didn’t deny it. He smiled at you like you were funny, which was dangerous because you liked his smile far too much.
Then one afternoon, he told you he was from Brooklyn, and you sat up so fast you nearly kicked over the coffee table.
“Brooklyn,” you said. “As in No Sleep Till?”
Bucky blinked, then laughed. “Yeah. Shuri made me listen to that.”
“Pete loves that song.”
“Of course he does.”
You nodded solemnly. “It is one of the only respectable things about this planet.”
He leaned back, smiling into his coffee. “Brooklyn?”
“No. Music.”
He looked so offended you had to kiss him.
That was the problem with Bucky. He was too easy to kiss, too easy to want, too easy to crawl back to after a long day of Rocket screaming at wiring diagrams and Peter trying to explain why Earth malls used to matter culturally. Bucky made you food and started leaving space for your knives on his temporary dresser like that was a normal thing to do for someone you were only sleeping with.
The Benatar was fixed eventually.
Rocket announced the news to Avengers and Guardians and Asgardians and Wakandans alike, over breakfast like it was good news, because it was. Your family could leave, because the ship could fly.
Bucky didn’t say anything.
He just looked at you across the table, and you realised with a sick little twist in your chest that casual had become the biggest lie you had ever told.
—
The night before you left Earth, you found yourself on top of Bucky Barnes again in his makeshift New Asgardian tent.
It was getting increasingly harder and harder to pretend your chest didn’t hurt every time he looked at you like you were a treasure he had found in the wreckage and wanted, desperately, to keep.
His hands were on either side of you, your knees pressed into the cot on either side of him, your palms braced against his chest, your hair falling around your face while you rode him hard enough to make the frame knock into the fabric.
“Fuck,” Bucky breathed, head tipped back against the pillow, eyes half-lidded and wrecked. “Baby—”
You hated when Terrans called people that. Well. You hated it until he did it.
When he did, it made a warm pool in your stomach, made both your hearts kick faster, made you grind down harder just to hear him lose his breath again.
His metal hand tightened on your thigh. His human hand slid up your waist, warm and rough, thumb pressing into the place beneath your ribs like he was checking that you were still there.
You leaned down and kissed him because you couldn’t stand his face.
You could not stand his beautiful, sad, earnest face. You couldn’t stand that he had kissed you on the temple in a motel hallway once and therefore ruined your life forever. You couldn’t stand that he had made Earth feel less like Peter’s stupid planet and more like a place with someone waiting for you to come back.
Bucky groaned into your mouth when you moved again, taking him until your thighs shook.
“Christ,” he rasped, dragging his mouth down your throat, the place where your pulse was too fast. One pulse. Then the other. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Good,” you said, breathless. “Then I don’t have to leave you.”
It was meant to be a joke. It didn’t feel like one.
You were leaving in the morning, and earlier today, Drax had asked if Bucky would be joining you and then said that he hoped so because Bucky seemed like he had “excellent reproductive prowess.”
You had kicked Drax under the table.
Bucky had not laughed much after that.
Now he looked up at you, hair messy against the pillow, mouth swollen from kissing.
After you rode out your high and drawn out his at the same time, you collapsed next to him.
“Stay,” he said, barely above a whisper, as if he had been holding it in for weeks and it had finally slipped out
“Bucky...”
“I know,” he said quickly, and his hands slid up your back, holding you against him. “I know. Pete’s out there. The Guardians are out there. I know that’s your family.”
You swallowed hard. “You could come with me.”
His face changed. There it was, the conversation you had been circling. You knew in reality, that this was nothing more than a ridiculous, impossible fantasy you had been trying not to build.
“You could,” you said again. “Thor’s coming.”
Bucky huffed a laugh, but it broke halfway through. “Yeah, well. Thor doesn’t exactly blend in here either.”
“You don’t blend in anywhere.”
“That’s fair.”
You tried to smile.
Bucky’s hand came up to your face, metal fingers careful against your cheek. The cool touch made your eyes sting.
“I haven’t been home in a long time,” he said.
“I know.”
“I don’t even know if New York is still home,” he admitted. “But I think I need to try.”
You nodded, even though it felt like swallowing glass.
You understood. Bucky had been dragged through so much. He had only just been handed a life that belonged to him. For the first time in a long time, this was his chance to figure out who he was when nobody was using him.
How could you ask him to leave that?
And how could he ask you to stay?
Your only tether to anything like family was Peter and Guardians.
Earth had Bucky.
Space had everyone else.
You pressed your forehead to his. “You’re breaking my hearts,” you whispered.
His breath hitched, kissing the edge of your lips. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” you said, wiping at your cheek angrily. “And they’re both beating quicker than they should be.”
He laughed then, and you laughed too, even as tears slipped hot down your face and fell onto his skin.
He kissed them off your cheeks.
You kissed his lips then as if you could press every unsaid thing into his mouth and make him understand. I’m sorry. I want you. I have to go. Come with me. Stay safe. Wait for me. Don’t wait for me. Please wait for me.
Eventually, Bucky rolled you beneath him with one smooth shift and you gasped against his mouth.
For a second, you thought he only meant to hold you there.
His weight settled over you, his hair fell around his face, his breath still uneven from what you had done to him not long ago, and yet when his hips pressed between your thighs, you felt him already hard again.
You blinked up at him.
Bucky froze, because in all honestly, his uncontrollable evidence of wanting you had made him feel like a perv. It was almost funny, really. This man had survived unspeakable things, but apparently getting hard again too quickly in front of the girl leaving his planet in the morning was what made him look embarrassed.
Your lips parted.
He let out a rough little breath, eyes flicking away for half a second. “Sorry.”
You stared at him. “Why are you apologizing?”
He was embarrassed and wanting and so painfully Bucky that it made your chest ache. “Super soldier thing,” he muttered. “I can, uh…”
You raised an eyebrow.
He looked down at you, cheeks faintly flushed now, and that was worse than all the filth you had done together in the last five months. “…go again,” he finished.
Then, you laughed, but not because it was funny.
But because of course James Buchanan Barnes would be hovering over you on your last night on Earth, looking sweet and apologetic for the fact that his body still wanted yours after you had already wasted him half to death.
He laughed too, quieter.
“You don’t have to,” he said quickly. “I just— I want you. But you don’t have to.”
You reached up and touched him. His stubble scratched against your palm. His eyes closed for half a second like he was trying to memorise that too.
It was your last night, with his sheets tangled around your legs, with his body over yours.
You were tired and sore. But you wanted him again so badly it felt dumb.
“Yes,” you whispered.
Bucky opened his eyes.
You hooked your legs around his waist and pulled him closer. “Yes. Please.”
He kissed you first, like he was saying thank you into your mouth. Then his hand slid down your side, over your hip, between your thighs, touching you with careful fingers until your body reacted to him all over again.
He pushed into you again, slow enough that you felt every inch and stretch until your back arched.
His forehead dropped to yours.
“Look at me,” he said.
You did.
He moved slowly at first,one hand tangled with yours against the sheets, the other braced beside your head. It was not the frantic, filthy kind of sex the two of you had gotten so good at. It was not trying to see how fast you could make him come apart before someone noticed you were missing.
This was him fucking you like he wanted you to remember exactly what leaving felt like.
Every thrust pushed the air from your lungs, and every drag of his body against yours made your thighs tighten around his waist. You dug your nails into his back and he groaned into your neck, hips snapping harder for a second before he caught himself again.
“Don’t,” you gasped.
He lifted his head. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t hold back.”
His eyes darkened.
Your voice cracked around the next words. “I want to miss all of it.”
Bucky kissed you hard, and then he gave you exactly what you asked for. He fucked you into the mattress with the kind of hunger that had been hiding his mouth at your throat, his hands on your hips.
You let yourself have it.
For once, you didn’t try to make it funny.
You just let him have you.
And when you came, it hit you so hard you cried out against his shoulder, bones trembling. Bucky followed after, burying his face in your neck with a broken sound, holding you so tightly it almost hurt.
Good.
You wanted it to fucking ache.
For a long time afterwards, neither of you moved.
The room smelled like sweat and sex and Bucky’s laundry soap. Your skin was damp against his. His heartbeat thudded under your ear, steady precious.
Eventually, you whispered, “I’m going to miss this.”
His hand stilled in your hair.
You closed your eyes. “I’m going to miss you.”
Bucky pressed his mouth to the top of your head.
“I’m gonna miss you, too,” he said.
You wanted to be brave about it. Still, your throat burned.
You shifted enough to reach for the little device on the makeshift nightstand. It was small, flat, and ugly, because Rocket had built it from three different communication systems, one stolen Stark component, and another thing he claimed was “probably not radioactive anymore.”
You placed it in Bucky’s hand.
He looked down at it. “What’s this?”
“A communicator.”
His brows lifted. “This works in space?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“Some parts of space are unreachable,” you said, defensive because Rocket had already explained the limitations six times and you understood maybe half of them. “There are dead zones, black-market relay issues, Kree interference, and weird cosmic nonsense. Also Rocket said if you press the red button too many times, it may get hot.”
Bucky stared at you.
You sniffed. “But it works.”
His thumb moved over the edge of it, careful. “Yeah?”
“Yes. So reach out, please.” Your voice went low. “Even if I don’t answer right away, even if it takes a while. I’ll answer when I can.”
Bucky looked at you then, and the naked hope in his face nearly killed you.
“I’ll visit,” you said quickly, because if he looked at you like that much longer, you were going to do something embarrassing like stay. “From time to time.”
“From time to time,” he repeated.
You winced.you knew that sounded terrible, as if you didn’t want to give enough effort. “I mean I will come back,” you said, grabbing his wrist. “I mean it. I don’t know when. I don’t know how often. My family attracts disasters like Drax attracts confusing conversations, but I will come visit.”
Bucky’s hand turned under yours until he could lace your fingers together.
“I’ll be here,” he said.
Then Bucky sat up, reaching toward the floor where his jeans had been abandoned hours ago. He searched the pocket and pulled out a thin chain tangled around his fingers.
He looked almost shy when he handed it to you.
You took it, frowning at the two small metal plates hung from the chain, stamped with Terran letters and numbers you didn’t fully understand.
“What is this?”
“My dog tags.”
You stared at him, then thought of the only other dog you know of: Cosmo. “You’re not a dog.”
He laughed, soft and pained. “No.”
“Then why are they called that?”
“I don’t know. It’s an Army thing.”
You turned the tags over in your palm. “They have your name,” you said, before looking up.
His smiled.
Oh.
“They’re important,” you realised.
Bucky nodded once. “They’re from… before.”
And just like that, you understood. Your fingers closed around the tags.
“Bucky,” you whispered.
He shrugged like it didn’t matter, which meant it mattered terribly. “Figured you should have something.”
You looked down at them again, and your vision blurred. “I don’t have anything like this to give you.”
“You gave me a space phone that might explode."
You laughed. Bucky smiled, but his eyes were wet too.
You leaned forward and kissed him gentler, before he slipped the chain over your head. The tags settled between your breasts, cold against your skin, right between your two stupid, breaking hearts.
Bucky watched them land there, and the look on his face made heat curl through you all over again.You touched the tags. “How do they look?”
His eyes lifted to yours.
“Like mine,” he said, then seemed to realise what he had said.
You went very still.
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t mean—”
“You did,” you said.
He looked at you.
You crawled back into his lap, the chain shifting against your bare skin, the communicator forgotten on the bed beside you. His hands came to your waist automatically.
“Good,” you whispered.
Then you kissed him again.
By morning, your body ached everywhere.
When you finally stood in the doorway with your bag over your shoulder and his dog tags hidden beneath your shirt, you and Bucky looked at each other like you both wanted to ask again.
Stay.
Come with me.
Both of you were too kind to say either out loud.
You kissed him one more time before you boarded the Benatar.
—
You visited Bucky Barnes four times in the next three years.
Four times sounded almost generous if you didn’t think about all the days between.
Still, you messaged him when you could.
Sometimes the communicator worked, and sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes your voice arrived through the little device in his palm three weeks late, half-swallowed by static and distance, saying, “—Rocket says if this thing starts beeping, that's technically your fault—” before cutting out entirely.
Sometimes Bucky sent you a message and had no idea whether it reached you.
Still alive?
That was his most common one. It looked and sounded casual. It was anything but.
You usually answered with something stupid, like: Unfortunately. Or Yes. You?
Or once, after apparently being shot at by pirates, chased through a collapsing space station, and nearly eaten by something Peter insisted was “not technically a worm”, you texted back: Define alive.
Bucky read that one in his kitchen at two in the morning and was scared shitless for your life.
Then he looked out of his window.
Brooklyn never showed enough stars, but some nights, when he couldn’t sleep, he went up to the roof anyway. He stood there with his jacket pulled close, metal hand resting on the ledge, eyes lifted to a sky that hid you from him.
He wondered where you were.
He wondered if you were safe. He wondered if you were injured and pretending you weren’t. He wondered if Peter was annoying you. He wondered if Rocket was taking care of you the way he promised to. He wondered if you ever looked out into the dark and thought of him, too.
—
The first time you came back, it was only for two days.
You told nebula to land on his roof, because of course you did. Bucky had already learned that you considered swinging, hinged doors a Terran inconvenience because you stubbed your toe on one once.
He had been waiting there for twenty minutes, when your little shuttle appeared above the building, and Bucky forgot every reasonable thing he had ever planned to say.
You jumped down with a bag over your shoulder, boots hitting the concrete like you had never once doubted you would land on your feet. For a second, you just looked at him. He looked at you, too. Eight months sat between you awkwardly, until you smiled.
“Your planet still smells strange,” you said.
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Hi to you too.”
He kissed you, and it wasn’t frantic at first. It was worse. His hands came up to your face like he was checking that you were real, thumbs brushing your cheeks, before you made a small sound and pulled him closer by the front of his jacket.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead stayed against yours.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said quietly.
You swallowed, suddenly irritated with him for sounding so grateful. “For two days.”
“I know.”
“It’s not enough time.”
“I know,” he said again.
His apartment was exactly like him in the worst way. There were books stacked beside the couch, a blanket folded over the arm, mugs drying beside the sink, and a little space cleared on the dresser where, after one hour, your duffel bag somehow ended up.
You walked around slowly, inspecting everything. Bucky followed you like he was trying not to look nervous.
“It’s very square,” you announced eventually.
He leaned against the kitchen counter. “You said that about the motel too.”
“Terrans love boxes.”
He laughed and spent the days showing you his neighbourhood.
That night, you didn’t do half the filthy things you had promised yourself you would do on the way there. You had thought you would make the most of the short visit, but instead, you ended up under his blankets, your back against his chest, his arm around your waist, your body so tired from travel and space jumps that you fell asleep before you could even make a joke about his mattress.
Bucky stayed awake.
He couldn’t help it. He had spent eight months imagining you in this apartment, and now you were here. His dog tags rested against your chest beneath one of his shirts. He could feel the little metal plates when his hand settled over your ribs.
“You still wear them,” he murmured.
You weren't fully asleep. “They are important.”
“To me.”
“To me too,” you said, voice thick with exhaustion.
Bucky’s breath hitched.
You seemed to realise what you had said a second later, because you shifted and cleared your throat. “Also, they’re useful identification in case I misplace you.”
He huffed a laugh into your hair. “In case you misplace me?”
“Yes.”
“Where would you misplace me?”
“I don’t know. Your planet has many streets.”
A long silence passed as your fingers found his hand over your waist, and instead of moving it away, you threaded your fingers through his.
After a while, Bucky said, “You know, this feels like one of those old war movies.”
You turned your head slightly. “What does?”
“This. You showing up for two days and leaving again.” His voice was light, but trying too hard. “Like you’re a sailor being shipped out.”
You blinked in the dark. “I am the sailor?”
“Yeah.”
“And what are you?”
You felt his smile against your neck before he said, very seriously, “The damsel.”
You chuckled sleepily. Bucky chuckled, too, arms wrapping around you properly when you playfully tried to twist away from him. “Oh, you poor thing,” you said. “Do you require rescuing, princess?”
“Every few months, apparently.”
You laughed again, quieter this time.
Then the humour faded, because every joke with Bucky seemed to have a cliff beneath it.
—
The second time you came back, it was for five days.
Rocket needed Bruce Banner for something involving gamma signatures, and deep-space interference. You came with him because someone had to stop Rocket from biting another scientist.
Also because Bucky was there.
Not that you said that.
You invited him to the ship and while Bruce was there, too. Rocket gagged. “Not in my lab.”
You didn’t make it to dinner before you ended up in Bucky’s apartment.
This time, the urgency was there. Five days was longer. You could do more than cuddle in five days.
Bucky kissed you against his front door with one hand at your waist and the other braced beside your head. You laughed into his mouth when he almost tripped over your bag, and he muttered something about you being a menace before kissing you harder.
Afterward, as your skin cooled beneath his sheets, Bucky went quiet.
“What?” you asked, turning your head on the pillow.
He stared up at the ceiling, one hand resting on his stomach. “I went on a date.”
He looked like it had been eating him alive. He looked like he hated himself for it.
Against your better judgement, as you took in the absurdity of the conversation, you laughed. It came out a little too bright.
“Oh,” you said. “Okay.”
Bucky looked at you. “Okay?”
“Yes. Okay.” You pushed yourself up on one elbow and tried to look mature. “That’s good.”
He didn’t answer. He almost would rather you shout at him, even if you never said you were exclusive and had no reason to assume so.
You kept going because silence was dangerous. “You live here. You should date. You should have… Terran meals and Terran walks and whatever else dating is.”
“I had dinner where she worked,” he said quietly.
You looked at him for a moment, then asked another question because you were stupid and cruel to yourself. “How was she?”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Nice.”
“Nice is good.”
“Yeah.”
“Pretty?”
He turned his head toward you, and he looked hurt now. “Don’t do that.”
Bucky seemed to regret saying it as soon as he did. He looked away again, but you had already seen too much.
You swallowed. “It is not like we’re in a relationship.”
“I know.”
“You can date.”
“I know.”
“Then how was it?”
“She…” he gulped, knowing it went nowhere, knowing he would never see her again because it felt so wrong, he felt nauseous afterwards. “She’s not you.”
Oh.
You didn’t know what to do with that.
You wanted to tell him not to wait for you, but the thought of him not waiting made your breath hitched. You wanted to tell him to date someone else, but not her. Actually, not anyone. You wanted to say you were sorry, or that you loved him.
Instead, you reached for his hand.
He let you take it.
“I don’t want you to be lonely,” you said.
“I know.”
You looked at him. “But?”
Bucky squeezed your fingers once. “But I still am.”
—
The third time, you visited, you stayed for a week
That time, Sam invited you to a Wilson cookout at his sister’s house.
Bucky asked badly as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Sam’s having a cookout. Sarah’ll be there. The boys too, but… we don’t have to go.”
You stared at him. “Do they know about me?”
“Yes.”
“What do they know?”
He looked uncomfortable.
You narrowed your eyes. “James Buchanan Barnes.”
“Oh, now it’s the full name?”
“What do they know?”
“That you visit.” He smiled faintly, but it faded quickly. “I… I just wanted you there.”
So you went on the short flight to New Orleans with him.
The Wilson’s Louisiana house was warm and smelled of grilled food and salt air.
You stood beside Bucky, as kids pointed out your markings, and suddenly became very aware that you didn’t know how to be introduced.
Sarah solved that immediately by smiling at you like she had already decided she liked you.
“So,” she said, handing you a plate, “you’re Barnes’ long-distance girlfriend.”
Bucky froze. Sam took one sip of his drink like had been waiting all day for this.
You laughed at once. “That’s not what this is.”
Sarah’s eyebrows lifted.
“It is more like…” You glanced at Bucky, then away, because his face had gone blank. “What you Terrans call an intergalactic booty call.”
Sam choked.
One of the boys immediately asked, “What’s a booty call?”
“Ask your uncle,” Sarah said.
Sam looked betrayed. “Why would you do that to me?”
You wanted to take it back.
You wanted to say, actually, no, that was wrong. Actually, he’s not that or I cross galaxies for him.
But you didn’t say any of that.
Later, while Sarah’s boys asked you increasingly strange questions about space, you caught Bucky looking at you from across the yard. He was leaning against the railing beside Sam, who was saying something to him. But Bucky was not really listening. His eyes were on you like a lost puppy.
You mouthed, stop.
He smiled faintly.
Three days later, you begged for his spare arm.
Bucky said no before you even finished explaining.
“It is for Rocket,” you insisted.
“That makes it worse.”
“It’s for Christmas!” You told him, leaning across his kitchen table. “He’s my best friend.”
Bucky leaned back, looking at you. You were wearing one of his shirts again, hair still damp from his shower. His apartment looked both wrong and right around you, as if you had always belonged there and were always about to leave.
“Fine,” he said at last.
Your face lit up. “Really?”
“Yeah. But I want something.”
You immediately narrowed your eyes. “I don’t make deals with soldiers.”
Bucky smiled, but it was fragile. “Just come back soon, yeah?”
Oh.
He didn’t look away, even though you could tell he wanted to.
Soon.
As if soon was easy, as if your life was not a mess of missions, emergencies, broken engines, family obligations, cosmic disasters, and Peter doing stupid things with massive diplomatic consequences.
“Bucky…”
“I know,” he said. “I know you can’t promise me anything.”
You swallowed.
“I know,” he repeated, but his voice was rougher now. “Just… try.”
You could have fought a demand or mocked a plea. But this…
You reached across the table and took his hand.
“I’ll try,” you said.
—
The fourth time, you came back two months later.
He opened the apartment door and just stood there, staring at you like he couldn't quite believe you were here.
You held up a bag, because apparently, you had taken a detour on the way to his apartment. “I brought bagels.”
His eyes dropped to the bag, then back to your face.
You lifted the bag higher, because you couldn’t survive much more of that look. “Bread circles, Bucky. Are you going to let me in or do Terrans eat in corridors now?”
He let you in.
The bagels were forgotten on the counter within minutes.
You told him about Mantis on the second night.
You were in his bed, his arm around you, the room dim except for the weak city light through the blinds. The dog tags rested against your bare sternum, rising and falling with your breathing. Bucky’s fingers had been tracing absent shapes along your side, soothing, when he asked about how Christmas in Knowhere went.
So you told him that Rocket loved the arm, but you also told him the bigger revelation.
“Mantis is my sister,” you said.
Bucky’s hand paused for a second. “Your sister?”
You nodded, staring at the ceiling. “She’s one of Ego’s, too.” You said with a smile. “She was already family. I mean, before. She was already one of ours. But now…”
“Now it’s different,” Bucky said.
“Yes.”
He shifted slightly to look at you. “How do you feel?”
You took a long breath. “Happy. I want to kill him again, but he’s already dead, so...”
Bucky smiled faintly. “I’m glad you have her.”
You believed him.
And he was telling the truth. He was glad, and Bucky would rather jump off a bridge than ever be cruel with your happiness. He never made you feel guilty for having family beyond him, never treated the Guardians like a competition, never asked you to shrink your world until only he was left in it. He loved you too much for that, even if neither of you had said the word.
But mantis being your sister, when all you ever wanted in life was family, meant that you’ve got another reason to stay up there.
Every piece of family you found among the stars tied you tighter to a life Bucky could only visit through broken messages and sparse wondering.
And what did Earth have?
One soldier in Brooklyn.
And later, after you fell asleep, Bucky laid awake beneath you and looked toward the window.
He wondered where you would be in a month.
He wondered if the communicator would work or if Rocket would be stripping it for parts again in an emergency.
He wondered if one day you would stop coming back and he would still find himself on the roof, looking up, waiting for you.
Then he looked down at the dog tags resting against your chest. For a few days, at least, the universe was small enough to fit in his bed.
—
Months later…
Rocket almost died, not in the abstract way all of you almost died every other cycle, either.
Rocket actually almost died.
You could still see it when you closed your eyes: his body on the table, fur matted, chest refusing to rise like a normal raccoon.
For a second, you thought your best friend had gone somewhere none of you could follow.
Then he came back.
Against all odds, Rocket lived.
The High Evolutionary was gone, his ship was wreckage. The children and the animals aboard the ship were safe. Knowhere had become both an ark and a home to many, many new faces.
Everywhere you looked, there was evidence of survivals. There were kids sleeping in corners because they hadn’t yet learned beds were safe and strange animals blinking under unfamiliar lights.
And now, your family was changing.
Mantis said she wanted to go. Although it felt like your sister was abandoning you, she reassured you that she wanted to see the universe without Ego. She wanted to find herself without the guardians breathing down her neck.
Which was fair
But she was your sister. You had barely gotten to have that before this. And yet, you understood.
Then Peter said he was leaving, too.
He was leaving for Earth because he wanted to see his grandfather again.
Peter tried to say it casually, but he was terrible at it. When he said it, he was not Star-Lord. He was not the idiot who had danced in front of Ronan, or the man who had lost Gamora, or the brother who had thrown bolts at you across Ravager floors.
He was just Peter, a little boy who had been taken from home, finally admitting there was still someone there he needed to go back to.
And maybe because everyone else was saying the brave thing out loud, you did, too.
“I could come with you,” you said.
Peter blinked at you. Then his face scrunched up in immediate disgust. “You can’t come live with my grandpa with me.”
You smacked him upside the head.
“Ow!”
“No, dumbass,” you rolled your eyes, "I'm not gonna live with you.”
Peter rubbed the back of his head, wounded and hurt, but then his eyes dropped to the chain beneath your shirt.
His eyes changed.
“Ohhh,” he said.
You looked away at once. “Don’t.”
Peter’s mouth opened wider. “Ahhh.”
“Peter.”
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t.”
But he was already grinning, all mischief and brotherly cruelty. “I see now.”
Drax leaned forward, deeply alarmed by being left out of something. “What? What are we seeing?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly.
Nebula folded her arms, finally catching up, “Guess who else is on Terra?”
Your face went hot.
Drax’s eyes widened. “Ah.”
“I am not going because of him,” you sputtered out, clearly lying through your teeth, “maybe I just want to learn of Terran music!”
The pretense was paper thin, and even you knew it.
Rocket made a rude little noise from his seat.
You turned. “What?”
He lifted both paws. “Didn’t say anything.”
“I am Groot,” Groot said mildly from beside him.
Rocket nodded. “Exactly.”
You looked at Groot in betrayal.
Groot only blinked at you with those gentle eyes.
Mantis smiled softly. “You do touch the metal necklace every time someone mentions Terra.”
“I don’t.”
“You are touching them now.”
You dropped your hand like the metal had burned you.
“This is amazing.” Peter looked delighted. “My sister is moving to Earth for that old robot. We’ll practically be neighbors.”
“He’s not old.”
Nebula finally looked up.
Peter held up a finger. “He fought in World War Two.”
“That means nothing to me.”
“It means old.”
“He looks fine.”
Rocket barked a laugh. “Oh, she’s got it bad.”
“I don’t have anything”
Drax nodded with grave certainty. “She has been claimed by the metal warrior. He gave her necklace plates.”
“They are called dog tags.”
“You are not a dog.”
“That is what I said!”
Nebula smiled a little, which for her was basically hysterics. “You cross galaxies to crawl into his bed and wear his military identification around your neck.”
Well, when she said it like that…
Mantis leaned closer. “He makes you less lonely.”
Finally, everybody shut the hell up.
Because yes. He did.
Right.
Rocket looked away first.
He was picking at a seam in his jacket, claws worrying the fabric until the thread started to pull loose. His ears were low, though he was clearly trying to make them not be. His mouth had twisted into that flat line he wore whenever feeling like he wanted to bite.
Mantis was leaving. Peter was leaving. You were leaving. The children of Ego, all drifting off in different directions like the dead bastard pleft cruelty in your blood.
Rocket scoffed. “Great. Real touching. Everybody’s got somewhere better to be now.”
Your hearts felt hurt. “Rocket.”
“What?” he snapped, too fast. “It’s good. It’s great. Everyone’s got somewhere to be.”
Rocket didn’t look at you.
He had almost died. He had woken up into a universe where he was finally captain, and now his family was peeling apart.
“Family’s still family,” you said, “Even when we’re spread out.”
You looked around the room at the only family you’d ever really known, and here was Rocket pretending not to be sad.
The raccoon looked up at you three, and this time, he looked… okay.
“I am groot,” Groot said, finally.
I love you guys.
—
Bucky wasn’t expecting a knock on a random Tuesday.
He should have been, probably.
That was his life now: he always had knocks at weird hours, which was usually campaign staff with clipboards. Sometimes it was Sam showing up because apparently “boundaries” were optional during election season. Other times it was someone from legal, or from security, or an intern from the press being brave enough, or stupid enough to knock on the former winter soldier’s door at 8AM.
He had only just started his campaign for congressman, and already his personal life felt less personal the more people tried to pry open his head with a crowbar.
So when the knock came, he thought someone had leaked his address.
He thought this must be a reporter. His life must be blowing up.
He set the mug down, rubbed a hand over his face, and walked to the door trying to make his expression less like it belonged on a wanted poster.
Then he opened it and the entire world stopped.
You were standing in his hallway.
You.
You were actually there, clothes damp from rain, hair windswept, a duffel bag hanging from your shoulder, his dog tags tucked beneath your shirt.
Behind you, Peter Quill stood near the stairwell, a respectful amount of distance, but probably a reminded that he was still your brother. He gave Bucky a small thumbs-up before scurrying down the stairs. He had already said goodbye in the car and given you his address in Missouri after driving you here, obviously. You didn’t know how cars worked. Yet.
Bucky barely saw him, mostly because he couldn’t stop looking at you.
You looked nervous, which was so wrong it almost hurt to see. You had fought gods, monsters, armies, and living planets. And now you were standing in his doorway like you were afraid he might say reject you.
“Hi,” you said, voice smaller than usual.
Bucky’s hand tightened around the edge of the door.
“I’m here to stay,” you said. “If that’s okay.”
For a second, nothing existed to Bucky, not even the campaign or reporters or Earth or space. Just you.
Then Bucky stepped forward and pulled you into his arms.
Your duffel slipped off your shoulder and hit the hallway floor, but neither of you cared. His metal hand spread across your back, gentle even when the rest of him was shaking. His human arm was wrapped around your waist as buried his face against your neck.
You went still, startled by it, and then folded into him without any resistance whatsoever.
Bucky closed his eyes.
His throat tightened so suddenly he almost couldn’t get the words out.
“How long?” he asked.
Your fingers curled into the back of his shirt. “For the foreseeable future.”
Oh.
Oh, stars.
Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you.
Your eyes were watering. His probably were, too, but he didn’t care. He didn’t have room to care. You swallowed.
“I should’ve asked you first,” you rushed out. “I know. I just wanted it to be a surprise, and Pete thought it might be a good surprise, so I’m—”
Bucky kissed you.
He couldn’t stand to listen to you ask permission to be wanted. Because of course you were wanted.
Yes.
Yes, stay.
Yes, here.
Yes, with me.
You made a broken little noise into his mouth, and Bucky’s hand slid into your hair, holding you there like he was anchoring both of you to the same planet.
When Bucky finally pulled back, his forehead stayed pressed to yours.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Then you whispered, “Good surprise?”
Bucky let out a laugh, but it broke. “Yeah,” he said, voice wet. “Yeah, sweetheart. Good surprise.”
You sighed then.
Bucky bent down, picked up your duffel, and stepped back into the apartment. You crossed the threshold, eyes moving over the campaign papers on the table, the tie abandoned on the couch, the books stacked by the window, the stupid square Terran box of a home you had to teased every time you visited.
—
And then life kept going.
You stayed, and the world didn’t collapse.
Bucky still had campaign meetings and reporters still asked questions that made your fingers twitch toward knives you were no longer allowed to carry in certain government buildings. Peter sent too many messages after getting you both a smartphone. Rocket called every once in a while, calling Earth “a bureaucratic sinkhole.” Bucky tried to teach you how primaries worked, and you told him Terrans had made voting sound more complicated than interstellar smuggling.
He won anyway.
By the time Mantis visited Earth months later, Bucky Barnes was now Congressman Barnes, which still sounded fake to your alien brain.
The news loved it, obviously. They wrote all sorts of headlines:
Former Winter Soldier wins historic congressional seat.
James Buchanan Barnes sworn into office.
Congressman Barnes has an alien girlfriend.
That one was your favourite.
You framed it.
Bucky came home one evening, saw it hanging in the hallway of your new DC penthouse, and stopped dead with his briefcase still in his hand.
You were sitting on the floor nearby, sorting through a box of your things and pretending very hard not to watch him notice.
He stared at the headline.
“You framed it,” he said.
“Yes.”
“In the hallway, where guests can see it.”
“That is usually why people hang things in hallways, is it not?”
Bucky sighed, but he didn’t take it down.
The penthouse had been a compromise, which was to say Bucky had wanted something secure and reasonable, and you had wanted the biggest house with the biggest windows.
You’re still not used to Terran skies, but from high up, DC was lovely. You could see glowing roads and monuments with headlights and ridiculous little wheeled vehicles dragging themselves around.
Bucky said the place made sense for security.
When Peter visited for the first time, he looked at the glass walls, the high ceiling, the guest rooms, the kitchen big enough for a small diplomatic crisis, and said, “Oh. So you guys are rich rich now.”
“It’s practical,” Bucky said, even though rich wasn’t a place he’d use.
“It has what? Two walk in closets ” Peter said, and guessed right.
“I wanted a third one for all my knives,” you said. “But I had to compromise.”
Bucky looked at you like he loved you and regretted encouraging you at the same time.
And slowly, it became yours.
You had your weird human boots by his polished shoes. You had strange little space trinkets on his shelves, and your faux fur jacket thrown over the back of his very expensive chair.
When Mantis visited, Peter visited, too.
He was still arguing with security about his blasters when she stepped into the penthouse and looked around with wide eyes.
“Oh,” she said softly. “You live very high.”
Bucky was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, opening pizza boxes.
“Your sister likes windows,” he said.
He said it like your wanting mattered enough to explain the whole place.
Mantis smiled.
Bucky glanced at you, then slid a box toward all three of you. Eventually, Peter sat on the floor like he owned the place. Mantis sat cross-legged beside him, studying her slice with concern. You curled into Bucky’s side on the couch, his arm along the back of it, his knee against yours.
Mantis took one bite and her eyes widened. “This is amazing.”
You looked at Peter, your brother, who had once thrown bolts at you across the floor of a Ravager ship and now sat eating pizza in your living room. You looked at Mantis, your sister, free and alive and choosing her own way through the universe. You looked at Bucky, the man who had once been a one-night stand in a motel room, but now, he was your home in every sense of the word.
And tonight, the universe was small enough to fit in one living room.
Mantis leaned back, pizza balanced carefully in both hands.
“I like Earth,” she said.
You looked at her, then at Peter, then at Bucky.
“Yeah,” you said, leaning into your lover’s side. “It has one or two good things.”
—end.
Extra note: I think this reader would make a wonderful Thunderbolt. Thoughts?
theartofmadeline
gracieabrams
stormborns
germansingergirl
